It was late on a Saturday evening, and Kevin was sprawled on the floor of your bedroom, fiddling with his bass. He was messing with a riff you’d heard him play a hundred times, but it sounded warmer tonight, slower—like he was playing for you instead of practice. The soft hum of the strings filled the quiet gaps between your breathing.

You were curled up on the bed, knees hugged to your chest. It had been one of those weeks again. The ones where the weight in your chest felt like it was made of lead, where your hands wouldn’t stop shaking no matter how many deep breaths you took. You’d smoked more than you wanted to, trying to make the noise in your head slow down, but it never really worked for long.

Kevin glanced up at you mid-pluck, his messy hair falling in his face. “You okay?” he asked softly.

You nodded automatically, the kind of nod that wasn’t an answer at all. He gave you that look—the one that meant I’m not gonna push, but I’m still here.

You’d been together for a few months now, and he knew about… some of it. About the anxiety that kept you up at night, about your parents yelling in the kitchen until you’d slip out to the backyard to breathe. About the scars. He never asked to see them, never pressured you, just… didn’t flinch when you told him they existed.

Tonight, for some reason, something in your chest whispered trust him. Maybe it was the way the lamplight made the room feel smaller, safer. Maybe it was the fact that he’d been humming the same riff for ten minutes without looking away from you.

You sat up slowly. “Kevin?”

He set the bass aside immediately, scooting closer to the bed. “Yeah?”

Your hands shook as you picked at the edge of your hoodie sleeve. “Can I… show you something?”

His eyes softened, worry flickering there. “Only if you want to.”

You took a deep breath and pulled the sleeve up, revealing the pale lines etched into your skin. Some faded, some not as much. You’d thought about this moment so many times—how someone might stare, or flinch, or pity you.

Kevin didn’t do any of that. His eyes were steady, gentle, like he was looking at something fragile but important. He reached out slowly, giving you time to pull away if you needed. When you didn’t, his fingertips brushed lightly over your arm, not tracing the scars, just holding your forearm like it was any other part of you.

“I’m not gonna say I’m sorry for looking,” he murmured. “But I’m sorry you ever felt like you had to… you know.” His voice cracked a little.

Your throat tightened, but it wasn’t in the bad way this time. “I didn’t want you to think differently of me.”

He shook his head instantly. “I don’t. I just… think you’re stronger than you think you are. And I’m glad you’re here. I’m glad I get to be here with you.”

You let out a breath you didn’t realize you’d been holding and leaned into him. His arms wrapped around you, warm and certain, bass calluses brushing your back.

He didn’t say anything else, and neither did you. The silence was the good kind this time.