Page 153 of Let Me In

Because it’s him.

Because this is more intimate than any touch I’ve ever known.

And still—somehow—safe.

His voice breaks the quiet, deep and rough-edged, like the words have been burning in his chest, waiting to be spoken.

“This is a privilege, you know.”

His words are not just tender, but claiming. I feel them settle in my chest, and I bite down gently on my bottom lip, holding the weight of them there. “What is?”

“Getting to take care of you like this.”

I press my face into the quilt.

My chest aches with softness.

With wonder.

With something that feels dangerously close to love.

He smooths the last of the lotion across my skin.

Lingers just a second longer than he needs to.

Not to take.

Not to indulge.

Just to feel me safe.

Settled.

He wipes his hands on a towel, then reaches for the folded flannel on the nightstand.

The one I’ve seen him wear.

The one that already smells like his skin.

He lifts it in both hands, slow and deliberate, like it’s something weighty. Meaningful. Like it carries the scent of promise and protection.

Turns toward me, eyes scanning gently from the curve of my shoulder to the pink bloom across my thighs.

Then, quietly. “Arms up, sweetheart.”

His voice is low, steady and soothing with just the faintest edge of command. I lift my arms slowly, shy but trusting, my gaze flicking to his. And there it is—that look in his eyes. Protective. Certain. Like dressing me is just another way of keeping me safe.

I do it.

Slow. A little shy.

But there’s trust in the motion now.

So much trust.

He slips the shirt over my arms, lets it fall around me in soft, warm weight. Buttons it slowly. Each one threaded through with care. His knuckles graze my ribs, my belly, the base of my throat.

When the last button is done, he steps back just a breath.

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