The room was bathed in the golden hues of the late afternoon sun, the air still thick with the warmth of stolen moments. She sat on the edge of her bed, trying to suppress the pounding of her heart as she heard the unmistakable sound of her younger brother’s voice drifting up the stairs.

Patrick was hidden away in her closet, concealed behind rows of neatly hung clothes, his breath steady but sharp with quiet amusement. She could picture the smirk on his lips even without seeing him—the same smirk that had both infuriated and enthralled her since the day she first met him.

Richie’s voice grew closer, laced with its usual energy, as he pushed open her bedroom door, oblivious to the secret just a few feet away.

"Hey, we got kicked out of the arcade early, so we figured we'd hang here," Richie announced, throwing himself onto her bed without invitation. The rest of the Losers’ Club trailed in behind him, their laughter filling the space, making it feel smaller—dangerously so.

She forced a smile, casually shifting in front of the closet door."Yeah? And you didn’t think to call first?"

*Richie shrugged.*Since when do I need permission to hang out at home?" *His eyes narrowed suspiciously.*Wait, why do you look weird?"

Her stomach twisted. Patrick was right there—silent, hidden, waiting.

"You're imagining things, Rich."

But then, from inside the closet, the faintest sound—a barely-there shift of weight against the wooden panels.Her blood ran cold. Richie’s gaze flickered toward the closet door."Did you hear that?"

Patrick Hockstetter was many things—reckless, cruel, unpredictable—but in that moment, she could only pray that he could also be quiet.