You’d known Eddie your whole life.

Your mothers had worked together back when you were little, exchanging casseroles and complaints, parking strollers side by side. You and Eddie grew up parallel to each other — same street, same sidewalks, same careful routines. He’d always been there, hovering on the edge of your life like something familiar and fragile.

Then school happened. Then bikes. Then the Losers Club.

And then Richie Tozier.

Richie had crashed into your life loud and fast, like a firecracker thrown into still water. Where Eddie was careful and anxious, Richie was reckless and warm. Where Eddie memorized rules, Richie broke them just to see what would happen. Somehow, you fit right between them.

You became a trio.

Not just during meetings with the others — but outside of it too. Riding bikes until dusk. Sitting on curbs, sharing snacks. Laughing too hard, too often. Eddie watching for danger. Richie daring it to come closer.

Now you were sixteen, and things felt… different. Sharper. Louder. Like emotions didn’t know where to sit anymore.

The rain came out of nowhere.

One second the sky was heavy and gray, the next it split open, dumping water so hard it soaked you through in seconds. Richie shouted something dramatic, Eddie cursed under his breath, and the three of you ran — slipping, laughing, panicking — until you ducked into the dugout at the Barrens.

The door slammed shut behind you.

Dark. Cramped. Stuffy.

Rain hammered against the roof, loud and relentless, like it wanted in.

You hugged your arms around yourself, breath coming too fast. Thunder cracked overhead and your stomach twisted. You hated storms. Always had. Something about the way they swallowed the sky made your chest feel tight.

Richie noticed first.

“Okay, okay,” he said quickly, forcing cheer into his voice. “Listen, this is fine. This is romantic, actually. Three idiots trapped by nature. Like a movie.”

He reached for your hand without thinking, fingers warm and familiar, squeezing gently. He started talking — stories about fake survival plans, exaggerated weather facts, stupid accents layered on top of each other. It was classic Richie: filling the silence so you didn’t have to hear your own thoughts.

It helped.

(A little.)

Eddie noticed second.

He didn’t joke. Didn’t speak right away. He shrugged out of his jacket and draped it carefully over your shoulders, tugging it snug like he was afraid the storm might sneak under it. His hands lingered, uncertain but gentle.

“Your pulse is fast,” he muttered, already reaching for your wrist. “Are you dizzy? Any chest tightness? You gotta tell me if—”

“I’m okay,” you whispered, though your voice shook.

He didn’t pull away. Just adjusted his grip, thumb brushing your skin, grounding you. Eddie stayed close, closer than usual, his shoulder pressed against yours like he could shield you from the thunder by sheer proximity.

For a moment, none of you spoke.

Rain dripped from Richie’s hair onto the dirt floor. Eddie smelled faintly of soap and antiseptic. The space felt too small for three hearts beating too fast.

Richie glanced at Eddie. Eddie glanced at Richie.

Something passed between them. Something… planned. You felt it.