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[ Honestly, up until this second, Beverly wasn't sure how this was going to go. It's such a gigantic leap of faith, fueled entirely by impulse (just like when she kissed him in the car, invited him up to her place, adrenaline and attraction buzzing hot under her skin). Ever since Derry, ever since she got her memories back, it's like the veil between her past and present was worn paper-thin and the girl she used to be — could still be — is standing somewhere behind her, pushing, reminding her to make the first choice, to be brave, to follow her heart. It's as terrifying as it is exhilarating and she feels manic with the swings, sometimes, just like when she realised what the fuck she was doing in coming out here.

They're friends, of course they're friends. She's known Dean as long as she's (re)known the Losers in all the ways that count. But whatever they ignited between them back in November is still so new and still smouldering quietly under weeks of silence and uncertainty. But the one thing that is certain, after he called, is that she needed to see him. She could have gone to any of the Losers in this mini mid-mid-life crises, any one of them would have opened his door to her in the throes of emotional upheaval. But there's something comforting about seeing someone outside of all that, removed from the horror of the clown and everything it tore up inside of them.

It's one thing to be known, another thing to be seen, and yet another to have both reframed by perspective and distance without sacrificing the intimacy of either. So — Kansas. So... Dean. Even if she, like him, isn't sure where they stand. But that's for later. Right now is for being swept up in his embrace, warm and solid and tight; and if she feels the burn of unexpected emotions (relief, almost overwhelming), she buries them in his shoulder, laughing into his jacket. Even after his hands dropped away, she can still feel the burning imprints they've left on her icy cheeks.

Yeah, you too, she whispers back, eyes prickling. God. God, it's so good to see him, to lean into the callused curve of his palm against her face, looking back at him with as much openness as he does her. She needed this more than she thought. ]

No, no, it's okay, I'm okay, [ she says in a rush, meaning it as much as she doesn't. Obviously she's not okay, showing up out of the blue like this. But it's not an emergency. She's almost embarrassed that it isn't. If that makes her blush, it's lost in the colour whipped into her face from the wind. ] I'm sorry, [ reflexive, earnest, ] I should've said something, I just — [ didn't know where to go ] — I wasn't thinking. I know. [ Her voice pitches higher, eyes rolling to the sky, wry and self-deprecating: ] Crazy.

[ When she left Tom and had to run, it was Derry and the Losers acting as true north, Bev nothing but a helpless compass needle spinning round and round for 27 years. Now, she has a home in Long Island, Los Angeles, Atlanta, Florida. But she came here. She doesn't know what to make of that: needing him. This. Is that something to apologise for? ]

I'm sorry, [ she says again anyway, her faint smile turning inward, self-conscious. Her hands are still on the small of his back, holding him close. She's distantly aware Sam's behind him watching this go down and she straightens up with a sniff, nose running from the cold, swiping at it with her gloved hand. ] I'm being rude. [ Ruder than showing up unannounced? A shiver bolts up her spine, delayed. ] I should — should say hi to your brother, huh?

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