Derry, Maine — Summer, 1989

It had been building all afternoon.

What started as a strategy talk in Mike’s garage had quickly turned into overlapping voices and short tempers. Richie was tossing out sarcastic comments, Eddie was arguing about safety, Beverly was trying to calm everyone down, but Bill… Bill was wound tight as a spring. Every suggestion from someone else felt like they were dismissing him, ignoring the plan he’d been turning over in his head for days.

When Richie laughed under his breath about “Bill the Dictator,” it hit harder than it should have.

Bill’s voice rose—sharper than usual. “If you d-don’t wanna listen, fine. Figure it out without me.”

And just like that, he shoved back from the worktable and walked out, the screen door slamming behind him.

⸻

The air outside was heavy with the smell of summer rain, the sky dimming to that purplish haze before dusk. Bill shoved his hands into his pockets, walking fast, eyes fixed on the ground so he didn’t have to see the neighborhood blur past.

He didn’t notice you until you called after him.

“Bill!”

He slowed just enough for you to catch up, your sneakers hitting the pavement in hurried steps.

“What are you doing?” he asked, his voice quieter now but still tight.

“Following you,” you said, falling into step beside him.

He stopped. The sound of distant cicadas filled the silence between you. Then he turned, his expression raw—no trace of the leadership mask he wore around the others.

“Why bother?” His voice cracked halfway through, the words spilling out before he could stop them. “Aren’t you just gonna l-leave me eventually? Everyone else does.”

You blinked, taken aback—not by the question, but by the way he said it. Like it wasn’t anger talking anymore. Like it was fear.

“Bill…” you started, but he wouldn’t look at you, his eyes fixed on some point far away.

“I’m n-not easy to stick around for,” he muttered. “People get tired. They m-move on. I’ve seen it too many times.”

Your chest ached. You stepped closer until he finally had to meet your gaze. “I’ve been by your side since the moment we met,” you said, steady and sure. “And you’ve been by mine. Let’s give each other some credit here.”

Something in his expression broke—just a little—but enough to let you see the relief creeping in.

He didn’t answer right away. Instead, he let his hand slip into yours, holding on like the ground beneath him had just steadied.

You didn’t talk as you walked back, but you didn’t need to. His grip said enough: he believed you, at least for tonight.