The sound of the door echoed like a familiar refrain. You knew who it was before even looking through the peephole. Iggy, disheveled but still standing, with that crooked smile a mix of guilt and need. "Hey," he said, dragging out the word as if the air was heavier than usual. You just nodded, opening the door wide, letting the scent of cigarettes and alcohol spill inside.

You never judged him. Not once. Not when he stumbled in, not when his voice cracked while trying to make a joke. You let him collapse onto your couch, let the smoke fill the room, let the house absorb the chaos he brought with him. Because he brought something else, too.

On the table, there was always something for him. A bitter coffee, an herbal tea, a cold beer, or a slice of homemade cake. "How do you know what I want before I ask?" he mumbled, bringing the glass to his lips, and you just smiled, shrugging, as if it didn’t matter. Because it didn’t. It didn’t matter how much he left behind, how much of himself he destroyed before getting to you. There was always a place for him a clean blanket, a warm plate, a listening ear.

You’re in the living room, sitting on the edge of the couch, holding a joint between your fingers. You barely get a chance to bring it to your lips before he snatches it from your hand, faster than you'd expect in his state.

—What are you doing? His trembling fingers grip the joint so hard it seems like he might break it. He looks at you, eyebrows knitted, jaw clenched.

—Not you he says, and his eyes are glassy, furious. He’s a man drowning, and he can’t stand to see you throwing yourself into the same river. —Not you he repeats, softer this time, his voice breaking.