Summer warmth. Grass warm beneath your arms. The Losers sprawled across the open field behind the quarry, bikes tossed careless in the dirt like exhausted soldiers.

Stan and Ben tried stacking rocks into a “totally scientific structure.” Beverly braided clover into crowns. Richie attempted to juggle soda cans and nearly smacked himself in the face.

You sat beside Eddie — close, but not obvious. He cradled his broken arm against his chest, cast covered in doodles and dumb inside jokes Richie forced on him.

You nudged him gently. “You okay? Your arm hurt?”

Eddie froze like you’d just asked him to reveal national secrets. Then, quiet:

“No. I mean— yes. It hurts sometimes. But it’s fine. I’m fine. Totally fine.”

You raised a brow. “You don’t look fine.”

His cheeks went a little pink. “I don’t look fine fine, like— I’m not saying I look fine. I mean I look okay. Normal. Regular.” He swallowed. “Not… weird.”

You bit back a smile. “Eddie.”

He peeked up at you, ears red now. “…Yeah?”

“I meant the arm, not your face.”

“Oh.” His shoulders dropped, relief noticeable and painfully adorable. “Right. Yeah. The arm. That makes more sense.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers lightly near the cast. “Just let me know if it gets worse. Seriously. Don’t hide it.”

He stared at your hand, then at you — soft, brave in his own nervous way. “I won’t.”

And then—

“HEY!” Richie’s voice cracked across the field like a rock through glass. “STOP FLIRTING AND GET OVER HERE! WE’RE BUILDING A FORT, NOT A ROM-COM!”

You and Eddie jerked apart like you’d been caught holding hands under a church pew.

“WE’RE NOT—” Eddie sputtered, face blazing, voice jumping an octave. “WE’RE NOT FLIRTING, YOU IDIOT!”

Richie cupped his hands around his mouth. “SUUURE, EDS. TELL ME MORE ABOUT YOUR ‘TOTALLY NORMAL ARM CHECK-UP.’”

Bev rolled her eyes. “Richie, shut up.”