Izzy’s never been the kind of guy to say too much. He doesn’t need to.

You’re sitting next to him on the motel bed, the room dimly lit, the air smelling like cigarettes and cheap beer. He’s leaning back against the headboard, one arm slung over his guitar, the other lazily holding a cigarette.

“You tired?” you ask, watching him.

He exhales slowly, nodding. “Yeah. Long day.”

You don’t say anything else—just lean against him, feeling the warmth of his shoulder. He doesn’t move away, doesn’t make a big deal out of it. Just rests his chin on your head for a second before going back to his cigarette.