Page 106 of Let Me In

“About what?”

“That I should be here.”

The quiet stretches.

Then his hand finds mine again. Lifts it gently.

“Emmy,” he says, like it’s the only answer that matters. “This is your door I’m opening.”

The words wrap around me, warm and anchoring. Something deep in my chest loosens, like I’ve just been claimed in the softest, most undeniable way. Like I’m not just wanted—I’m his. And I’m home.

It feels like the whole world has paused and condensed down into this little bubble, between us. I feel suspended in disbelief, in pure awe, and underlying fear. That he’ll regret this.

He gets out first, comes around to my side, opens it for me. Helps me down like he always does. The dogs jump out beside us, tails wagging, already familiar.

When we step inside, it’s warm. Not just from the fire.

But from the way the space feels lived in. Like he didn’t stop living in it while I was gone—he just left space for me. And something in me aches at the sight of it. Like I’m walking into a place where I’ve always belonged but never dared to imagine I could stay.

There’s a second pair of slippers by the door now. Not just placed there—but waiting. Like he expects me to stay. Like he’s made space for me, and filled it with softness. With permanence.

Then a folded blanket on the couch that wasn’t there yesterday.

My mug on the counter beside the kettle, turned upside down, like it was waiting.

I turn in a slow circle, taking it all in.

“It feels different,” I say.

He steps up behind me.

“Because you’re not visiting this time,” he murmurs.

“You’re home.”

I sit on the couch like my legs can’t hold me anymore. Maybe tonight, they can’t. Not after everything. I glance around, dazedly.

The fire crackles softly in the hearth. Luca sprawls beside the chair. Cleo circles twice and curls up near the hearth.

Cal doesn’t say a word.

Just moves into the kitchen, fills the kettle. Pours it quiet. His presence filling the room without pressing in.

I watch him.

Watch the quiet strength of his back, the way he moves like nothing in the world could rattle him.

And something in me, small and sharp, breaks.

“I can’t believe you heard all of that,” I whisper.

He doesn’t turn around. But I see the way his shoulders still. Not like a flinch—like a fuse catching flame. Quiet. Controlled. Dangerous in a way that doesn’t scare me... but makes my breath catch.

After a second, I realize: he hasn’t let himself think about my father. Not yet.

Because when he does?

He won’t just be calm. He’ll be deadly.

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