You didn’t mean for it to feel like this.

It just… happened. Like most things with Bill.

You’ve only been in Derry a year, Richie dragging you into the Losers Club like it was inevitable, like the universe had already decided you belonged there. And maybe it had — because from the moment you met Bill Denbrough, something settled into place. Easy. Familiar. Like finding the missing sentence in a story you didn’t know you’d been writing.

Best friends, everyone said. And they weren’t wrong.

You spent your summers on bikes, knees scraped, lungs burning, laughter echoing through streets that felt too small for all of you. Today was no different — sun high, heat heavy, the whole group riding everywhere and nowhere, stopping for sodas and stupid arguments and Richie’s mouth running nonstop.

But it gets late. The sky softens into orange and blue. One by one, everyone peels off toward home.

You don’t have your bike today.

So you ride with Bill.

You sit sideways on the back, hands gripping his jacket, forehead nearly between his shoulder blades. He pedals steady, careful, like the idea of you falling is unthinkable. The wind presses cool against your skin, and for a moment it’s quiet — just the sound of tires on pavement and Bill’s breathing.

His house is closest.

Your parents say they’ll pick you up in an hour.

“C’mon,” Bill says, already heading inside. “Y-you l-look t-tired.”

Upstairs, his room is dim and familiar — books stacked everywhere, papers half-filled, half-abandoned. You both collapse onto the bed, limbs heavy, exhaustion sinking into your bones.

You lie on your back. Bill sits beside you, elbows on his knees, then eventually leans back too.

You talk.

You always do.

About school. About fear. About the things that wake you up at night. About the things that make you feel alive. The conversation flows the way it always does — unforced, honest, raw in places you don’t share with anyone else.

Eventually, it drifts where it always seems to drift.

Writing.

“I c-can’t g-get anything out,” Bill admits quietly, staring at the ceiling. “I-it’s j-just… n-nothing.”

You turn your head to look at him. His jaw is tense. Frustrated. Like the words are trapped somewhere behind his ribs.

“Then don’t try to make it perfect,” you say softly. “Just write anything. It doesn’t have to be good. Just… let it exist. You can try now.”

He exhales, thoughtful. “I d-don’t h-have p-paper.”

You glance around. Nothing. No notebooks. No loose pages.

Just one pen, lying abandoned near the headboard.

An idea sparks — impulsive, simple.

“Use this,” you say, lifting your leg slightly. Most of it was exposed since you were wearing shorts. “Write on me.”

“I—” he swallows. “A-are y-you s-sure?”

You nod. “It’s just words.”

He hesitates, then carefully uncaps the pen.

The first touch makes your breath catch.

It’s light — tentative — as the pen presses against your skin, cool ink trailing over warmth. He writes slowly, concentrating, like every word matters. You feel each letter as it forms, dragging softly along your calf.

You talk while he writes. About characters. About dreams. About stories that feel too big to tell yet.

His hand moves higher without either of you acknowledging it — from calf to knee, then just above. Still careful. Still respectful. But undeniably closer.

Intimate.

Your heart beats louder. You stare at the ceiling, acutely aware of how close he is, how focused, how gentle. His knee brushes yours as he shifts. The pen pauses occasionally while he talks, then continues — like the words are finally flowing through him.

“This i-is g-good,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “I-it’s… w-working.”