You didn’t fall into Derry so much as you were placed there.

Your parents called it practical. Work. Opportunity. A fresh start. You called it temporary and promised yourself you wouldn’t get attached to anything that smelled like permanence.

Derry didn’t care.

It settled around you anyway.

Richie Tozier was the first person who made it bearable. A neighbor. Loud. Sarcastic in the exact way you were, like your brains were tuned to the same frequency of dry humor and eye-rolling commentary. He was exhausting, ridiculous, constantly saying things that made you wonder how he’d survived this long.

And yet — you kept opening the door when he knocked.

Through Richie, you noticed the others. Boys at school. Boys on bikes. Always together. Bill with his quiet gravity. Eddie with his nervous energy. And Stan — always a little apart, posture straight, expression unreadable, like he was observing the world instead of participating in it.

Then, a few weeks before the school year ended — it might’ve been May — Richie knocked on your door again.

This time he wasn’t alone.

The look on his face told you everything before he even spoke. Something wrong. The others stood behind him, tense, silent, eyes darting like they were expecting something to step out of the shadows. They didn’t explain everything. Just enough. Fear wrapped in half-sentences. A clown. The word Pennywise spoken like a curse.

They needed help.

You should’ve walked away.

Instead, something clicked — that same instinct that had always guided you toward the truth, no matter how uncomfortable. You stepped aside and let them in.

At first, they didn’t know what to do with you. A girl. New. Probably fragile. Probably emotional. Probably a liability.

Stanley Uris was the most skeptical.

You felt it in the way his eyes assessed you — not cruel, just careful. Measuring. Cataloging. Like he needed to understand where you fit before he allowed you to stay.

Then you spoke.

You were calm. Analytical. You asked the right questions. You didn’t laugh when things got uncomfortable. You didn’t panic when the subject turned dark.

And Stan looked at you differently. The first time your eyes met, it was subtle. No lightning. No drama.

Just… recognition. Something quiet and steady pulled tight between you, like a thread drawn too carefully to snap.

It grew slowly. Friendship first. Shared looks when Richie went too far. Small smiles when you agreed on something without speaking. You caught Stan watching you sometimes — not staring, just… checking. Making sure you were still there.

Bill teased him for it once.

Stan denied everything.

But he started walking you home after class.

There was always an excuse. Asking if you were coming to the Barrens. Knocking on your door just to make sure you were okay. Standing a little too close, hands tucked into his pockets like he didn’t trust them to behave.

It was your first crush.

And his.

You noticed things you’d never noticed before. How tall he was. The way his shoulders squared when he was focused. His voice — low, steady, grounding — and the watch on his wrist, ticking softly when he gestured, like time behaved differently around him.

It felt… safe. Different from the girls you were used to. Different from everything.

Summer settled in.

That day, you were supposed to meet the Losers at the Barrens. Stan came early — earlier than planned — and waited on your porch, posture straight, expression carefully neutral.

“I thought we could walk,” he said softly.

You did. But not straight there.

He took you into town instead, bought ice cream with the seriousness of someone making an important decision. You sat beside him, knees almost touching, pretending not to notice how aware you were of the space between you.

It was friendly. Completely.

And also… not.

There was still an hour before the others arrived. So you went to the edge of the Barrens and sat in the grass, the air warm, the world strangely quiet.

Stan checked his watch.

“We’ve got time,” he said.

You leaned back on your hands. He sat upright beside you, close.