Page 124 of Let Me In

I tuck her closer again, cradling the back of her head.

“You’re not going anywhere,” I murmur.

And I feel her sigh against my chest.

A sound like trust.

Like home.

EMMY

I don’t know how long we stay like that.

Folded together.

His breath at the crown of my head, one hand slow on my back, the other cradling my thigh like he’s afraid I might slip away if he lets go.

But eventually, the smell of the fire—and the low rumble of my stomach, sudden and embarrassing—draws us into motion. I duck my head, cheeks heating.

Cal hears it, of course. Of course he does. And he doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t tease.

He just reaches out, brushes his knuckles gently down my arm, and murmurs, "Let’s get you fed, sweet girl."

He kisses the top of my head one more time—so gently it almost undoes me—then shifts out from under the blankets.

His warmth leaves in a rush, and the air feels sharper in its absence. My skin prickles, not from cold but from the sudden loss of him. I pull the quilt tighter around myself, already missing the weight and heat of his body next to mine.

I sit up slowly, wrapping the quilt tighter around my shoulders, watching him move.

He doesn’t ask if I want breakfast. He just starts.

Not like it’s a chore. Not like it’s a favor.

Like it’s a given.

Like waking up beside me means making sure I’m fed.

Like it’s something he just does—without question, without conditions. It feels rare. Strange. Safe in a way I don’t havewords for. Like maybe this is what it means to be cared for, in the quiet way I never dared to want.

I hear the sound of the skillet pulled from the hook near the stove. The clink of eggs against the edge of the pan. The soft hiss of butter meeting cast iron. And the occasional whistle of the kettle building toward a boil.

The whole cabin smells like morning.

Like salt and smoke and something warm enough to make you believe in second chances.

Cal doesn’t talk much while he cooks, but he glances over every few minutes. Just to make sure I’m still there. Still okay.

And every time I catch his gaze, I feel steadier.

He sets two plates on the table—eggs, toast, a few slices of apple. Simple. Thoughtful.

But he doesn’t stop there.

He crouches near the woodstove, opens a lower cupboard I hadn’t even noticed before, and pulls out two small metal bowls.

I blink.

I know what he’s doing before I see the food.

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