“A Real Day”

It was Saturday.

No school, no homework, no pretending to be awake in a classroom with red eyes and a body running on smoke and memory.

Just him.

Kevin had asked if he could plan the day. You didn’t ask questions. You just showed up to his house with your hoodie sleeves pulled halfway over your hands and your hair still damp from the shower you almost didn’t take.

“Come here,” he said, grinning as he opened the door. “No hoodie allowed today.”

You blinked. “Why?”

“Because it’s warm out,” he said, tugging gently at your sleeve. “And because I want to see your shoulders.”

You rolled your eyes, but your stomach fluttered. You didn’t argue.

The first surprise was the park.

Not the crowded one by the school—the one tucked behind the old movie theater, where the grass was overgrown and nobody really went except for kids too young to care and teenagers trying to hide.

You sat on the swings. He pushed you once, then climbed onto the one beside you.

“I like this,” you said.

“It’s real, right?” he asked. “Like… a normal day.”

You looked at him. “I don’t know if I remember what real feels like.”

He kicked off a little, letting the chains creak.

“Let’s remember together.”

Then came the second surprise: a little diner two towns over with red booths and milkshakes served in tall metal cups. You picked at your fries. He devoured his burger.

You caught him staring.

“What?”

“You’re really pretty when you eat,” he said casually.

You laughed, half-choking on a sip of soda. “That’s… weirdly specific.”

“It’s true. You look alive.”

You stared at him for a second too long. He reached across the table and laced his fingers through yours. You didn’t pull away.

You never pulled away from Kevin.

The last stop was his house.

He lit a candle in his room—not because it smelled bad, but because you once told him vanilla reminded you of the one birthday you actually liked.

“I was twelve,” you had said once, curled up in his hoodie. “Someone brought a vanilla cupcake to school. I never knew who. It just… showed up on my desk. And it was mine.”

He never forgot that.

You lay together on his bed, the candle flickering beside you, slow music playing low. Not the usual playlist. Something softer. Warmer.

He leaned over and kissed your temple. “You okay?”

You nodded. “Better.”

His hand found your waist. Yours slid under his shirt, fingers brushing over his stomach. He pulled you closer, bodies tangled, breath syncing without trying.

When he kissed you this time, it wasn’t needy or desperate. It was slow. Romantic. Intentional. Like he wanted to make this matter more than any of the times in the stairwell or the storage room or the backseat of his car.

You let him guide you. Let him undress you slowly. Let yourself be seen without flinching.

The sex wasn’t wild. It wasn’t urgent.

It was careful.

Emotional.

Safe.

He whispered your name like it was something holy. You whispered his like you were scared it might be the last time. And afterward, as your bodies cooled and the candle kept burning, he traced soft circles on your back while you laid against his chest.

“This felt like something I want to remember,” you whispered.

He kissed the top of your head. “Then let’s make more days like this. Not perfect. Just real.”

You fell asleep to the rhythm of his breathing.

No nightmares that night.

Just him.