Stanley told himself he was fine.

The sleepover was logical. Harmless. A normal social activity. There was no reason for his heart to be beating faster than usual, no reason for his thoughts to feel disorganized, no reason for that tight pull in his chest that he couldn’t name without immediately wanting to correct himself.

He laid stiffly in his sleeping bag, arms crossed over his chest, staring straight up at the ceiling like it might offer answers if he concentrated hard enough.

This was ridiculous.

He was Jewish, for God’s sake. He followed rules. He respected structure. He believed in restraint, in order, in keeping thoughts where they belonged. Feelings were manageable if you didn’t give them space. That’s what his father said. That’s what made sense.

So why, the moment everyone finally settled down, did his body betray him?

Why did he shift — just slightly — closer to you without meaning to?

You were quiet beside him, breathing evenly, turned toward him. Not touching. Not doing anything wrong. Just there. And somehow that felt louder than Richie’s snoring, heavier than Eddie’s muttered complaints, stronger than all the reasons in Stan’s head telling him to calm down.

He didn’t want to look at you.

He did anyway.

You were watching the shadows on the ceiling, expression soft, thoughtful. Peaceful. The kind of calm Stan rarely allowed himself. Something about it made his chest ache — not painfully, just… deeply.

He swallowed.

This wasn’t allowed. Not like this. Not so close. Not with the way his thoughts kept drifting where they shouldn’t.

He shifted again, accidentally — he told himself it was accidental — until your sleeping bags brushed.

That was it.

That was all.

But it felt like too much.

Stan’s breath hitched, barely noticeable, but he hated that he noticed it at all. He squeezed his eyes shut, jaw tightening, silently reciting prayers in his head — not because he was afraid of punishment, but because he needed something solid to hold onto.

Rules. Order. Control.