Page 150 of Let Me In

Water drips from his fingers to my skin. The sounds are soft, steady. Like the room is breathing with us.

He doesn’t speak.

But I can feel what he’s saying with every motion:

You’re safe. You’re worthy. You’re mine.

He takes the cloth next.

Wets it. Wringing it out with slow, practiced hands.

Then he brings it to my chest.

Just below my collarbone.

I tense.

Only slightly.

He notices. Of course he does.

And he pauses.

Not backing off. Not explaining.

Just waiting.

I nod once.

And his hand begins to move again.

Washes over my chest with reverence.

Over my ribs.

Down my stomach.

Only until just above my thighs.

Then the cloth goes back into the water.

He doesn’t reach lower.

Doesn’t assume.

Just cups water in his palm and smooths it over the red still blooming across the tops of my thighs.

His voice is barely audible when he speaks.

“Still tender?”

His words find me in that place just beneath the surface—where the ache lives alongside the trust. My breath hitches, and my fingers curl slightly against the edge of the tub. Not because I don’t believe him. Because I do. Because the softness in his voice makes it real.

I nod. Barely.

His thumb grazes the edge of the bruise his hand left.

“You took it so well for me, little one,” he murmurs. “My brave girl.”

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