Page 173 of Let Me In

Let him have his space.

Let him wash away whatever parts of himself he had to carry to do what he did.

But I don’t want to leave him alone in that silence. Not when I know what it feels like to be scrubbed raw by it.

So I move, soft and slow. I reach the door and press my fingers to the handle.

One heartbeat of hesitation.

Then I turn it.

The steam greets me first. Warm and thick and curling out like a breath released.

He’s under the spray.

Back to me.

Hands braced on the tile. Head bowed. Water pouring down his shoulders like it’s trying to rinse something deeper than skin. Muscles taut beneath it—broad and quiet with strength. The curve of his back is solemn, sculpted like stone softened by grief.

He doesn’t hear me at first. I let the flannel slip from my shoulders and fall to the floor, then step out of my underwear.

Then I step into the shower.

The moment he senses me, he turns. His eyes find mine, and for a breath, we just look. No words. Just the quiet recognition of what this is.

He starts to speak. “Baby—”

But I shake my head once, already reaching for the washcloth and the soap.

His hands stay at his sides.

Letting me.

Trusting me.

I touch his chest first. The water beads there. Warm, slick. His skin thrums beneath my fingers, solid, like sun-warmed oak beneath the rain.

I wash him in slow, reverent circles. His shoulders. His arms. His back. I catalogue every scar. Every place the world tried to take something from him and failed.

He watches me the whole time. Like he doesn’t know how I can do this, and maybe it’s breaking something in him to let me try.

And I just whisper, “Let me take care of you.”

His breath catches, but I don’t stop. I move lower. Over the curve of his ribs. The flat of his stomach.

And when I glance up again, when I see the storm behind his eyes trying not to rise—

I say it.

Softly.

“You don’t have to come back to me clean.”

The words make my throat ache. They feel too big for the space between us, too bare. But I don’t look away because I mean them. Every syllable steadies something inside me, even as it trembles through my chest.

His eyes close. Just for a second. As if I’ve said something he wasn’t ready to hear. Like I found the one place he hasn’t let the water touch.

And in that second—

---