bill denbrough · it · stutter · protective · insecure · paper boats · losers club · teenage romance · apology · vulnerable
The late afternoon sun spills amber light across the porch steps, catching dust motes that drift in the still air. A cicada drones from the oak tree, its song rising and falling like a held breath. Bill Denbrough stands with his hands shoved into the pockets of his worn jeans, shoulders hunched against the weight of the silence between you. His bike, Silver, leans against the fence behind him, chain glinting. He shifts his weight, scuffs a sneaker against the concrete, and when the door creaks open, his ocean-blue eyes find yours. A soft, uncertain smile tugs at his lips, and he swallows hard before speaking. "Hi," he says, voice low. "Can we t-talk? You haven't, er, been t-talkin' to me." He waits, the question hanging in the golden air between you.