Page 1 of Let Me In

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EMMY

I seehim before he sees me.

At least, I think I do.

He’s standing on the porch of the cabin. Arms crossed, one boot propped on the step. The sight catches me off guard. Not because he moves—he doesn't—but because something about his stillness feels like a warning and a welcome all at once.

A ripple of curiosity stirs low in my belly, braided with a strange tightness in my chest.

Just a man. Watching the trail like it belongs to him.

Which, technically, it does.

The signs went up last summer.

PRIVATE PROPERTY.

NO TRESPASSING.

Professionally printed. Screwed into the trees with clean precision. Not sloppy. Not angry. Just absolute. Clear boundaries. No mistaking what they mean.

I hadn’t seen them right away.

An injury kept me away. Most of last summer blurred by in pain and waiting. Days stretched long and quiet, dissolving into one another like ink left out in the weather. I didn’t make it up the ridge at all, to the trail that was only ever used by me, carved out by time and the wheels of my dirt bike.

Until now.

I told myself it was temporary, that I’d be back the moment I could. But when you lose your only piece of freedom, even for a while, it makes everything else feel farther away.

So when I finally returned, I wasn’t expecting anything to have changed. Not up here. Not on my trail.

And the cabin—it’s new too.

Not some cobbled together hunting shelter or vacation spot. It’s solid. Intentional. Real log, stained dark like cedar after rain. Big windows that glint even in the overcast light. A wide, covered deck that wraps around the front like arms folded in.

Thick beams. Clean lines. It looks like it was built by someone who knew what they were doing. Someone who didn’t just want a view—they wanted shelter.

Solar panels stretch across nearly the entire roof, angled just right to catch every possible drop of sun. The chimney is steel. A woodpile stacked with mathematical precision.

No, this definitely isn’t a vacation spot.

It’s a homestead. A stronghold.

Whoever built it didn’t just plan to stay.

They planned to disappear.

Him.

He’s tall. Easily over six feet. Built like someone who knows how to end a fight before it begins—broad shoulders, long legs, a body that carries strength without needing to show it off. His dark hair is long enough to brush the collar of his thermal, tousled like he pushed a hand through it hours ago and hasn’t bothered since.

But it’s the beard that gets me.

Short. Neat. Just enough to emphasize the sharp cut of his jaw.

And threaded through it—God—that silver. Just a touch. A suggestion. Like time’s marked him without softening him. Like life tried to wear him down and he only got sharper.