Page 312 of Let Me In

She doesn’t rush.

Doesn’t fumble.

She lifts it inch by inch, eyes never leaving mine, like this is something holy.

Like every moment she gets to undress me is an offering.

And when I sit back to pull the shirt over my head, she follows the movement with that quiet, sacred gaze.

Like she’s watching a ritual.

Like the sight of my bare chest means something.

She’s always looked at me like that. Like the first time I handed her a cup of tea and she held it like I’d given her something sacred. Like every moment since has only confirmed what she saw then; that I'm not what I’ve done, but what I choose to hold.

Not like a man shaped by violence.

Not like someone rough or broken or spent.

But like I’m a shelter.

A home.

A safe place.

I draw in a breath that shudders on the exhale as her eyes flicker down, then up. And I see it in her—the want, yes—but also the trust. The choosing.

I reach for the hem of her sleep shirt—mine, oversized, worn thin and soft with age—and she lifts her arms without hesitation. Slow, fluid, offering. I pull it up, over her ribs, over her chest,careful not to rush. Not because she’s fragile, but because she’s precious.

She’s bare beneath. Completely. Still flushed from sleep, still so warm she feels like something made to be held.

My breath catches, hard. Not from lust, but from reverence. Because she’s beautiful, yes, but not just her body. Not just the curve of her waist, the swell of her hips, the delicate dip of her collarbone, or the way her thighs part just slightly when I lean in.

It’s her eyes.

The way she looks at me like I haven’t seen too much, haven’t done too much bad. Like I’m not ruined.

Just hers.

I brace my hands on either side of her head and bow my body over hers, close enough to feel the whisper of her breath on my lips. Then I breathe her in—like air after drowning, like she’s the only thing keeping me tethered to the shore.

“I don’t want to take,” I murmur. My voice is rough. Thicker than I meant it to be. “I want to give.”

Her hands come up slow, fingertips tracing along my arms, over the muscle and scar and softness.

She settles her palms flat over my chest—right over the place that aches for her most.

“You already do,” she whispers.

Her voice like a match struck in the dark.

Like light.

I lower myself onto her with care.

Not just to touch her.

But to cover her.

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