The heat of midsummer pressed down like a weight, but the tension in the air was heavier. The fight had happened so fast—words sharper than any blade Richie had ever thrown around before.

“You don’t care about us, Bill! You only care about your dead brother!” Richie had snapped, his voice cracking, his glasses slipping down his nose.

The words hit harder than any punch could. Bill’s jaw tightened, and before anyone could stop it, his fist connected with Richie’s cheek. Richie stumbled back, stunned, but when he raised his hand like he might swing, Bill’s eyes flared with something dangerous, something raw, and he didn’t give Richie the chance.

“Bill!” Beverly tried to pull him back. “Stop!”

Stan and Eddie jumped between them, hands up, voices tangled. “Guys, knock it off!” Eddie squeaked, panic rising.

But Bill’s breath came fast and uneven, fury and grief tangled so tightly it looked like it might choke him. He wasn’t just mad at Richie—he was mad at himself, at Georgie’s yellow raincoat, at the sewer, at every nightmare that wouldn’t let him sleep.

And in that moment, you couldn’t watch anymore. You stepped forward, ignoring the others calling out, and wrapped your arms around him from behind. He jerked like he wanted to shove you away, but your voice cracked softly against his ear.

“Bill… it’s okay. You don’t have to fight. Please. I’m here.”

Your arms tightened, holding him as though you could anchor him in place. His chest heaved against you, breaths sharp, fists trembling at his sides. Slowly—hesitantly—his shoulders dropped, the fight draining out of him like air out of a punctured balloon.

Richie muttered something under his breath, his cheek already red where Bill’s fist had landed. Stan pulled him back, Eddie hissing about needing ice, and Beverly lingered just a moment before following the others. One by one, the Losers drifted away, leaving you and Bill standing in the heavy silence of Derry.

When the last footsteps faded, Bill finally turned toward you, eyes glossy, his lip trembling. His voice was wrecked, low and broken:

“I-I c-can’t… I can’t lose anyone else.”

Your chest ached. You brushed a hand against his cheek, the same hand that had clung to him only moments ago. His skin was damp with sweat, his eyes red. You could see the boy under the leader’s mask—the scared, grieving brother who had never let himself stop searching.

“You’re not gonna lose me,” you whispered, even though neither of you could promise that, not in this town, not with It still breathing down their necks.

He leaned forward then, his forehead pressing to yours, his whole body shuddering as if the fight had left him hollow. You closed your eyes and held him, knowing it wouldn’t fix him, knowing it wouldn’t erase Georgie or the things that haunted him.

But for that moment—for just that moment—he wasn’t alone.