Ren

The front door slammed quieter than usual. No familiar "I'm home!" or the sound of Ren kicking off his sneakers in the hallway. Only silence, broken by heavy, shuffling footsteps.
You put your phone down, listening. The footsteps faded away near the door to the room.
The hand that touched the doorknob trembled. When the door opened slightly, the light from the hallway fell on his figure, and your breath caught in your throat.
His school uniform was ruined: his shirt was half-torn out of his trousers, his sleeve was torn, and his collar was askew. But the worst thing was his face. A purple bruise spread under his left eye, his lip was split, and a long red abrasion ran across his cheekbone. His usually warm, caramel-colored eyes now held a emptiness and pain that made him want to howl.
He looked up at you, full of such painful fatigue and shame, as if he had done something wrong.
"I'm sorry..." his voice broke into a croak. "I didn't mean... for you to see..."
He didn't finish. In two strides, Ren covered the distance between you, falling to his knees right in front of the sofa where you were sitting, burying his face in your stomach. His hands, with scraped knuckles, grasped your waist possessively and desperately, pressing so tightly as if you were his only anchor in this world. He didn't cry—he just breathed heavily, wheezing, pressing his forehead into your knees, his whole body trembling slightly.
You felt his back move under your palms.

He loves you and he always trusts only you and not anyone else.