Page 112 of Let Me In

I blink.

“I can—”

“Not tonight,” he says gently. “Let me.”

I do.

He feeds me slowly.

One bite at a time.

Nothing rushed. Nothing patronizing. Just care—surgical and unflinching.

Like this is a mission and I’m the whole objective.

Like making sure I eat is just as important as everything else he plans to do to keep me safe. Like feeding me is a kind of promise. One I’ve never been given before—not like this. Not without strings or silence or shame. Just care, given freely. And it undoes something in me I didn’t know I’d braced against.

“Rough day, wasn’t it?” he says, voice low, like he’s talking to something small and sacred.

I nod, a little dazed.

He brushes a crumb from my lip with his thumb. The touch is so soft it makes my breath catch. I don’t flinch—but I freeze, just for a second, because it’s been so long since someone touched me with that kind of quiet care. Something in my chest twists. Not in fear, but in want. In disbelief.

“I’ve got you now.”

My eyes sting again.

But I don’t cry.

I just open my mouth for the next bite.

And let myself believe him.

When I finish the last bite, Cal sets the plate aside.

Doesn’t move fast.

Doesn’t rush me.

Just watches for a beat, eyes steady, hand still resting on my thigh.

Then, softly—

“Do the dogs need anything before bed?”

I blink.

My thoughts are slower now, quieter. I start to rise.

And his hand comes down, gentle but unmovable.

He doesn’t raise his voice.

Doesn’t scold.

Just tilts his head, that steady gaze fixed on mine.

“Use your words, little one.”

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