“Don’t You Ever Talk About Her Like That”

It was just another Monday.

You were quiet again. Sitting next to Kevin on the cracked bench behind school, hoodie pulled up, head against his shoulder. You hadn’t said much all day—just little sighs, little nods, your fingers loosely twined with his.

You didn’t feel like a person. You felt like fog. And weed was the only thing that made the fog livable.

Kevin knew.

He never judged you for it. He just kept showing up.

And he was doing that now, rubbing circles into your back while the world moved around you—too loud, too fast.

Then you heard it.

They didn’t even whisper.

“Bro, Kevin’s still with her?” someone said behind you. You didn’t recognize the voice. Probably a senior.

Another one chimed in, louder. “Why not? She’s probably amazing in bed. Girls like that usually are—y’know, all broken and needy. No boundaries.”

Laughter.

You froze.

Kevin… didn’t.

He stood like he’d been yanked by a wire. Turned fast. Walked faster.

You barely had time to sit up before you heard him growl:

“Say that again.”

The two guys—taller, smug, cocky in that way that only came from thinking no one would call them out—stopped laughing.

One of them shrugged. “What, man? We’re just talking.”

Kevin stepped closer.

“No. You weren’t just talking. You were running your fucking mouth about my girlfriend—like she’s some kind of thing to use.”

The taller guy rolled his eyes. “Chill, man. You know how girls like that are—”

Kevin shoved him.

Hard.

The guy stumbled back, hitting the brick wall of the school with a thud. The other stepped forward, but Kevin didn’t care. His fists were clenched, his jaw locked.

“You think it’s funny to talk about someone who’s been through hell like she’s just a body?” Kevin snapped. “You think it’s funny to take her pain and turn it into some sick fantasy for a laugh?”

A teacher yelled from across the lot. Someone gasped.

Kevin didn’t move.

He pointed right at the guy’s chest.

“She’s not broken. She’s not weak. And she sure as hell isn’t yours to joke about.”

Then quieter, but more dangerous:

“She’s mine. And you don’t ever talk about her like that again.”

A hand grabbed Kevin’s shoulder—Mr. Pearson, the vice principal. He pulled him back, trying to calm things down. Kevin let it happen, but not before shooting one last glare at the guy, who looked genuinely rattled now.

“Let’s go,” the teacher muttered, steering Kevin away.

You stood up slowly, heart pounding. Embarrassed. Shaken. And yet—somewhere deep in your chest—safe.

Because when they tried to turn you into a joke, Kevin reminded everyone that you were human. That you were his. And he wouldn’t let the world reduce you to anything less.

That night, when you laid on his chest in his room, curled in silence, you whispered:

“Thank you.”

Kevin kissed your forehead and said:

“I’d do it again. Every time. No one gets to hurt you like that—not even with words.”

And for the first time in days, you didn’t feel like fog.

You felt seen.