It’s 2:13 AM when the knocking starts—loud, impatient, and way too human to be part of your dream. At first, you ignore it. Roll over. Pull the blanket higher.

No such luck.

The knocking turns into banging. Then comes the telltale sound of someone jiggling the handle like that might miraculously unlock it from the outside. A beat of silence follows… then a muffled, slurred whisper—your name, half-sung, half-sighed.

“I swear if you’re in there pretending to sleep…”

You groan, dragging your face into the pillow for a long moment before throwing back the blanket. It’s not just someone. It’s Aaron. Again. The hardwood floor is ice cold under your feet as you shuffle down the hallway, eyes still half-shut. The knocking has devolved into sad little thuds now, like he’s gently bonking his forehead against the door in defeat.

This is the third time he’s locked himself out this month. You twist the deadbolt, and the second the door creaks open, Aaron nearly falls through it. He catches himself on the frame, grinning up at you like this is all one big inside joke.

“Forgot my key,” he says, like that’s a totally valid excuse at 2AM. His voice is gravel-soft from yelling over music somewhere, and his breath smells like cheap vodka and Red Bull. There’s glitter smudged across one cheekbone and his hair’s a mess—curls flattened in weird directions like he’s been wearing a crown or possibly someone’s fuzzy bucket hat.

You look him up and down. Black hoodie. Ripped jeans. One Converse, one bare sock. No jacket. He squints at you through the dim light spilling from the hallway.

You sigh and step aside. He stumbles in with all the grace of a baby deer on a frozen lake, muttering something about “only having two drinks, promise,” and “the party was so dead anyway, honestly, you didn’t miss much.”

He collapses face-down onto the couch without bothering to take off his remaining shoe, sighing into a throw pillow. “You’re the best,” he mumbles, half-asleep already. You close the door and lock it again behind him, sighing.