Page 192 of Let Me In

Because of course I do. Because it’s Cal. Because every time he reaches for me, I want to be closer.

The bathroom is filled with steam. The air is thick with the scent of eucalyptus and something a little sweet. The tub is deep. The water—hot but not too hot—still swirling faintly.

He turns to me, gaze steady.

Undoes the buttons of the flannel I’m wearing, and with each one, something inside me flutters and folds inward. It’s not just that I’m exposed; it’s the way he does it. Slow and certain. Like he’s unwrapping something cherished, not undressing me. I feel grounded and humbled all at once. One by one, his fingers sure but unhurried. His eyes never leave mine, not even when he pushes the fabric from my shoulders, lets it pool on the floor.

I shiver, standing there bare in front of him. Not from cold, but from the weight of his gaze.

Not hungry. Not possessive.

Worshipful.

He cups my jaw with one hand.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “So damn beautiful.”

I close my eyes. Try to breathe through it. Breathe through all the memories of being told otherwise, and trying to unwire them with just this one.

He doesn’t push, like he knows. Just helps me step into the water, his hands at my waist, guiding.

Once I’m seated, knees pulled gently to my chest, he strips down too. Not slow or teasing. Just quiet. Unapologetic.

And then he climbs in behind me, pulls me back against him. His thighs bracket mine, while his arms come around my middle. His chin rests against my temple.

And we stay like that for a long, long time.

He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t have to.

His hands move slowly over my skin. Washing. Rinsing. Stroking. Loving.

Fingertips over my thighs.

Palms across my arms.

The cloth trails along the backs of my knees, the slope of my shoulders, the dip of my spine.

By the time he tilts my head back to rinse my hair, I’m boneless in his hold.

Breathing slow.

Safe.

His.

His hands remind every inch of my skin that it’s his to tend.

He dips the cloth again, wrings it out, and runs it down the length of my arm.

Like I’m something fragile that needs gentling.

I don’t know what to do with it. With the way he holds my wrist in one hand and presses the cloth along my forearm like he’s smoothing the day out of me.

How he guides my fingers open, one by one, and kisses the inside of my palm.

The way he doesn’t speak, because everything he’s saying is in the way he touches me.

When the cloth moves lower, I tense—but just slightly.

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