Page 174 of Let Me In

He breaks.

Not with tears or words, but with the way his shoulders drop. The way his hand finds my wrist and holds it gently, like I’ve just put something back in him that he didn’t know was missing.

He doesn’t speak.

But I feel it in his touch.

In the way he lets me finish.

The silence between us isn’t heavy now.

It’s holy.

The water runs over us in ribbons. Warm, soft, fading slowly into something cooler. Peace settles in its place; not absence, not loss, but the quiet after the storm.

Neither of us moves to shut it off. Not yet.

His fingers are still around my wrist. Not tight, but just there, and I know he needs the contact. The tether.

So I keep washing him. And when I finally set the cloth aside, I look up at him. He's already looking at me like he’s memorizing every inch.

Not hungrily.

Not possessively.

Just… reverently.

His brow is furrowed slightly, mouth parted like he’s mid-prayer. His chest rises slow and shallow, like he’s afraid to even breathe too loud. Like he doesn’t know how I can be real.

Like he’s afraid that if he touches me too fast, I’ll vanish.

So I touch him first, stepping closer. My hands on his ribs, my cheek finding its place against his chest.

His arms come around me in the next breath, strong and steady, curling me in.

The water keeps falling.

But we’re already somewhere else.

Together.

He’sthe one who turns the water off. Just a quiet reach behind me, the steam curling like smoke around our shoulders as the last of the spray fades.

The silence that follows is warm. Whole. It settles in my chest like the weight of his arms did—steadying, anchoring. Like I’m already where I belong.

He reaches for the towel and wraps it around my shoulders first, careful not to pull it too tight.

Then takes another for himself. We dry off in near silence, his eyes on me the whole time.

Not with want.

With worship.

He towels his hair dry last, then tosses the cloth aside and holds out his hand.

I take it.

Of course I take it.

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