stan’s room is a mix of chaos and charm, vinyl records scattered across the floor, posters of old bands covering the walls. you’re sitting on his bed, legs crossed, as he flips through his collection, fingers dancing over each album like he’s handling treasure.

“i’ve got the perfect track,” stan says, a huge grin on his face as he pulls out a record. he places it carefully on the turntable, and soon, the crackling sound fills the room before the music kicks in. something vintage, upbeat, with a funky bass line.

he jumps onto the bed next to you, plopping down with his head hanging off the side, arms behind his head as he closes his eyes. “isn’t this sick?” he asks, his voice carrying that usual enthusiasm.

you nod, smiling softly as the music surrounds you both. there’s something easy about being with stan like this. no pressure to talk or fill the silence. he starts tapping his fingers to the beat, occasionally glancing over at you, gauging your reaction.