Page 10 of Let Me In

“Just the ones who stop twice.”

The words are spoken softly, but they lodge deep. I feel my chest tighten—not in fear, but in that strange, breathless way kindness sometimes stings. Like warmth reaching a place gone too long without it.

I don’t settle, but I do hook my helmet onto the end of one handlebar, and rest my gloves over the other.

He steps over, uncaps the thermos, pours the tea into a tin camping mug, and hands it to me. The warmth seeps into my fingers.

I don’t drink yet. Just hold it.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Simple as that.

His eyes rest on me a little longer than necessary.

Like the thank you caught him off guard.

Like the fact that I sound surprised by the kindness does something to him he won’t let show.

“I’ve been riding up here for years,” I say, eyes drifting toward the trees. The ridge that goes for miles above. “Since I was a kid, on and off.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just listens.

“But I wasn’t up here last summer. Got hurt. So when I finally came back and saw the house… and you…”

I shrug a little. “It surprised me, that’s all. Sorry I didn’t stop that first time.”

My voice drops a little, caught between apology and something else I can’t quite name. Like I’m afraid he might think I didn’t want to. That I didn’t notice him. But I did. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You stopped when you were ready.”

He nods. Once. Like that’s enough. Like it makes sense.

Then he says, “Don’t see many of those around here.”

I follow his gaze to the Surron. “Yeah. Had something heavier before.”

His eyes flick to mine, quiet and waiting.

"Burned me,” I say simply. “Didn’t go back to it.”

Then, dryly, almost without thinking: “Hot exhaust and short legs? Not a great combo.”

To my surprise, his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but the beginning of one.

“Not everyone learns it the first time,” he says, and I think it’s the closest thing to teasing I’ve heard from him yet.

Another nod. Not just understanding—approval.

“Surron’s a good fit,” he says. “Clean. Light. Fast.”

Then, softer: “Smart.”

Praise isn’t something I’m used to hearing. Not without a sharp edge behind it. But this—simple, sincere—settles in a place I didn’t realize was hungry for it. I look away before I can show how much it matters.

I take a sip. It’s hot and dark—no sweetness—but not harsh either. Familiar, in a way that surprises me.

“I usually like mine sweeter,” I murmur into the rim of the cup, then glance at him. “But black’s my favourite too.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Just a small nod. A flicker in his expression like he’s memorizing that fact for later.

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