Page 295 of Let Me In

They finish the meal in silence.

Not strained—settled. Like there’s nothing left that needs to be filled but time and each other.

When he sets down his fork, I rise quietly from my stool. Take his hand.

He lets me lead him.

No words. Just trust.

The bathroom is still warm from the early morning sun filtering through the frosted window. I reach for the hem of his shirt, brushing my knuckles over his ribs in quiet permission.

He nods.

I lift it slowly over his head, baring the bruises and strain and scarred muscle beneath.

Then his belt. The button. The zipper. I undress him like I’m unwrapping something breakable. His breath hitches, a quiet shift in his chest, but he doesn’t stop me—just watches, steady and still, like the tension in his body is giving way only for me.

And then I undress myself.

His eyes never leave me, like he’s holding me up just by looking. Like I’m tethered to him by more than touch.

When I’m bare, I reach for him again.

Turn the water on warm, not hot. Let it steam.

Then I guide him in.

He follows.

The sound of the spray hitting tile fills the space between us. A hush that feels like rain. Like renewal.

I pick up the soap.

And I start at his collarbone.

I wash him slowly. Chest. Shoulders. Arms. Back. Letting the suds run down in rivulets. Letting my fingers follow.

Every place that held tension. Every place that struck a blow.

I don’t rush.

Because this is a ritual.

A clean slate.

A coming back.

His eyes close when I move to his hands. When I soap each bruised knuckle. When I lift his palms to the stream and rinse them clean.

He doesn’t speak.

But he leans into every touch.

And when I’m finished, I step closer, press my forehead to his wet chest, and breathe him in. His heart thuds slow and steady beneath my cheek, the heat of his skin sinking deep into mine, quieting something frantic inside me.

Just Cal.

Just mine.

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