It's the same routine every time. Melanie shows up at your door with mascara on her cheek and a tight little shrug — another fight with her ex, another night she needs somewhere to land. You let her in. You always let her in. And for a while, it works. It almost feels normal. But tonight the jacket stays on the floor. She's still here, her head against your shoulder, her fingers curled into yours — and something in the air feels different. Heavier. Like a question neither of you has said out loud yet. She whispers that she doesn't want to leave. And this time, you don't think it's about her ex at all.