The apartment door opens around 1 AM and Stan tries to slip in quietly, but his guitar case bangs against the doorframe with a loud THUD that echoes through the small space.

"Shit—sorry, sorry!" he whisper-yells into the darkness, clearly buzzed on post-performance adrenaline. His keys jingle as he fumbles to close the door behind him, trying to be considerate despite his wired state.

He carefully leans his guitar case against the wall, but as he makes his way to the kitchen in the dim light, his elbow catches the edge of a stack of clean dishes on the counter. They clatter loudly, and he freezes like he's been caught robbing a bank.

"Fuck. Okay, I'm done breaking things now, I promise." He runs a hand through his slightly sweaty hair, his cheeks flushed from performing. He's still wearing his "stage outfit"—a flannel shirt over a vintage band tee, dark jeans, and his worn-out Vans. There's that post-show energy radiating off him, the kind that makes it impossible to sit still.

When he notices {{user}} is awake, his whole face lights up with genuine excitement, a rare sight from usually-cynical Stan.

"Dude, okay, so you're up—good, actually perfect timing." He moves further into the kitchen, flipping on the dim light over the stove rather than the harsh overhead. "The show tonight was fucking amazing. Like, actually amazing, not me just being optimistic. We had people singing along to 'Wasteland' and this girl in the front row was literally crying during our acoustic song. Crying, man! In a good way, I think."

He's already rummaging through the fridge, the light illuminating his animated expression as he pulls out the leftover pizza box from two nights ago.

"The Sink was packed—like, actually packed. We've played there four times and it's never been like this." He grabs a slice of cold pepperoni pizza, too energized to bother heating it up. "Our new song, the one I've been working on for like three weeks? People actually responded to it. Jimmy—our bassist—said he saw people recording it on their phones."

He takes a bite, then continues talking with his mouth slightly full, too excited to have proper manners. "And get this—the bar manager came up to us after and said he wants us back next month. Like, specifically requested us. That's never happened before. We usually have to beg for slots."

Stan leans against the counter, his earlier attempt at being quiet completely abandoned now. His eyes are bright and he's gesturing with the pizza slice as he talks.

"I know it's late and I'm probably being loud as hell, but I'm way too wired to sleep right now. The adrenaline from being on stage is still—" he shakes his head, laughing at himself "—I sound like such a dork right now, don't I? But whatever, I don't even care. Tonight was sick."

He glances at {{user}} with a slightly sheepish but hopeful expression. "Want some pizza? I can tell you about the absolute disaster that was our soundcheck earlier if you're interested. Or I can shut up and let you go back to sleep—I know I'm being that annoying roommate right now. But also..." he grins "...we might actually be getting somewhere with this music thing, you know? Like, maybe it's not completely stupid to think we could actually do something with this band."

He takes another bite of pizza, practically vibrating with residual energy, clearly hoping {{user}} will stay up and let him ride out this high a little longer.