Page 22 of Let Me In

Like he’d been hoping.

Like the idea of me showing up was something he might have wanted but didn’t know how to ask for.

Like I could be the person he had in mind—but I don’t know how to believe that yet.

It nudges something open inside me, like a door I didn’t realize I’d closed.

He doesn’t say anything else.

But when he steps forward to take the thermos from me, he’s gentler than before. His fingers brush mine a little longer. His eyes don’t leave my face.

I know that he saw the crack in me.

And didn’t flinch.

“Looks like we had the same thought,” he says, nodding toward the mugs.

I let out a breath—almost a laugh—and raise the other thermos. “I brought tea. One for you, one for me.”

He lifts his brows. Quiet approval. “Black?”

“Of course.”

We meet near the edge of the porch.

And then he opens the cooler.

Sandwiches. Simple, clean. Wrapped tightly in wax paper.

I blink. “You made lunch?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry.”

I smile—real, and maybe too wide. “I brought dessert.”

I pull out the tin. Set it between us.

“Fudge?” he asks.

“Too much sugar,” I admit. “But it’s good. I promise.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just picks up a piece. Takes a small bite.

And nods once. Slow. Like he’s considering more than just the taste.

“I don’t usually like sweet things,” he says, meeting my eyes.

But he takes another bite.

And I know exactly what he means.

We eat on the steps. Quiet. Side by side.

Two mugs. One cooler. One tin.

And two people who had the same thought.

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