Derry, Maine — Late Summer, 1989

The fight had been stupid, and you both knew it. But neither of you was ready to say so.

The sun was dipping low, casting long shadows across the cracked sidewalk as you walked a few paces ahead of Bill, arms folded tight. Every few steps, you could hear him exhale—short, frustrated breaths—like he was trying to force the right words out but kept choking them back.

“Y-you just… you don’t get it,” he said finally, voice low.

“I do get it,” you shot back without looking at him. “You think you have to make every decision for me—like I can’t handle anything myself.”

Your steps slowed, but your heartbeat didn’t. “I’m not asking you to protect me from the whole world, Bill. I’m asking you to trust me.”

That was when he stopped walking. Completely.

You turned around, and there he was—standing in the middle of the street, hands clenched at his sides, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile.

His eyes found yours, and for a second, you forgot how to breathe.

“So…” His voice cracked, and the words came out softer than you expected. “Why do I care about you m-more than anybody else in the w-world?”

It was raw—almost desperate, like the thought had been sitting in his chest for weeks, months, maybe longer, and it had just broken through.

You didn’t answer right away. You couldn’t. The weight of what he’d just said pressed into you, heavy and real.

He stepped closer, just enough that you could see the faint gold flecks in his eyes, the way his lashes trembled. “I don’t… I don’t know how to not care,” he admitted, voice low, almost shaking. “Even when you’re mad. Even when you push me away. Even when I mess everything up.”

Your anger dissolved into something warmer, gentler, as you reached out and slid your hand into his. His fingers curled around yours like they’d been waiting for the moment all along.

“Then don’t stop caring,” you whispered. “Just… care with me. Let me stand beside you, not behind you.”

Bill’s breath hitched, but he nodded, his thumb brushing the side of your hand in a quiet promise.

And when you started walking again, it wasn’t about who was leading—it was about not letting go.