Page 146 of Let Me In

His gaze stays steady, and something in it breaks me open—not with fear, but with the quiet knowing that he means every word.

That this is what he’s built for.

That this is who he is—with me.

My eyes sting.

He rises slowly, his hands lifting—not to undress me.

To touch me.

His palms cradle either side of my face. His thumbs brush the corners of my eyes.

“Just tell me if you want to stop. Tell me if it’s too much.”

I nod.

He leans in, presses his forehead to mine.

And whispers, “You’re safe. You’re safe. You’re safe.”

Then, and only then, his hands slip to the hem of the shirt I’m wearing.

The room seems to still around us. Steam curls in the air. My breath catches, barely audible, and I watch his eyes—still waiting, asking without words. My fingers twitch where they rest in my lap, and Cal’s thumb brushes once over my knee, steady and warm. Just that. Just enough.

And then he begins. His touch is slow, reverent, like he's holding something sacred. Every motion is deliberate, measured—not with hesitation, but with care so intense it hums between us. As if in this moment, undressing me is not routine, but ritual.

Soft cotton. Too big. All him.

He lifts it slowly.

Waiting at every inch.

Checking my eyes.

And I let him.

Bit by bit.

Until I’m bare beneath the steam and the soft light and the weight of his gaze that never wavers, never drops—never makes me feel like anything less than cherished.

I’m shaking.

But I’m not ashamed.

Not with him.

Never with him.

He draws the hem of the shirt up over my arms.

I let it fall from my shoulders.

The air kisses my skin, soft and warm and full of steam, but I still shiver.

His eyes stay on mine.

He doesn’t look down.

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