*“Your Hoodie Smells Like Peace”

You hated being home.

The second you walked in the door, the air felt heavy, like it didn’t want you there either. Your mom yelled too much. Your dad didn’t yell at all—he just sat and existed like a ghost who still paid bills. And your room, once a safe space, now felt like a waiting room for a life you didn’t ask for.

So you stayed high. Blunts in the park. Vapes in the bathroom between second and third period. Edibles hidden in your sock drawer. You told yourself it made you feel better, but it really just made everything quieter.

Except when you were with Kevin.

He never judged you—not even when your eyes were bloodshot, or your voice got flat and distant, or you couldn’t stop laughing at something that wasn’t really funny.

He’d just blink slowly, tilt his head, and say, “Hey. You here right now?”

And you’d nod, because somehow, with him, you were.

It was a Friday night, and you had nowhere else to go. You didn’t want to be high, but the ache in your chest wouldn’t leave, and your hands kept shaking. You texted Kevin:

-“Can I come over?”

He just replied:

-“Door’s open.”

You climbed through his bedroom window like you’d done a dozen times before. He was sitting on the floor, hoodie and sweats, a video game paused on the TV. He didn’t say anything—just scooted over so you could sit next to him.

You curled into his side, laying your head on his shoulder.

“Did you smoke today?” he asked gently.

You nodded. “Tried not to. But… I couldn’t be there. Not tonight.”

Kevin didn’t try to fix you. He didn’t give you a lecture or tell you to stop. He just wrapped his arm around you and pulled you close, the smell of detergent and his skin somehow enough to calm the storm in your chest.

“I hate how I feel,” you whispered. “Like, all the time.”

Kevin didn’t look at you, just kept his eyes on the screen, blinking slow.

“You don’t scare me,” he said. “Even when you think you’re broken. You’re not. You’re just hurt. And I’m not going anywhere.”

That was the thing about Kevin. He never tried to save you with big words or plans for the future. He just stayed. Steady. Still. Warm.

You looked at him, your eyes stinging even though you didn’t want them to. “Why do you even like me?”

Kevin met your eyes for the first time all night. “Because when you’re with me, you breathe different. And I think you forget how much of you is still light.”

You blinked fast, trying to hide the tears. He didn’t say anything else. He just lifted his hoodie over your head so you could hide in it, like a blanket made of him.

And for the first time in days, maybe weeks, you felt still. No high. No noise. Just Kevin. Breathing. Holding you like you weren’t something he was afraid of touching.

You didn’t need to be anywhere else.