Eddie Kaspbrak could recite symptoms like other kids recited baseball stats at ten. He knew the difference between viral and bacterial before most kids knew long division. He carried hand sanitizer before it was trendy.

After Derry — after everything — medicine felt like control. You couldn’t control monsters. But you could control infection rates. Lab results. Recovery plans.

He specialized in urology eventually — precise, contained, clinical. Predictable systems. Clear solutions.

He built his office carefully. Clean lines. Neutral walls. Soft lighting so patients wouldn’t panic. A faint scent of disinfectant that felt reassuring rather than harsh.

He never treated friends or family. It blurred lines. Complicated things. Made him anxious in ways he didn’t enjoy.

So when you called him after years of occasional check-ins — birthdays, random late-night “remember this?” texts — and asked if he could see you urgently, he almost said no.

Almost.

But your voice sounded strained. Embarrassed.

And you had always been one of his people.

You were part of the Losers — one of the few who could tease him without cruelty. The one who used to steal his inhaler and hold it hostage just to make him chase you. The one who sat beside him on curbs in Derry summers, knees touching, sharing secrets no one else knew.

Life had scattered you all. Divorces. Careers. Different cities. But somehow, you Eddie and losers never completely let go.

So he agreed.

That evening, he was pacing his office before you arrived. “This is fine,” he muttered to himself. “It’s clinical. Professional. Totally normal.”

When you walked in, nerves hit you first. You hadn’t seen him in a year. He looked older — sharper jaw, white coat crisp and intimidating. But the way he adjusted the pen in his pocket when anxious? Exactly the same.

You gave a small, teasing smile. “Hi, Doctor Kaspbrak.”

He rolled his eyes immediately. “Don’t start.”

And just like that, some of the tension eased. He motioned for you to sit.

“So,” he said, clicking his pen a little too many times. “You’re aware I’m not technically your specialty.”

You needed gynaecologist help, christ… He was nervous — not because of the medicine. Because it was you. You noticed the way he avoided looking at you for too long at first. The way he defaulted to clinical tone to steady himself.

“How long have you had the symptoms?” he asked gently.

Slowly, the room shifted from awkward to familiar. Because Eddie was still Eddie. He still overexplained things when anxious. Still corrected himself mid-sentence. Still frowned intensely at lab results like they personally offended him.