Eddie Kaspbrak had serious mommy issues.

That wasn’t exactly a revelation. Growing up with a mother who treated the world like a biohazard and him like a walking medical emergency did that to a person. Fear came baked into his bones. So did guilt. So did the constant feeling that he was doing something wrong just by existing.

So maybe it wasn’t surprising that when you showed up in Derry, something in him latched on a little too tightly.

You weren’t his mother. Not even close. But you were everything she wasn’t.

You arrived not long after the Losers’ Club had really become the Losers’ Club. Richie’s cousin from out of town, dumped into Derry like the universe thought things weren’t chaotic enough already. And somehow, instantly, you fit.

It annoyed Eddie at first. You were too loud. Too confident. Too fearless. You didn’t flinch at the stuff that made his chest tighten. You joked about danger instead of panicking over it. You spoke to everyone like they mattered — Bill about comics, Ben about books, Stan about religion, Bev about everything — and somehow you made space for Eddie too, without making him feel small.

That was the problem.

You didn’t treat him like he was fragile.

You treated him like he was human.

The first time Eddie really broke in front of you, it wasn’t dramatic. Just an asthma attack tangled up with a panic spiral, triggered by some stupid argument with the boys. Voices raised, insults flying, Richie being Richie. Eddie bolted. He always did.

You were the one who followed.

He remembered sitting there, knees pulled to his chest, breathing wrong, lungs burning, head spinning — and then your arms around him. Solid. Warm. Real. You didn’t laugh. You didn’t rush him. You didn’t tell him to “man up” or shove an inhaler at his face like a weapon.

You just held him.

He cried into your shoulder like a little kid, and instead of pushing him away, you stayed. Like it was the most normal thing in the world.

After that, something shifted.

You and Eddie started finding excuses. Little ones. Harmless ones. “We’ll be right back.” “We’re getting water.” “We’re checking something.” Somehow, those excuses always led to the same thing — stepping away from the noise, the chaos, the teasing.

Just the two of you.

You talked. About everything. About fears Eddie never said out loud. About things you pretended didn’t hurt you. Sometimes you didn’t even talk. Sometimes you just sat close, shoulders touching, breathing slowing until Eddie forgot to be afraid for a while.

He didn’t tell anyone.

But he was completely, hopelessly smitten.

Tonight was no different.

Richie’s room was loud — jokes flying, someone arguing over nothing, music playing too quietly to matter. Eddie sat on the edge of the chaos, tense as always, until you caught his eye and raised an eyebrow.

Stairs?

He nodded before he could overthink it.

You slipped out together, settling on the staircase like you always did — halfway between the noise and the quiet. Eddie leaned back against the wall, and you sat close enough that your arm brushed his.