Page 11 of Let Me In

I shift my weight, glance toward the trees, then back at him. “You always lived in the quiet?”

Cal doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the ridge for a second, like he’s measuring something before handing it over.

“Not always,” he says. “But I earned the quiet. And now, I don’t trade it easy.”

The words come low and quiet—like something with roots. Not a warning, but a boundary shaped by survival.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t push. But I hold onto the weight of it.

After another sip, I offer the mug back. Our hands brush, just slightly, as he takes it. No spark. No jolt. Just a quiet warmth. Steady and sure, like the world held still for one soft second. A quiet contact that lingers longer than it should. My breath catches before I can stop it, and his eyes flick to mine—not asking, not demanding, just… noticing. A silent note passed between us. Something that says, I felt that too.

He looks at me a moment longer than I expect. Like he’s letting the quiet stretch on purpose.

Then he moves back to the crate, sets the mug down, and leans a hip against the deck rail.

“You need to head back soon?” he asks, nodding toward the trail like he’s giving me the out. Not pushing. Just letting me choose.

I follow his gaze. Then look back at him.

I don’t answer right away.

Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to go. There’s no tension tugging at the edges of me, no invisible leash yanking me back to where I’m supposed to be quiet, useful, invisible. Just this stillness. Just him. And the strange, quiet freedom of not needing to explain why I want to stay.

But I can’t say that aloud. Don’t know how to say I don’t want to leave, but I don’t know how to ask to stay.

“Thank you,” I say again, quieter this time. Not just for the tea. For all of it.

He nods, but doesn’t fill the space with anything else. Like he knows that’s the kind of thank you that carries weight.

I reach for my gloves, push my helmet back onto my head, and cinch the strap beneath my chin. My fingers move slower than usual.

And somewhere in the middle of it, it hits me—

That’s the most I’ve spoken to anyone in months.

Maybe longer.

I didn’t even notice it happening. Like his quiet made space for mine.

And I already know I’ll be back.

I’ll carry this stillness with me as long as I can.

5

EMMY

The windoff the bay smells like mixes salt air with cut grass. Sharp. Familiar.

It’s early May, and the front yard is half-thawed from winter but still hasn’t remembered how to be soft. The dirt bike stands stiff and proud on its kickstand. It looks almost too good there—pristine, the paint still bright, chain gleaming. It’s in perfect condition. Not a scratch.

Which is why the memory of what it did to me still feels like a betrayal.

Last summer, I pushed too hard. Lost my balance. The exhaust header kissed the inside of my calf and didn’t let go. Third degree. Full thickness burn. The kind of wound that takes months to forgive, and longer to forget.

I was off the bike for the rest of the summer.

Even after I healed, I couldn’t climb back on. It wasn’t just the pain—it was the weight. The way the bike felt like it didn’t want me. Too tall, too heavy. I never felt in control. So I sold a few things, saved every spare dollar, and bought the Surron. A hundred pounds lighter. Electric. Safe.

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