Page 218 of Let Me In

It’s her softness.

That open, aching tenderness that makes her smile at dogs and blush when I praise her. That makes her cry when she’sthanked, because somewhere along the way, someone convinced her she didn’t deserve it.

That’s the part of her I’d burn the world to defend.

She glances back over her shoulder, and when our eyes meet—

She smiles. Small, uncertain, and utterly sacred.

God, how is this real? How is she real?

I close the space between us. Rest my hand at her low back.

And silently vow—

That whatever comes next,

Whatever shadows we still have to face—I’ll shield her from them all. Not just with my body.

But with my soul.

The sun’s a little higher by the time we reach the cabin. Cleo bounds up the porch steps, Luca trailing with that steady shepherd gait of his. Head down, ears alert, always watching.

Emmy’s a little slower. Like maybe the weight of the day is catching up to her.

Or maybe she just doesn’t want it to end.

She pauses in the doorway, looking up at me with those wide, unreadable eyes. My breath catches, just a little. Like something shifts in my chest. A warmth spreading low and sure, the kind that tells me I’d do anything to keep her looking at me like that. As if she still can’t believe this is hers to come home to.

I press a hand to the small of her back.

Guide her in.

She takes off her shoes. Shrugs out of her sweater. That’s when I see it—the faint drag in her steps. The way her shoulders slope. How she leans just a little too long against the kitchen counter, like standing is more of a task than she wants me to know.

But I see it.

Of course I do.

I’m already peeling off my jacket. Walking toward her with slow, sure steps.

She straightens when she sees my expression.

“I’m fine,” she says quickly, too quickly. “I was just thinking—I could, I don’t know, help you with something. Laundry? Or maybe—”

“Emmy.”

I say it soft, but firm.

And she goes still.

“No more doing,” I tell her, closing the distance. “Not right now.”

She frowns. Shifts her weight. “But I’m not tired.”

“Mhm.”

I reach for the throw blanket on the couch, pat the cushions, letting the motion settle something quiet and certain in my chest. There’s a reverence to it I can’t name—this act of covering her, making space for her to rest. It feels like anchoring. Like love made visible.

---