Page 207 of Let Me In

“You can’t go outside in just that,” he says, his voice low and warm.

I blink down at myself, the hem of his flannel shirt grazing the tops of my thighs. “It covers everything.”

“It barely covers everything,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “And believe me, sweetheart—if I take you out there like this, we’re not makin’ it to the trail.”

Heat floods my face.

But when I glance up, his gaze is playful. Steady.Sosteady.

And without asking, without fanfare, he steps away just long enough to grab a pair of soft black leggings and some thick socks from the basket near the hearth.

He kneels in front of me like it’s nothing.

Like it’s everything. I hear the quiet thud of his knees on the wooden floor, steady and sure. The warmth of his gaze settles over me as his hands come to rest at my calves, grounding and reverent, like he’s about to dress something sacred.

“Step in,” he says.

I do.

He pulls them up carefully, slowly, like dressing me is something sacred. His palms skim my calves, my knees, the outsides of my thighs. All firm. All sure. Never lingering where he shouldn’t—but not rushing either.

When the waistband settles at my hips, he smooths the fabric once.

And then presses a soft kiss just below my belly button, over the cotton. My breath catches—shallow and quick—as heat blooms low and slow in my belly. It feels reverent, claiming, like he’s marking a part of me that’s never been touched like this before.

“Perfect.”

My breath stutters.

He adds the socks next—each one tugged snug, his thumb brushing along my ankle like he can’t not touch.

Then he stands. Looks at me like he’s seeing sunrise all over again.

And with no warning at all, he lifts me.

I squeak.

“Cal—!”

He chuckles, already pulling my legs around his waist, his arms locked firm beneath me.

“You wanna walk to breakfast,” he murmurs, “or you wanna be carried like the spoiled little thing I plan to keep?”

I bury my face in his shoulder.

“Koala it is,” he says, smug.

He doesn’t put me down.

Not when we pass through the hallway. Not when Cleo stretches and trots ahead, tail high. Not when Luca yawns and follows close behind, brushing his big head against Cal’s thigh like he’s part of the morning rhythm too.

Cal just shifts me higher, one arm wrapped beneath my thighs, the other adjusting around my back.

I curl closer without thinking.

“You gonna hold me the whole time?” I mumble against his shoulder.

“If I can help it,” he says.

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