The underground hangout was quiet without the rest of the Losers, just the distant drip of water and the soft rustling of comic book pages as Stan flipped through one in the dim light. You were curled up in the hammock, swaying gently, watching him with a lazy smile.

He sat cross-legged on an old crate, his usual neatness slightly undone in the relaxed space, curls a little messy, sleeves pushed up as he absentmindedly traced patterns in the dust with his fingers.

“You’re gonna fall out of that thing,”

he murmured without looking up, a small smirk tugging at his lips. You just grinned, stretching out further, letting the hammock creak beneath you.

“Nah, I think I’m good.”

He huffed a laugh, finally glancing up at you, eyes warm and amused.

“If you hit the ground, I’m not helping you up.”

But there was no bite in his voice—just the comfortable ease of two friends tucked away from the world.