Page 111 of Let Me In

Not completely relaxed.

But close.

Then, with one last brush of his hand down my back, he murmurs, “Let’s get you fed, little one.”

I nod against him.

But I don’t move.

So he does it for me.

He lifts me carefully—blanket and all—and carries me to the kitchen like I weigh nothing at all. Like I’m made of something softer than bone.

He sets me gently in the chair at the head of the table, tucks the blanket around me again, then presses a kiss to the top of my head like it’s reflex.

I watch as he moves around the kitchen.

Quiet.

Focused.

There’s no noise but the rustle of the cabinet door, the click of the kettle, the soft scrape of a drawer.

It’s not rushed.

It’s intentional.

And when he comes back, it’s with something simple—toast, peanut butter, apple slices arranged in a neat little fan. Nothing complicated. Just warm. Nourishing and gentle. He sets the plate down in front of me, but I don’t reach for it.

I’m too tired.

Too scraped thin.

Too full of that old ache that says, don’t make a mess, don’t ask for more, don’t take up space.

He sees it.

Of course he does.

And something in him shifts again.

Goes quiet.

Sharper.

More precise.

He sits beside me.

Takes the first slice of toast.

And tears it in half.

Then he turns to me, eyes steady.

“Open up, sweet girl.”

His voice sinks into me, low and certain, and something in my chest softens. The endearment brushes over me like a balm, tugging at something deep and fragile inside. My breath stutters,just once, as if my body recognizes the safety in his voice before my mind does.

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