Page 193 of Let Me In

He notices.

Of course he does.

His other arm tightens around me, holds me to his chest.

“Shh,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “Nothing to be nervous about.”

“I’m not—” I start.

But the words die there. Because I am… not scared of him. Never scared, even when I see the shadows of the man he used to be. But I am scared of being seen like this. Tended to like this. Loved like this.

He shifts behind me, and the cloth moves again—this time between my thighs.

Gentle.

Never more pressure than I can handle, but enough to make my throat tighten.

Not from want.

From overwhelm.

From not knowing how to hold this kind of safety in my hands.

“I’ve got you, little one,” he whispers. “Let me take care of all of it. All of you.”

His palm flattens over my stomach. Holds me steady while the cloth sweeps over my inner thighs. The backs of my knees. The places no one has touched in years—not like this.

I make a small sound in my throat. Not a cry. Not a moan.

He kisses the side of my head.

“You don’t owe me stillness,” he says, voice so quiet I almost miss it. “You don’t owe me composure. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I—”

“Not even softness,” he adds, voice thick with something that almost sounds like awe. His eyes stay on mine, steady and solemn. “That’s mine to earn.”

Something in me breaks then.

Not in a painful way.

In a letting-go way.

In aCal’s arms are the only place I’ve ever been allowed to fall apart and not be punished for itkind of way.

So I let him hold me, bathe me, love me, in the smallest and loudest ways.

The water cools before we move. Not much, but just enough that the air against my skin feels like a hush when he finally lifts me from the tub.

He doesn’t rush.

Just takes the towel he left warming by the heater and wraps it around me like a second skin. Like he’s sealing me back together. His hands are careful, firm. Like I might shatter if he moves too fast.

I don’t. But I think I might cry if he let go.

He doesn’t. Not even as he dries me off—limb by limb, never hurried.

He kneels in front of me to pat my legs dry, starting at my calves and working upward. Pausing at my thighs. He presses a kiss to the outside of one, above the lingering red from yesterday, and something tightens low in my belly. My breath catches, shallow and quiet, like I’m afraid to disturb the weight of his tenderness. He murmurs so low I almost don’t hear it:

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