Page 149 of Let Me In

His hand dips into the water. Brushes along my calf.

Then—he reaches for the small bottle of soap.

Pours a little into his palm.

“Tip your head back for me, baby,” he says, voice thick with gentleness.

I do.

And his hands come to my scalp.

Warm. Slow. Careful.

He lathers through my hair like he’s doing something sacred. Each slow motion of his fingers sends heat curling down my spine, and something low in my chest unknots. I don’t just feel clean—I feel cared for in a way that rewrites something inside me. Like every touch is rewriting something inside me. Like I’m safe. Like I’m his. His thumbs press small, soothing circles. His fingers rake back through the strands again and again.

It’s not just washing.

It’s holding.

It’s cherishing.

It’s him saying—You’re mine to tend. To love. To come home to.

And I never want him to stop.

He doesn’t rush.

Not even a little.

Once the soap has been rinsed from my hair, he shifts slightly—knees creaking against the tiles, his body so close, so still.

His gaze stays on mine.

His hand moves again.

To my shoulder first.

He gathers water in his palm, cups it over the curve of my collarbone. Then he lets his fingers follow, dragging gentle, open down the line of my arm. From shoulder to elbow. Elbow to wrist.

He lifts my hand from the water.

Turns it over.

Washes my palm with both of his.

Like it’s something delicate.

Like it’s something important.

I don’t look away.

I can’t.

There’s something in his expression I’ve never seen from anyone before. A kind of raw, unguarded tenderness—like awe wrapped in certainty. Like every inch of his focus is tethered to me and he wouldn’t be anywhere else. Something so tender, so undivided, that it steals the breath right from my chest.

He moves to the other side.

Does the same.

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