Page 155 of Let Me In

Like something’s waiting.

But he doesn’t speak it.

He just presses a kiss to my temple, soft and reverent, and says, “Come on, baby.”

I follow.

He guides me gently through the hall, one hand resting low on my back. The other is never far from mine.

The living room is dim, the fire still glowing low in the stove.

The couch is already turned down from earlier, quilt draped over one end, the pillows a little mussed.

He sits first.

Then opens his arms.

I don’t hesitate.

I climb into his lap, legs folding beside him, chest to chest.

He wraps the quilt around us both.

His hand slides under the flannel at my back, just to rest there.

Not to touch.

Not to move.

Just to feel me breathing—his hand, warm and steady, anchoring me like a quiet promise.

I lay my head on his shoulder. Let my fingers curl into his shirt.

His hand strokes along my spine.

“You’re mine,” he murmurs. “And I’m yours, baby. I always have been.”

A beat.

Then softer, almost reverent:

“I’m your Daddy.”

The words don’t just land. They unravel something deep in me.

A breath escapes me, shaky and sharp, and I feel myself soften in his arms, all at once too full and too bare. My chest stings with the force of it, with how much I believe him. With how much I need it.

I press my face tighter into his shirt, breathing in the scent of cedar and safety and him. My fingers curl hard into the flannel. My throat works around the ache, and it’s not fear. Not shame.

Just release.

A letting go so complete, it steals my breath.

And for a long, quiet while, we just stay like that.

He doesn’t rush me to sleep.

Doesn’t say anything more.

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