Page 319 of Let Me In

Another long breath passes between us.

I feel it in her chest.

In the delicate flutter of her heartbeat against mine.

But eventually, I feel her start to tremble. Not from fear, just from being wrung out.

And I know she needs more than just my weight on her.

She needs care.

So I move, slow and deliberate, like every inch of me knows she’s fragile now, raw and open in the aftermath, needing more than weight or warmth. Needing presence.

I shift, my hands bracing beside her, my body curving with hers. I ease out of her in one steady motion, a groan catching low in my throat—not just from the loss of her, but from the aching need to keep her safe.

My palm finds her hip, fingers spreading wide, grounding her as I press a kiss to her hairline.

"I’ve got you, baby. Let me take care of what’s mine now, nice and slow."

I press a kiss to her cheek, then to the shell of her ear, and gently draw the quilt back over her body before I rise from the bed.

The room is still dim, washed in soft blue and gold from the early morning light just starting to touch the windowpanes.

I pad to the bathroom, muscles still loose, body aching in the best way.

Warm water spills over my hands as I wet a soft cloth, wringing it out with care. The steam rises, ghosting against my chest as I move.

When I return, she’s where I left her.

Curled beneath the quilt. Small. Spent. Her eyes flutter open as I kneel beside the bed, and something tender unfurls in my chest.

“Hey,” I murmur, voice low and steady, brushing a lock of hair from her cheek.

She blinks up at me—sleepy, trusting, open in that way that unmans me completely.

“Just let me clean you up,” I say gently, fingers curling around the edge of the blanket.

She nods without a word.

Lets me pull it down.

Doesn’t flinch when I part her thighs.

Doesn’t shy away when I press the warm cloth to the tender place between them.

She just exhales—a soft, shaky breath that shudders through her ribs and warms my fingers where they cradle her thigh. Like her body is giving permission to rest. To trust. To be held in this quiet aftermath.

One hand reaches down to tangle in mine, and I take it.

I take my time.

No rush. No roughness.

Just slow, reverent passes.

Not wiping away a mess—but tending to her, treasuring the way her body welcomed mine.

Honoring the gift she gave me, the way she let me all the way in.

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