Page 122 of Let Me In

She shifts a little, the barest movement. A sigh slips out of her. Her lashes flutter, and I feel it the second she wakes—feel it in the way her body tightens just slightly before softening again.

She doesn’t bolt.

Doesn’t pull away.

She settles.

Like she knows I’m still here.

And Christ, that does something to me.

I murmur against her hair. “You awake, little one?”

She nods. Just a tiny brush of motion.

“Mm.” I kiss the side of her head. “You sleep okay?”

“Yeah,” she whispers.

It’s the kind of voice that makes a man want to build her a world she never has to whisper in again.

“You felt good in my arms,” I say. Because it’s true. Because I need her to know it.

She doesn’t answer. But I feel her soften.

And when I roll just enough to see her face, to cup her cheek, to brush my thumb beneath the shadows of her eyes, I know I’ll never forget this moment.

She looks so young like this.

Not in age.

In tenderness.

In trust.

And it guts me.

“First time I’ve slept all the way through in years,” I tell her.

Her eyes widen slightly. Her lips part.

But she doesn’t speak.

So I pull her in again. Let her rest her head against my chest. Let her listen to the beat that’s steady because of her.

“We’ll start slow today,” I murmur. “Breakfast. Fire. You stay close.”

I kiss her forehead.

My voice drops lower.

“I want to take care of you right.” The words feel heavier than anything I’ve said in years, like they’re being pulled from somewhere older than memory. It’s not just promise—it’s purpose. And saying them out loud settles something low in my gut, fierce and steady.

She shudders against me, just a little.

And I know she feels it too.

The shift.

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