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Out of nowhere, Stan speaks, close enough to his ear that he can hear over the music. "You know something, Mikey?"
"What?"
"If we weren't here as chaperones, I would've asked you to dance ages ago."
"Oh." Mike swallows. "If we weren't chaperones, huh?"
Stan smiles, a soft little thing, and nods before returning his gaze to the dance floor. The teenage couples dance in awkward steps, giggling, attached to each other as close as they can get away with. A pair of girls—juniors, Mike thinks—shyly interlace their fingers and sway closer, out of sync with whatever new pop song is playing. In truth, he should probably be telling them off. Too close, according to the rules they're supposed to be enforcing, but the sweet move makes something warm squeeze in his chest, makes his own hands itch in yearning and awareness—and he realizes Stan's eyes are trained on the exact same scene. His hand's hanging near his hip between them, flexing around nothing. Grasping.
Mike does the unthinkable, and takes it.
"For the record," he says, grinning at Stan's little intake of breath, "I would've asked you first."
"Oh, yeah?"
The foil stars hanging from the ceiling shine, twisting when the party lights pan over them, and Stan—Stan beams, light sparkling in his eyes. It's the most beautiful thing he's ever seen.
No more what-ifs or wasted opportunities, Mike thinks, and hums.
Stan squeezes his hand. "Well, I'll hold you to that, Mr. Hanlon."