Page 194 of Let Me In

“Still mine.”

I nod. I can’t not.

When I’m mostly dry, he rises, leaves me for only a moment.

The drawer creaks.

He comes back with another one of his flannels—this one even older, even softer. Faded blue plaid, sleeves rolled halfway up.

He holds it up like an offering.

I reach for it, but he shakes his head gently.

“Let me.”

And he dresses me. First lifting one of my arms, then the other, sliding the flannel gently over my skin like it’s silk, not worn cotton. It swallows me. Hangs low past my hips, almost to my knees.

He steps back, just a little.

And I see it in his eyes.

The wreckage.

The reverence.

Like seeing me like this—in his shirt, clean and bare-legged and his—is more than he can handle without it knocking thebreath out of him. His throat works around a swallow, jaw ticking once as his eyes trace over me.

When he does move, it’s to gently cup my face in both hands, pressing his forehead to mine.

“I like you like this,” he whispers.

I tilt my face up. My lips barely brush his. “Like what?”

He pulls in a breath.

“Here. Mine. Soft.”

His hands settle on my hips.

The flannel shifts around me.

“I could look at you like this for the rest of my life.”

And this is one of the first moments, that I believe him. That maybe he means it. That I’m allowed to feel this sudden, fragile hope that maybe this is real.

I’m just starting to move—just beginning to rise from the edge of the bed—when I feel it.

His hand.

Warm and sure at my waist, stopping me before I can stand.

“Where you going, little one?”

I hesitate. “The dogs probably need to go out. I was just—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I blink up at him. “You don’t have to—”

---