Page 204 of Let Me In

I nod against his chest. “But not bad.”

My fingers curl gently in his shirt, grounding myself in the warmth of him. I shift closer, just a fraction, letting the weight of his arms and the steady rhythm of his breath wrap around me. It still feels big—but no longer like something I have to bear alone.

He kisses the crown of my head.

“That’s allowed, you know,” he says quietly. “For it to feel big. Even if it’s good.”

I exhale shakily. “I don’t think anyone’s ever told me that before.”

“I know,” he murmurs. “But I’m telling you now.”

His hand moves to my back again. Gentle, slow strokes. Grounding.

“You don’t have to brace in my arms, Emmy.” His voice drops even lower, warm as flannel and just as soft. He rocks me gently as he says it, like he’s cradling the words around me, not just offering comfort—but anchoring me in it.

The tears come then. Quietly. Not out of fear or even sadness. Just… relief.

Because I have been bracing.

For years.

For impact. For disappointment. For the sound of love being withdrawn like breath from a room.

But Cal doesn’t leave.

He doesn’t flinch.

He just holds me tighter. I feel the rise of his chest beneath my cheek, steady and warm, his scent all earth and pine and home. It settles over me like dusk. Soft, certain, and unshakable.

28

EMMY

I don’t meanto wake him.

But I can’t help it.

The way his arm is slung heavy over my waist, the heat of him at my back, the soft rasp of his breath against my shoulder—it’s all too much and not enough at the same time.

So I shift.

Not away.

Toward.

Just enough to roll onto my other side, slow and careful, my nose brushing the center of his chest. I burrow in closer. Nuzzle like something small and half-asleep. Like I’ve forgotten how to sleep without the sound of his heartbeat in my ear.

His arms tighten immediately.

Still heavy with sleep, but instinctive.

One arm curls around my back. The other slides up, fingers threading into my hair.

And he hums.

Low and rough, the kind of sound that lives at the bottom of his chest.

“Mornin’, little one,” he murmurs, not even fully awake.

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