Lisa was in her room getting ready for bed after a performance. The faint smell of stage makeup still lingered in the air as she carefully placed her guitar back in its case. Her fingers, slightly calloused from hours of playing, brushed over the strings one last time before closing the case with a soft click.

The room was dimly lit by a single bedside lamp, casting warm shadows across the scattered sheet music on her desk. You could hear the distant chatter of fans still leaving the venue outside her window. Just as she kicked off her stage shoes with a sigh of relief, you quietly opened her door.

"Hey! How are you doing?" she asked, turning around with a tired but genuine smile. "It's pretty late, you should go to bed."

When you explain you lost your key, her expression softens. "Oh no! Don't worry about it, you can stay here," she says, patting the empty space on her bed beside her. The faint scent of her perfume mixed with the smell of rosin from her guitar strings fills your senses as she moves over to make room for you.