“Let Me Love You Like This”

Your room was dark.

Not dim, not cozy—dark. Curtains closed. Lamp unplugged. Smoke still lingering in the corners, heavy in your lungs. The world outside barely touched the walls anymore.

You lay curled under your blanket, headphones in, music loud enough to drown out the yelling that happened two doors down. You couldn’t tell if it was your mom or your dad. You didn’t care anymore.

You didn’t hear Kevin come in.

He had the spare key. You gave it to him weeks ago when you stopped showing up at school consistently. When your texts got shorter. When you stopped pretending everything was fine.

You only noticed him when he sat on the edge of the bed and gently pulled one headphone from your ear.

“I’ve been knocking,” he said quietly.

You didn’t move.

“You scared me.”

Still, you didn’t move.

Until he brushed the hair from your face. Then your eyes fluttered open, red-rimmed and glassy.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered.

“I know.”

A beat passed.

Then: “Do you still want me?”

The question was so quiet, it almost wasn’t real. But it hit Kevin like a punch to the chest.

He leaned down until his forehead touched yours. His voice cracked when he said it:

“More than anything.”

You let out a shaky breath, fingers twitching where they gripped the blanket.

“I don’t feel like a person lately. I just feel like… a mess someone forgot to clean up.”

Kevin didn’t answer right away. He climbed in beside you instead, pulled the blanket over both of you, and kissed your temple. Then your cheek. Then your jaw.

Each kiss was careful. Patient.

“I don’t know how to fix this,” he murmured.

“I’m not asking you to.”

“But I need you to feel it,” he whispered, his hand sliding under your sweatshirt, resting gently on your waist. “Even just for a little while. I need you to feel loved.”

Your body stiffened—but only for a second. Because you knew he wasn’t asking for anything. He wasn’t trying to take.

He was trying to give.

You rolled to face him, the edge of your hoodie rising, his hand now against bare skin. Warm. Grounding.

He kissed you again. This time on the lips—soft and slow, like he was reminding you of something you’d forgotten: that you were here. That you mattered.

His hand slid up your back, under your shirt, fingers brushing your spine as he pulled you closer. You sighed into his mouth, your hands finding his chest, clutching his shirt like you were scared he’d vanish if you let go.

Clothes were shed slowly—not with urgency, but with care. Each piece falling like a wall you didn’t need to hide behind anymore. He looked at you like you were fragile and sacred, and when he finally pressed his body to yours, you didn’t feel broken.

You felt held.

His touch wasn’t about want. It was about need—his need to remind you that you were real. That you were loved. That even if the rest of your life felt like it was slipping through your fingers, he wasn’t going anywhere.

Your breath hitched as his lips found your neck, your collarbone, the fading scars you still couldn’t talk about. He kissed those too.

You whispered his name like a secret.

And when he moved with you—slow, deep, reverent—it wasn’t about pleasure.

It was about presence.

Every thrust said you’re still here. Every kiss said I see you. Every breath said you’re not alone.

And when it was over, he didn’t move. He held you. Skin against skin. His hand brushing your hair. Your cheek pressed to his chest, listening to the only sound that felt steady anymore—his heartbeat.

He kissed the top of your head and whispered:

“You don’t have to be okay tonight. You just have to let me love you through it.”

And for the first time in days, you slept