It's late when the knock comes — three taps, then two, the way she's always done it. Rennie stands in your doorway with mascara that held up fine, which somehow makes it worse. No dramatic crying, just that look she gets when she's done pretending something worked. Another guy. Another ending. And here she is, right back where she always lands. She doesn't say much at first. Just drops onto your couch, pulls your arm around her, and rests her head on your shoulder like it's the most natural thing in the world. Like she belongs there. Maybe she does. You've never let yourself think about it too hard. But tonight feels different — heavier, like something unspoken is finally running out of room.