Page 311 of Let Me In

Brush my thumb beneath one eye where the skin is still faintly pink from earlier tears.

She doesn’t flinch, doesn’t look away, doesn’t ask what I need.

She knows. She’s already offering it.

Her trust undoes me. I whisper it again, rawer now: “I need you, baby. Let me in.”

This time, her lips part—not in surprise, but in invitation. Her breath trembles. Her hand tightens in my shirt.

She doesn’t speak. But she doesn’t have to. Because I don’t need language tonight. I need the way she meets me without hesitation, the quiet heat in her gaze, the softness that tells me I’m welcome.

I need her warmth.

Her softness.

The glide of her skin beneath my palms.

The sound of her breath catching when I touch her like she’s mine—because she is.

In every way that matters.

And God, I think I’ll never stop needing her like this. Not while breath still moves through me, not when the dark feels like it’s pressing in from every side, not when the weight of the world pulls at me in pieces.

I need her.

The feel of her—warm and grounding.

The sound of her voice in my ear when the silence gets too loud.

The way her arms come around me without hesitation, like they were made to hold the broken parts steady.

To remind me that I’m not alone in this skin.

To pull me back to center.

To love me quiet.

To love me whole.

I roll her gently onto her back, one hand beneath her shoulder, the other splaying wide over her hip like I can anchor her there.

The quilt slips low, pooling at her waist.

The air shifts.

Still warm from sleep, but alive now—gentle, sparking with promise, like morning thunder barely held in check.

She doesn’t shy from me.

Doesn’t flinch or hide or fold into herself.

She just looks up.

Steady.

Soft.

And her hands... fuck, her hands come to the hem of my shirt, trembling just slightly as her fingers slide beneath it.

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