Bill Denbrough had always liked evenings best.

The Barrens felt different then — quieter, softer around the edges. The air cooled, the sky stretched wide and bruised purple, and for a little while it felt like nothing bad could reach them. Like they were just kids again, laughing until their stomachs hurt, throwing rocks, daring each other to get closer to the water than was sensible.

You laughed a lot today.

Bill noticed that. He always did.

By the time they headed back, the three of you — you, Bill, and Ben — were tired in the good way. Mud on your shoes, grass stains on your jeans, that loose happiness that came from surviving another day together. Ben peeled off at his house with a wave and a promise to see you tomorrow, leaving Bill alone with you on the long walk home.

Same way. Same silence that was never really silent.

At first, the weather just felt… wrong. The air grew heavy, like it was holding its breath. Bill glanced up at the sky, frowning.

“Th-think it’s g-gonna—” Rain hit them before he could finish.

Not rain. A downpour.

Within seconds, they were soaked, hair plastered to their foreheads, shirts clinging uncomfortably. You shrieked in surprise, then laughed — bright and breathless — and that sound cut through Bill sharper than the cold ever could.

You both ran.

The abandoned greenhouse loomed ahead like a miracle, its glass cracked and clouded but still standing. You ducked inside just as the rain turned violent, hammering the roof hard enough to drown out everything else.

For a moment, they just stood there, breathing hard.

Then you both burst out laughing.

It was ridiculous — dripping wet, shivering, trapped in a broken greenhouse in the middle of nowhere. Bill wiped water from his eyes, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt.

“Gr-great p-planning,” he teased, nudging you lightly with his elbow.