Page 45 of Let Me In

By the time he tilts my head back to rinse my hair, I’m boneless in his hold.

Breathing slow.

Safe.

His.

His hands remind every inch of my skin that it’s his to tend.

He dips the cloth again, wrings it out, and runs it down the length of my arm.

Like I’m something fragile that needs gentling.

I don’t know what to do with it. With the way he holds my wrist in one hand and presses the cloth along my forearm like he’s smoothing the day out of me.

How he guides my fingers open, one by one, and kisses the inside of my palm.

The way he doesn’t speak, because everything he’s saying is in the way he touches me.

When the cloth moves lower, I tense—but just slightly.

He notices.

Of course he does.

His other arm tightens around me, holds me to his chest.

“Shh,” he murmurs, mouth close to my ear. “Nothing to be nervous about.”

“I’m not—” I start.

But the words die there. Because I am… not scared of him. Never scared, even when I see the shadows of the man he used to be. But I am scared of being seen like this. Tended to like this. Loved like this.

He shifts behind me, and the cloth moves again—this time between my thighs.

Gentle.

Never more pressure than I can handle, but enough to make my throat tighten.

Not from want.

From overwhelm.

From not knowing how to hold this kind of safety in my hands.

“I’ve got you, little one,” he whispers. “Let me take care of all of it. All of you.”

His palm flattens over my stomach. Holds me steady while the cloth sweeps over my inner thighs. The backs of my knees. The places no one has touched in years—not like this.

I make a small sound in my throat. Not a cry. Not a moan.

He kisses the side of my head.

“You don’t owe me stillness,” he says, voice so quiet I almost miss it. “You don’t owe me composure. You don’t owe me anything.”

“I—”

“Not even softness,” he adds, voice thick with something that almost sounds like awe. His eyes stay on mine, steady and solemn. “That’s mine to earn.”

Something in me breaks then.

Not in a painful way.

In a letting-go way.

In a Cal’s arms are the only place I’ve ever been allowed to fall apart and not be punished for it kind of way.

So I let him hold me, bathe me, love me, in the smallest and loudest ways.

The water cools before we move. Not much, but just enough that the air against my skin feels like a hush when he finally lifts me from the tub.

He doesn’t rush.

Just takes the towel he left warming by the heater and wraps it around me like a second skin. Like he’s sealing me back together. His hands are careful, firm. Like I might shatter if he moves too fast.

I don’t. But I think I might cry if he let go.

He doesn’t. Not even as he dries me off—limb by limb, never hurried.

He kneels in front of me to pat my legs dry, starting at my calves and working upward.

Pausing at my thighs. He presses a kiss to the outside of one, above the lingering red from yesterday, and something tightens low in my belly.

My breath catches, shallow and quiet, like I’m afraid to disturb the weight of his tenderness.

He murmurs so low I almost don’t hear it:

“Still mine.”

I nod. I can’t not.

When I’m mostly dry, he rises, leaves me for only a moment.

The drawer creaks.

He comes back with another one of his flannels—this one even older, even softer. Faded blue plaid, sleeves rolled halfway up.

He holds it up like an offering.

I reach for it, but he shakes his head gently.

“Let me.”

And he dresses me. First lifting one of my arms, then the other, sliding the flannel gently over my skin like it’s silk, not worn cotton. It swallows me. Hangs low past my hips, almost to my knees.

He steps back, just a little.

And I see it in his eyes.

The wreckage.

The reverence.

Like seeing me like this—in his shirt, clean and bare-legged and his—is more than he can handle without it knocking the breath out of him. His throat works around a swallow, jaw ticking once as his eyes trace over me.

When he does move, it’s to gently cup my face in both hands, pressing his forehead to mine.

“I like you like this,” he whispers.

I tilt my face up. My lips barely brush his. “Like what?”

He pulls in a breath.

“Here. Mine. Soft.”

His hands settle on my hips.

The flannel shifts around me.

“I could look at you like this for the rest of my life.”

And this is one of the first moments, that I believe him. That maybe he means it. That I’m allowed to feel this sudden, fragile hope that maybe this is real.

I’m just starting to move—just beginning to rise from the edge of the bed—when I feel it.

His hand.

Warm and sure at my waist, stopping me before I can stand.

“Where you going, little one?”

I hesitate. “The dogs probably need to go out. I was just—”

“I’ll take care of it.”

I blink up at him. “You don’t have to—”

His touch firms, thumb brushing slow circles into my hip.

“I know I don’t have to. I want to. That’s different.”

Something tightens in my chest.

Not in a bad way.

Just the kind of tight that comes from being seen too clearly.

He leans in and kisses my temple. “Go sit down. Blanket’s on the couch. I’ll be right back.”

I nod, small.

Let him guide me out to the living room.

Let him ease me down, gently, into the corner of the couch and pull the thickest, softest blanket over my legs. It smells like him, which only makes me burrow into it deeper. It’s instinct, at this point.

“Five minutes,” he murmurs, brushing my hair back. “Then I’m coming back to you.”

I watch him slide on his boots by the door, grab his jacket from the hook. He doesn’t zip it, just shrugs it on loose. The air outside is cool, not cold. That crisp, earthy kind of May morning where the trees haven’t fully leafed out yet, and the grass is still damp with spring.

The dogs dart out ahead of him when he opens the door. I catch a glimpse of the sky beyond—muted blue, touched with mist. The kind of morning that smells like thaw and soil and woodsmoke.

Then the door swings gently shut behind them.

And I’m wrapped in quiet again. But not for long, just like he promised.

The moment he steps back inside, the whole cabin shifts.

It’s not the creak of the door or the dogs padding in behind him—it’s him. His presence. The weight and warmth of it. Like something magnetic pulling me steady from the inside out.

He toes off his boots, peels off his jacket, and moves toward me without hesitation.

No words, just quiet purpose.

And then—his hands.

One finds my knee beneath the quilt. The other slips behind my shoulders, urging me forward just enough to ease into the space he’s made. His lap. His arms. Him.

I go without resistance.

Curl into him like I’ve done it a thousand times. Like it’s always been this way.

His hands adjust the blanket around me again, then slide up my back. Slow, grounding pressure. One settles at the nape of my neck, fingers stroking lightly through my hair.

“Better,” he murmurs.

I don’t know if he means me being warm again, or back in his lap, or simply here. But it doesn’t matter.

Because whatever he means…

I feel it.

He exhales once, deep and quiet, like he’s been holding something in since the moment he left, even just for those few minutes.

Then his chin finds the top of my head, and he holds me like I’m everything.

Like keeping me here is the only thing that makes sense.

“Good girl,” he says under his breath. “You always fit just right.”

My eyes sting, but I nod against his chest.

His hands are warm, steady at my waist. I breathe him in, letting my eyes close.

We sit there for a long time, just breathing. Just being.

And then, when the quiet has stretched long enough to feel like a second skin, he speaks again.

Steady. Gentle.

But unmistakably Daddy.

“Let’s talk about what happens next.”

His voice is low. Close. Not heavy, not cold—but anchored.

I stiffen slightly anyway. Not because I expect the worst, but because I always do. Because it always has been.

He notices. Of course he does. One hand moves up to the back of my neck. The other stays at my waist, holding steady.

“You’re not in trouble,” he says softly, without me even having to ask.

“I know,” I whisper. But I don’t really know. Not yet.

That’s what he’s here for. To teach me what it means to be safe in something, to be safe with someone.

He waits until I settle again. Until my body gives just a little more weight into his chest.

Then he speaks, even and sure.

“I took care of something last night.”

My body goes still. In the way that says I’m listening. Not quite bracing.

His hand doesn’t stop stroking my spine.

“I’m not going to tell you what. You don’t need that on your shoulders.”

My eyes burn, but I don’t interrupt.

“But it matters. Because it means we’re not looking over our shoulders anymore—not the same way.”

Another slow stroke of his palm.

“What comes next is planning. Preparing. Keeping the shadows out there.”

He tips his head down, lips grazing my temple.

“But what’s in here, little one—this home, these mornings, you—that stays soft. That stays safe. Always.”

I exhale, slow and shaky.

His voice dips lower. More certain.

“So to do that… I’ve got some rules for us now. Not to control you. Not to change you.”

He pauses. Tilts my chin gently so I’ll meet his gaze.

“But to take care of you. Because you matter too much to leave unprotected.”

And just like that, without any further explanation needed, I nod. It may be small, and silent, but it’s real.

And Cal—he sees it.

He holds me a little tighter.

“First,” he says, voice low against my hair, “if you leave the cabin… You tell me.”

My breath hitches.

Not because it feels wrong.

Because it feels like something new. Like someone wants to know where I am. Like someone would miss me if I didn’t come back.

Cal’s hand moves slowly up and down the curve of my waist, grounding me.

“Not because I think you’re going to do something reckless,” he murmurs. “Not because I don’t trust you.”

He pauses, just long enough for the words to land.