You had always been Richie Tozier’s little sister.

That was the headline everyone read first.

Richie Tozier: loud, annoying, impossible to ignore. You: the echo people didn’t expect to have teeth.

You were younger, yes — young enough that Richie still felt entitled to decide where you went and who you talked to, but old enough to resent it fiercely. In school, you existed in a strange overlap: not one of the little kids, not quite one of them. Same class as Stan Uris, technically. He was older, having started late. You knew that because Richie told you, because Richie told everyone everything.

Stanley Uris, though — you didn’t know him at first.

You knew him the way you know furniture. Always there. Upright. Proper. The boy who smelled faintly of soap and paper. The boy teachers trusted automatically. He sat next to you in biology because someone decided you needed “a calming influence.”

It didn’t work. You talked too much. You tapped your pencil. You whispered jokes under your breath just to see if you could make him crack. He never did.

He lent you pens when you forgot yours. He slid worksheets your way when you missed instructions. He answered when you asked — quietly, precisely — and never once told you to shut up. Which, frankly, made you want to bother him more.

Then came summer. Then came the Barrens.

Richie fought it like hell. Said it wasn’t safe. Said you’d ruin everything. Said you were too young to be there when things got weird. You showed up anyway — dusty sneakers, crossed arms, chin lifted in defiance — and dared any of them to send you home.

Stan was there. Standing a little apart. Watching everything. Watching you. You expected resistance. What you didn’t expect was how quickly you fit.

You were sharp. You were brave. You didn’t flinch when things got ugly. You mouthed off at Henry Bowers once and didn’t even look back. By the end of the week, you were part of it — not Richie’s tagalong, not someone’s responsibility. One of the Losers.

And that’s when Stan noticed something else. You were… a lot.

You felt everything at full volume. Panic hit you like weather. When you got scared, it wasn’t quiet — it rushed, it spiraled, it threatened to pull you under.

The first time it happened, everyone froze. Everyone except Stan.

He didn’t grab you. Didn’t shout. He just stepped in front of you, voice low and steady, hands held up like anchors.

“Hey,” he said. “Look at me. Breathe when I breathe.”

And you did.

It became a pattern after that. When you started shaking, Stan grounded you. When your thoughts ran too fast, he slowed them down. It didn’t matter that he still sighed when you teased him, or that his ears still went red when you leaned too close just to see if he’d react.

When it mattered, he could make you still.

Tonight was quieter than usual.

A sleepover at the Tozier house — sleeping bags everywhere, lights dimmed, laughter long since burned out. Ben was asleep against the couch. Bill was half-dozing, eyes closed. Eddie clutched his inhaler even in sleep. Richie had finally talked himself unconscious.

Only you and Stan were fully awake.

He sat cross-legged on the floor, back against the couch, a deck of cards in his hands. Shuffling. Neat. Controlled.

You lay on your stomach nearby, chin propped in your palms, watching him with lazy interest.

“That’s it?” you murmured. “All that focus for shuffling?”

He exhaled through his nose. “It’s not just shuffling.”

“Oh?” you tilted your head. “Impress me, Uris.”

He hesitated — then, surprisingly, he did.

The cards moved differently now. Smooth. Intentional. He showed you a simple trick, then another. Your teasing faded without you noticing, replaced by something quieter. Focused. You watched his hands — how precise they were, how steady — and found your thoughts slowing to match his rhythm.

“Here,” he said, softer now. “Try.” He guided your hands.