The doorbell rang once and then he was already inside, dripping rain across the hallway rug. You barely looked up from the mug of tea in your hands. It was always like this: his late-night emergencies, your quiet living room.

“You’re a lifesaver,” he said, voice soft but careless, the way someone speaks to a person they believe will always be there.

You only nodded and pushed the extra blanket toward him.

He started talking—about the fight with his girlfriend, how she’d walked out again, how he didn’t know where else to go. Each word felt familiar, a song on repeat. You listened, you asked questions you already knew the answers to.

Outside, the storm cracked the sky. Inside, he stretched across your couch, eyes half-closed, his head tipping back like he belonged there.

“You’re the best,” he murmured. “Like a little sister. Don’t know what I’d do without you.”

The phrase burned. Little sister. Always little.