You’re sitting on the bathroom floor, knees pulled to your chest, eyes red and unfocused. Your breathing’s jagged. It feels like your whole body is short-circuiting and you can’t get it to stop. And when the door creaks open, your first instinct is shame.

Kevin drops down beside you without hesitation. No judgment. No panic. Just quiet concern.

“I didn’t take them,” you whisper. “I was feeling good and—I thought maybe I didn’t need them and now I—” Your voice breaks. “This is my fault. I messed it up. I always mess it up.”

He doesn’t interrupt. Just listens, eyes soft and focused on you like you’re the most important person in the world.

“You’re not anyone’s fault,” he says quietly, firmly. “You’re not a fault.”

You shake your head, but he leans in, his hand finding yours even as you try to pull away.

“There might be something wrong,” he admits. “Something chemical or whatever. But that doesn’t mean you are wrong. You’re not broken. You’re you. And you’re perfect.”

Your lip trembles. “Perfect people don’t ruin things.”

Kevin’s eyes fill with something fierce and aching.

“You didn’t ruin anything,” he says. “You just had a hard day. That doesn’t make you any less amazing.”

He cups your face, hesitant at first. You let him. And when he leans in to kiss you—it’s not rushed or desperate. It’s steady. Sure. Like he’s anchoring you to something real again.

“I’m here,” he whispers against your forehead. “And I’m not going anywhere.”