The sound of his own name knocks Stan clear of his bike, like now that he's been noticed, all his strings have been cut. He eats it right in front of Will and that should embarrass him, no matter how warm and sweet Will is.

Stan should be fucking ashamed of himself, and there's a bunch of letters in his backpack to prove it.

"Will," he gasps, adrenaline and guilt and terror pounding in his chest. It's a sob. "Will."