Page 16 of Let Me In

Not yet.

I walk the perimeter first. Out of habit. Out of something older than routine. It isn’t paranoia. Not today. It’s a rhythm. A measure. A way to shake off what’s still lingering under my skin.

Every ten feet, I scan. Every tree, every shadow, every blind spot. I tell myself it’s unnecessary.

Then I think of her father’s face. Blank. Dismissive.

The way he didn’t even flinch when she stood there alone.

By the time I get back to the steps, the tension’s moved to my shoulders.

I grab the axe anyway.

The woodpile doesn’t need tending. But I do. I brace the first log on the stump, raise the blade, and bring it down in one clean motion. The crack echoes through the clearing. Sharp. Satisfying.

The rhythm is good. Swing. Split. Reset. It quiets the part of me that wanted to go back and say more. Do more.

Because the truth is, I used to live in that space—the space where being needed and being dangerous weren’t mutually exclusive. Where sharpness was just a tool in the belt.

But it’s been years since I used that part of myself for anything that mattered.

And then she walked into my life—unsteady, apologizing for existing—and lit up every protective reflex I thought I’d buried for good.

She doesn’t even realize she’s doing it.

The way she looked up at me when I handed her that mug like it might burn her. The way she said my name like she wasn’t sure she was allowed to.

Cal.Soft. Honest.

She’s small. Quiet. Careful. But not brittle. There’s steel in her, I saw it when she stood her ground even while shaking. And something about that makes me want to anchor it. Give her somewhere to lean. Somewhere no one can touch her.

She brings out a part of me I hadn’t reached for in years.

The part that doesn’t just protect.

The part that wants to keep. To wrap her in safety she doesn’t have to earn. To be the one she doesn’t flinch away from. To steady her hands when they tremble, to hold her gaze when she doubts her worth, to teach her in quiet, patient ways what it feels like to be protected just because. Just because she exists. Just because I want to.

I don’t let the thought settle—not fully. But it’s there. Rooted. Slow and certain, like everything that lasts. If I let it grow, I know exactly where it would lead—to building a life with room for her at the center of it.

But I wait. I hold it. Because she needs to feel safe before she’ll ever believe she could stay.

She wouldn’t know what to do with that yet. Not the weight of it. Not the way I already think about clearing paths for her before she even walks them.

She’d call it too much. Or she’d flinch, like she does when kindness gets too close.

So I hold it.

Quietly. Completely.

Because this isn’t about rushing in. It’s about being there, over and over, until she starts to believe I’m not going anywhere.

I think about her on that bike. The way it fit her. How light she looked riding it, like the trail belonged to her.

How her hair curled damp around her face after she took off the helmet. How her eyes stayed wide the whole time, like she was waiting for the moment to turn sour.

It never did.

Not with me.

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