It was raining again, the kind of steady drizzle that tapped against your bedroom window like a slow heartbeat. Kevin sat cross-legged on the carpet, tuning his bass, the soft pluck of strings filling the quiet between you. You sat on the bed, curled in your hoodie, eyes following the rhythm of his fingers without really seeing.

You’d had one of those weeks—bad sleep, bad dreams, bad everything. The weed helped for a little while, but it always left you feeling emptier. Home wasn’t much better, the shouting and slammed doors ringing in your head even now.

Kevin looked up mid-strum, his eyes gentle but searching. “You’re somewhere else,” he murmured.

You shrugged, not trusting your voice. He didn’t push. He never did. He just set his bass aside and shifted to sit beside you on the bed, his knee bumping yours.

You glanced down at your hands, fingers tugging at the cuff of your sleeve. You’d told him about your scars months ago, but you’d never let him see them. Something about this moment—his quiet patience, the safety of the rain outside—made you want to stop hiding.

Your voice was barely above a whisper. “Kevin… can I show you something?”

His brows lifted slightly, but he nodded. “Only if you want to. No pressure.”

With a shaky breath, you pulled your sleeve up, revealing the lines along your arm—some faint, some newer. Your stomach knotted, bracing for… you weren’t sure what.

But Kevin didn’t flinch. He didn’t stare or pull away. He just looked at you with a softness so deep it made your chest ache. He reached for your hand, holding your arm carefully in his palms, like it was something precious.

Then, without saying anything, he leaned down and pressed the lightest kiss to one of the faded lines. Then another. And another. His lips were warm against your skin, slow and deliberate, like he was trying to leave something better behind with every touch.

When he finally looked up, his eyes were a little glassy. “I can’t take away what happened,” he said quietly. “But I can love every part of you. Even the ones that hurt.”

Your throat tightened. “Why?”

“Because you deserve it,” he whispered. “Because you’re still here. And because I want you to know that these—” he brushed his thumb gently over one of the scars, “—don’t make you less. Not to me. Not ever.”

You leaned into him then, your forehead against his shoulder, breathing in the faint scent of his cologne and the rain drifting in through the cracked window. He held you close, his fingers still tracing your arm in the gentlest way, as if the two of you could rewrite the story of your skin together.

And maybe, just maybe, you believed him.