Page 21 of Let Me In

EMMY

I don’t expectto see him out there. Not really.

But I pack two thermoses anyway. One with the tea I like—strong, sweet, steeped long enough to warm more than just my hands. And one the way he likes it. Black. No sugar... just in case. I don't know if he'll be there. But if he is, I want to be the kind of person who brings something warm, something made with care. Even if he never sees it, even if I end up drinking both myself, it feels like a promise I get to make quietly. A hope I don't have to say out loud.

I wrap the fudge in parchment and tuck it into a little tin. Homemade. Silly, maybe. But I have a sweet tooth, and I always make too much. Something about the act of creating something small and good just… calms me.

I don’t plan to give it to him.

But I bring it anyway.

The pack on my back shifts with every curve in the trail. The closer I get, the faster my heart starts to go.

Not fear.

Hope.

The cabin comes into view around the bend.

I pull up slow. The bike coasts to a stop on the gravel, and I don’t even pretend I’m not nervous.

My breath stutters—tight in my chest, like the moment tugged something deep and unseen. My stomach dips with the force of it, that strange fluttering ache that feels too close to hope.

He’s outside.

Not chopping wood. Not moving. Just… standing near the deck, one hand on the railing.

I almost forget I’m even driving. He has the kind of face you can’t help but notice, jawline like it was carved from stone, mouth made for softness but rarely used that way. His dark hair’s tousled, wind-mussed, and his eyes—gray, sharp, and full of storms—make it hard to look anywhere else. He’s handsome in the way that makes your throat catch, like he belongs more to stories than real life.

He lifts his head when he hears the bike. And when he sees me, something shifts in his face.

Not a full smile.

But it’s the closest I’ve seen.

I cut the engine and swing off the seat. My hands are a little too careful as I pull my helmet off, unclip the chin strap, and perch it on one handlebar. I crouch beside the pack, unzip it, and start to pull out the thermoses. Then the tin. The fudge is still warm through the parchment, and somehow that detail embarrasses me a little.

I glance up, suddenly nervous, and then I see the small cooler resting beside him, and there are two mugs on top.

My eyes catch on that detail.

It hits something tender before I can stop it. Of course he wouldn’t be waiting for me. Of course someone like him would have company—someone planned, someone chosen. That's how the pattern goes, isn't it? The script I've memorized withoutmeaning to. Where girls like me always come second, if we come at all.

Not a girl who rides up half-apologetic with a thermos and too much hope.

I nod toward them, trying to keep my voice light. “Got company?”

He looks at me for half a second longer than I expect. Like he heard more than the words. Like he saw through the tilt of my head, the forced smile. Like he knows I didn’t ask because I was curious—I asked because I didn’t think the second mug could be for me.

His answer is quiet. Immediate.

“No,” he says. “But I was hoping to.”

And there’s something in the way he says it.

Not teasing. Not casual.

Just true.

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