About a year ago, you started sticking with the Losers.

It wasn’t planned. It just… happened. Richie was your cousin, you’d moved to Derry, and suddenly his friends became your orbit. You met them all at once — Bill with his quiet intensity, Stan with his sharp edges, Richie with his noise, Ben with his softness.

But Eddie was the one who caught your attention.

He wasn’t loud. He wasn’t brave in the obvious way. He didn’t fight like a lion or puff his chest to prove anything. He hovered. He fretted. He complained about dirt and germs and whether something was “medically advisable.”

He acted zesty — dramatic, expressive, almost theatrical — and for a while you genuinely wondered if he was gay.

He had massive crush on you in reality.

You didn’t know it then, but that was exactly the point.

That afternoon, sunlight poured through the small window of Eddie’s room, warm and lazy, turning dust into gold. The house was quiet — too quiet — like even the walls knew not to interrupt this moment. You sat cross-legged on the floor across from him, a mess of colorful strings and plastic beads spread between you.

It felt domestic. Intimate. Safe.

Eddie’s concentration was absolute. His brow was furrowed, lips pressed together as he chose a thread, holding it up to the light like it mattered — like it had to be right. He threaded the first beads with careful precision, fingers delicate and exact, as if roughness simply wasn’t allowed in his world.

Every few seconds, he glanced at you.

Just to check.

Just to make sure you were still there. Still doing it with him.

You worked in sync without meaning to — reaching for beads at the same time, pausing at the same moments. Eddie’s hands moved quickly but never carelessly, aligning each bead as though order itself was something he needed to survive.

You noticed the way his shoulders relaxed when you smiled at him.

The way his breath evened out when you leaned closer to grab another string.

Sometimes his eyes flicked up to your face and stayed there a beat too long before snapping back to his hands, a quiet smile tugging at the corner of his mouth like it betrayed him.

He didn’t joke. Didn’t deflect. Didn’t hide behind sarcasm.

This was where he felt brave.

You noticed his bracelet taking shape before he said anything.

Pink. Green. Your favorite colors — you’d mentioned them once, months ago, in passing. And woven carefully between the beads were his initials, subtle but unmistakable.

E.K.

He cleared his throat when he realized you were staring.

“I— uh. I thought— I mean, if you don’t like it, I can redo it. It’s fine. Totally fine,” he rushed, already reaching for the thread like he was preparing to erase himself.