“Stay With Me”

Your bedroom was silent again—too silent.

The kind that wrapped around your ribs like a fist, squeezing until the thoughts came screaming through the cracks.

Kevin was sitting on the edge of your bed. He’d been there for almost an hour—after the fight, after the shouting downstairs, after he found you in the bathroom, clutching the edge of the sink like it was the only thing holding you up.

You were curled into the far corner of the bed now, legs pulled tight to your chest, hoodie sleeves covering your hands. The weed had long worn off. Your thoughts were loud again.

Kevin turned to you slowly.

“You haven’t said anything,” he said softly.

“There’s nothing left to say.”

He stood, walked over, and knelt in front of you—his eyes tired, full of worry, and something else… something warmer. Something softer.

“Can I touch you?” he asked, gently. No pressure. Just the question.

You hesitated. Then nodded.

He climbed up onto the bed with you and pulled you into his lap—slow, careful, like he was handling something breakable. You let him.

Your arms wrapped around his neck, and you buried your face into his shoulder. He was warm. Steady. Real. You wanted to melt into him. To disappear and still somehow be held.

“I don’t know how to feel okay anymore,” you whispered. “Even with you.”

Kevin kissed your temple. Then your jaw. His lips barely grazed your skin.

“I know,” he murmured. “But let me remind you.”

You didn’t answer. You just shifted in his lap, your thighs straddling his hips, and looked at him—really looked.

There was no hunger in his eyes.

Just love. Deep, aching, unshakable love.

He kissed you slow, deep. His hands slid under your hoodie, touching you like he wasn’t trying to take anything—just give. Your breath hitched, and he pulled back for a second, his forehead resting against yours.

“You’re not a burden,” he said. “Not here. Not with me.”

Your lips found his again, more urgent this time—but still gentle. Still tender. His hands explored your body like a prayer—reverent, patient, worshipful. Not for lust. Not for release.

But to make you believe you mattered.

You let him undress you slowly. Let him see the places you kept hidden, the marks you hated, the soft skin you never thought anyone could want. He kissed them all.

You didn’t cry. But your breath stuttered every time he whispered your name like it was a promise. Every time he touched you like you weren’t ruined, just hurt. Just healing.

And when your bodies finally met, it wasn’t rushed.

It was home.

You clung to him, your face buried in his neck, your legs shaking around him. His hands held your hips, your back, your soul—anchoring you to this moment.

“I love you,” he whispered. “Even when you don’t love yourself. Especially then.”

And in the dark, tangled sheets, you breathed him in.

And for the first time in a long time—

You believed him.