Page 172 of Let Me In

Wait.

Then the latch turns, and I stumble back a step as the door opens.

And he’s there.

Shadowed by the early morning light, damp at the collar from mist, he smells like cold metal and pine, something sharp and clean that hits the back of my throat. His breath is quiet—almost too quiet—like he’s still holding it in. The black of his clothes making him look even more carved out of something elemental.

But it’s his eyes that do it.

They land on me, and something in him breaks.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t breathe, even.

Just moves.

He closes the space between us in a heartbeat.His arms are around me, pulling me in. Crushing me to his chest, not gentle. Not careful.

Raw need.

I wrap my arms around his middle and bury my face in him, into the scent of cold air and sweat and something darker beneath.

He’s here.

He’s warm.

He’s safe.

He says my name like it’s the only thing holding him together.

“Emmy.”

I nod, eyes closed, chest tight.

“I couldn’t sleep,” I whisper. “I tried. I couldn’t—”

“I know,” he breathes. “I know, baby. I’m sorry. I’m here now.”

His hand slides into my hair, the other around my back. And for a long moment, we just stand there. Wrapped in each other, letting everything else fall away. His breath against my temple. My cheek pressed to the warmth just above his heart.

Then, gently—his voice barely above the hush between us, “I’m gonna shower, baby. Then I’ll be back for you.”

I nod.

Not because I want to let go, but because I understand. He presses a kiss to my forehead. Another to my hair. And steps away.

I watch him disappear down the hall.

The door closes softly behind him. The quiet left in his absence feels different now. Not empty, but heavier. Like the air’s waiting on me too.

I stand there for a long breath.

Then another.

Bare feet on the wood floor. His flannel still wrapped around me.

I should wait.

It’s what I told myself I would do. What I know he might need. But the pull toward him tugs low in my belly, soft and insistent. A wanting I can’t quiet. Not guilt, exactly. Just a quiet ache that says maybe, just this once, it’s okay to follow my heart instead of my fear.

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