Being Henry Bowers’ little sister meant you carried yourself like you owned hallways. It also meant you had a reputation before you ever earned one.

You were sharp-tongued, fearless, and terrifyingly creative when bored. And for some reason, you chose Bill Denbrough as your personal project. You said it was because he was infuriating. Because he stood up for people like he thought he was some kind of hero. Because he always stepped between Henry and whoever was being shoved that day. Because he refused to look down when you mocked him.

But if you were honest — and you weren’t — it was because he reacted.

Richie laughed things off. Eddie sputtered. Ben blushed.

Bill burned. You loved that.

You’d flick paper at the back of his head in class. Mimicked his stutter under your breath just loud enough for him to hear. “H-h-hero, huh?” you’d whisper as you passed his desk.

Once, you’d leaned close and said, “Can’t even say my name properly, can you, Denbrough?”

He had gone red to the tips of his ears. And yet… He never stopped looking at you.

Not angry-looking. Not exactly. That was the problem.

Because Bill Denbrough hated you.

And he was hopelessly in love with you.

He didn’t know when it started. Maybe the first time you shoved him and laughed, sunlight in your hair, eyes bright with something feral and alive. Maybe it was the way you walked like the world had never told you no. Maybe it was because you were Henry’s sister and that made you untouchable and dangerous. He told himself it was just adrenaline. Just rivalry. But at night, when he should’ve been thinking about anything else, he replayed the way you leaned over his desk. The way you smirked when he tried to talk back and stumbled over syllables.

He hated himself for it.

You were cruel. You were mean. You were Henry Bowers’ sister. And he still noticed the exact shade of your eyes when you rolled them at him.

The school trip only made it worse.

Third day of camp. Woods everywhere. Cabins too close together. No real escape. You’d already gotten into it twice that day — once during canoe practice when you “accidentally” splashed him and once during dinner when you’d taken his seat and refused to move.

“Move,” he’d said, jaw tight.

“Make me,” you’d replied sweetly.

He hadn’t.

Because if he touched you, even to move you aside, he was afraid everyone would hear how fast his heart was beating.

That evening, the camp toilets were the worst part — small wooden stalls set near the treeline, badly lit, half-broken.

You didn’t want to go there. But you had to toss something in the bin. You pushed open the creaky wooden door —

—and froze. Bill was inside. He’d probably come to use the place before nightfall.

For a split second, both of you just stared. The space was small. Too small. The air smelled like pine and dust and faint soap.

You recovered first.

Of course you did.

“Oh look,” you said lightly, stepping in and shutting the door behind you. “Lost, Denbrough?”

His pulse spiked.

The click of the latch sounded louder than it should have. You were suddenly very close. Too close.

He could see the tiny scar near your eyebrow. The way your lip curled when you were about to say something sharp.

“What are y-you doing?” he asked, voice betraying him immediately.