Page 70 of Let Me In

She shifts slightly, and I groan again—quiet, broken—not from arousal, but from ache. From the way she still holds me like I’m welcome there.

“Don’t go,” she whispers, barely audible.

“I won’t,” I murmur, brushing my nose against her temple.

“Not ever.”

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.

I don't flinch from it.

I love it. Love her like this. Soft, open, still flushed from pleasure and trust.

When I finish, I press a kiss to her inner thigh. Then higher.

Just above the place I worshiped with my body, the place that still holds the heat of us.

"Perfect," I whisper, voice hoarse with awe.

"Every inch of you."

Then I slide the blanket down a little more, the soft cotton brushing over her skin like a breath, revealing her inch by inch.

The backs of my fingers follow, slow and reverent, catching on the warmth left behind.

She shifts under the weight of it—of me—her breath a quiet tremor in the hush between us.

“Turn over for me, baby,” I say quietly.

Her breath catches—hitches in her throat like a held note.

But she does. Slowly. Trustingly. Her body shifts, a yielding motion born not of obedience, but of something deeper. Of surrender. Of belief. A breath leaves her as she moves, not quite a sigh, but the kind of exhale that says: I’m yours. I trust you to hold me through this.

And she does.

Slow. Trusting.

And when she settles on her belly, I lower the covers to just below her hips.

I can see it all now.

The faint flush still warming her skin from earlier—rose-gold and soft, like the memory of my palm branded in warmth.

The places my hand lingered are still tender beneath my gaze. I trace one with my thumb, feel the faint heat, the slight swell. The way the skin rises to meet me, not in pain, but in memory.

A mark. A map.

A vow.

Left reminders.

Marks not of harm—

But of belonging. Of anchoring. Of being held exactly right.

Not shame. Not punishment.

But structure.

Safety.

Love.

Left not to wound—but to whisper: I see you. I claim you. You're mine to protect.

I brush the backs of my fingers over her curves, slow and reverent, letting the heat of her skin meet the coolness of mine.

Her breath catches, and she arches faintly into the touch—just enough to tell me she feels safe, claimed, held.

My hand curves with her, memorizing the softness, the shape that’s mine to protect.

She exhales like she’s been holding something in.

“I gave you a lot,” I say softly.

She nods against the pillow.

“What I needed.”

God.

I lean down. Press a kiss to the small of her back.

Then one just lower.

“I’m going to put more lotion on, sweetheart.”

“Okay.”

Her voice is barely a whisper now. Drowsy. Open.

I warm it between my hands again.

And then—slow, reverent—

I touch her.

Not to arouse.

Not even to soothe.

But to witness.

To honor what I asked of her.

What she gave.

My hands glide over her skin in long, slow strokes.

Tracing every line. Every muscle. Letting my hand learn the map of her, not just in memory, but in the quiet now. In the stillness she gifted me. Each stroke a vow—silent, sacred. This is mine to hold. To protect. To worship. And I do.

Every part of her I’ve touched in pain and in love and in the space where the two met.

She sighs beneath me. Her body slackening further.

“You did so well for me,” I whisper.

“So good, baby.”

I finish with a kiss to the swell of her cheek.

Then gently redress her, just in soft cotton shorts this time.

She makes a quiet, broken sound, and I climb back into bed.

Pull her into me.

Tuck her against my chest.

Press a kiss to her forehead.

Another to her temple.

Another to her lips.

“I love you,” I say again, just because I can.

Just because I need her to hear it in the stillness.

Not in the heat.

Not in the storm.

But here.

She melts into me—completely, wordlessly.

Her limbs slacken with trust, molding to me like she was always meant to be held this way.

My arms adjust, instinctive, drawing her even closer.

Her cheek finds the curve of my chest, breath warming the fabric of my shirt, and I feel the last edge of tension leave her.

Breath evening out.

Fingers curling into my side.

And I hold her.

The whole weight of her.

The softness.

The tremble.

The truth.

My Emmy.

My brave, gentle girl.

Mine.

Not because you gave. Not because you bent. But because you trusted me to hold you through it.

And I will.

Always.

And as the morning unfurls around us, quiet and sure, I know this—

There’s nowhere I’d rather be.

Not in all the world.

Not in all my life.

Because this…

This is what it means to come home and stay.

She’s quiet for a while.

Curled against me, breath soft against my chest.

One leg slung over mine.

Her hand resting just above my heart, fingers tracing the line of an old scar like she doesn’t even know she’s doing it.

I keep my palm at the small of her back.

Thumb stroking slow circles.

Grounding us both.

The light has shifted now.

Early dawn fading into something golden.

Birdsong low and steady outside the windows.

She’s not asleep.

I can feel it in her.

The stillness isn’t heavy.

It’s listening.

And after a few minutes, she speaks.

“You okay?”

It’s so soft, I almost miss it.

But I smile.

God, I smile.

Because only she would ask that now—after everything I just gave her. After everything she gave me.

I press a kiss to her forehead, letting my lips linger there. Her skin is warm, soft, and it anchors me. The kind of kiss that says: you're safe, you're mine, and I'm not going anywhere.

“Yeah, baby. I am.”

Her fingers pause.

Then resume their quiet path.

Another beat of silence.

Then—

“You seemed far away, at first,” she murmurs.

“Like… like some part of you hadn’t come back yet.”

I don’t answer right away.

She’s not wrong.

But I want to get the words right.

I shift slightly, just enough to tilt her chin up so I can see her eyes.

“I was,” I say.

Honest. Bare.

“But you brought me back.”

A breath shudders out of her.

And then she hides her face in my chest again, like she can’t quite take the weight of that.

I let her.

We stay like that for another long stretch of quiet.

And then, almost without thinking, I say it.

“I’ve been meaning to ask you something.”

She hums, head still pressed to me.

“Mhm?”

I run a hand up her back.

Slow.

Thoughtful.

“You ever think about… having your own space?”

I pause.

“Not away from me. Just… something that’s yours.”

She shifts.

Lifts her head.

Looks up at me with those wide, cautious eyes.

“Like a room?”

I nod.

“A writing nook,” I murmur.

“Something quiet. Off the bedroom maybe. With big windows, and shelves. A desk that fits you just right.”

She blinks.

Then blinks again.

Like she doesn’t trust what she heard.

“I could build it on this summer,” I go on, voice low, steady.

“Doesn’t need to be big. Just enough space for your stories to stretch their legs. For you to sit and dream without interruption.”

She stares at me.

Mouth slightly open.

Eyes glassy.

“I don’t want to crowd you,” I add. “But I know how much it means to you. And I want you to have it.”

Her hand comes up.

Fingertips brushing my cheek.

Like she’s still not sure I’m real.

She’s quiet for a moment, just looking at me. Just looking at me. Eyes wide and glistening, brimming with a disbelief so tender it nearly breaks me.

And I know that look.

That instinct to shrink.

To soften her joy so it won’t inconvenience anyone.

To say thank you without letting herself accept the gift.

Sure enough, her voice comes soft. Cautious.

“Cal…”

She swallows.

“I love the idea. I do. But… you don’t have to do that. It’s too much.”

I don’t say anything.

Just wait.

Let her get it all out.

She shifts a little in my arms, not pulling away—but hesitating.

“Maybe… someday,” she murmurs. “When I can pay for it. Or if I sell enough books. I don’t want you to feel like you owe me anything, or—”

“No.”

It’s quiet.

But firm.

Her gaze jerks back to mine.

I brush her hair behind her ear.

Cradle her jaw in my palm.

And say it again.

“No someday.”

A pause.

“You don’t have to earn this, Emmy.”

Her lips part. But I don’t let her interrupt.

“I want to do this,” I say softly.

“Not because you wrote enough, or proved anything, or made it worth my time.”

My thumb brushes her cheekbone.

“I want to build it because it’ll make you happy. Because you deserve to have a room of your own. Because I see how much you give to everyone else—and I want to give something back.”

She blinks hard.

“I don’t want you to think I expect it,” she whispers.

I shake my head.

“I know you don’t.”

I kiss her temple.

“But that doesn’t mean you don’t get it.”

Her breath shudders.

“I’m just… not used to someone wanting to do things like that. For me.”

“I know,” I murmur.

“I know, baby.”

She goes quiet.

Then—

“But what if it’s too expensive? What if it takes up too much space? What if—”

“It won’t.”

I pull her tighter.

“And even if it did… I’d still do it. Because there’s nothing I’d rather make room for than you.”

That’s what breaks her.

Not a sob.

Not a rush of words.

Just a trembling inhale.

A quiet press of her forehead to mine.

“You’d do that for me?”

“I am doing it,” I say simply. “Already drew up a plan in my head last week.”

A laugh breaks from her—wet, trembling.

And then a tear slips free.

Not from sadness.

Not even from surprise.

Just from being seen.

She presses her face back into my chest, and I feel the damp warmth of her cheek against my skin.

Her breath fans softly over my ribs, anchoring me to the moment, to her.

My fingers thread gently into her hair, as if I could shield her from the weight of everything she's ever been made to feel small for.

“I don’t deserve you,” she whispers.

My arms tighten around her instantly, one hand cradling the back of her head, the other spreading wide at her lower back like a shield.

“Stop that,” I murmur, voice thick with something deeper than reprimand.

“You deserve everything, baby. Every last bit of gentleness. Every piece of peace. And I’m going to spend forever making sure you feel it—not just with words, but with every touch, every moment, every breath we share. All of it.”

I press a kiss to the top of her head, let it linger. Let her feel the promise sink into her skin, low and warm, like the weight of an oath whispered against her pulse. Let it wrap around the quiet parts of her, where doubt used to live. Let it live there instead.

She shudders into me. Breath catching.

And then, so softly I almost miss it:

“I’d like that.”