Page 190 of Let Me In

Moves through the space with the same quiet grace he always does. He cracks eggs into a bowl, sprinkles herbs without measuring, slices bread with a kind of reverence that makes it all feel like ritual.

I watch him from the table.

Still wearing his shirt. Still sore. Still stunned by how deeply I feel this ache for him—not just the physical one, but the one in my chest that wants to stay here forever.

He glances back once.

Catches me staring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just smiles that slow, private smile that starts in his eyes and works its way through his whole face.

And something inside me just… warms.

Like maybe I’m not going to wake up and find it was a dream after all.

He makes it look easy, as if he’s done this a hundred times. That cooking for someone, caring for someone, is second nature.

But I know better. This isn’t just muscle memory. It’s intention.

Every time he stirs the pan or slices something or glances back to check on me, it’s deliberate. Grounded.

Real.

The cabin smells like toast and herbs and something savory I can’t name. My stomach growls quietly, and Cal doesn’t miss it—his mouth tips up at the corner as he slides a plate toward me.

Eggs, toast perfectly browned, few strips of bacon, crisp but not burned. And a little sprig of parsley on the side, like he wanted it to look nice.

He sets a cup of tea beside it. The exact way I take it, because he’s long memorized it.

“Eat up, little one,” he says, settling across from me with his own plate. “You need it.”

I pick up my fork, cheeks already warm.

But before I can take a bite, he leans forward, a piece of bacon in hand.

“Let me,” he says.

I blink.

“You want to… feed me?”

That same smile again—quiet, sure, a little amused.

“I want to take care of you.” His voice is low and steady, threaded with something soft. Not playful. Not teasing. Just true.

Heat blooms across my chest. Down my neck. My thighs press together instinctively beneath the blanket.

But I open my mouth, let him slip the bite between my lips. He watches me chew like it matters. Like every movement means something.

And god, it does.

To him.

To me.

He feeds me a few more bites like that—small things, easy things—but his eyes never leave my face. When I laugh softly at myself for nearly missing the edge of the toast with my teeth, he just smiles wider.

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