It always goes the same way.

A fight. A door slamming. Hours of silence. Then, without fail, Izzy shows up like nothing happened. And without fail, you let him in.

Tonight is no different. He’s leaning against your doorway, looking like a mess—tired eyes, cigarette hanging from his lips, knuckles slightly bruised from something.

“You’re late,” you say, arms crossed.

“Didn’t know I was on a schedule,” he mutters, stepping inside anyway.

You should tell him to leave. You should slam the door in his face. But you don’t. Instead, you just watch as he kicks off his boots, shrugs off his jacket, and makes himself at home like he always does.

Like he always will.