Page 220 of Let Me In

I set the knife down. Wipe my hands.

Walk right to her.

She starts to rise, but I press a hand to her shoulder. Gentle, firm. My thumb brushes once, grounding her.

"No, baby. Stay," I murmur, low and steady, the kind of voice meant to be obeyed.

I kneel beside her, heart thudding low and slow in my chest. The floor is cool beneath my knees, but all I feel is the heat of being this close—of being needed, trusted. I let my fingers find her temple, trace down her jaw. Then into her hair, soft and slow. Like I’m brushing through silk and prayer. She reaches up and slides her fingers through mine, bringing them to rest by her chest. As if she needs to keep my touch.

I lean in. Let my mouth follow the path my hands took—her brow, her cheek. A kiss, then another.

Then I find her lips. And this one... this one’s soft, but full. Full of everything I haven’t said. Everything I will say. Every damn thing I mean.

“I’ve got it,” I whisper against her skin. “I’ve got you.”

She lets out a breath, like she’s been holding it this whole time. Like she believes me.

I don’t climb in with her.

Could.

God knows I want to. Want to hold her close and tuck her against my chest and stay there ‘til morning. But she’s halfway to sleep already, eyelids fluttering, body soft. If I slide in now, I’ll wake her.

So I kneel.

Stay right here, beside the couch.

One hand stroking slow through her hair. The other resting gentle on her arm. Just enough to let her know I’m here. That I’m not going anywhere.

She hums. Barely audible.

And I can feel it—that last little string of tension slipping from her shoulders, unwinding beneath my fingertips. Her breathing evens out. Deepens. That soft little exhale of surrender. Her chest rises, then falls in the slowest rhythm, her whole body softening beneath my touch. Like every last thread of tension has finally let go.

Like she’s never felt safer.

And Christ, it guts me.

Not in a sharp way. Not pain.

But in that quiet, holy kind of way. Like watching snow fall over your front step. Like the silence of the woods before dawn.

I stay there. Just watching her.

She’s curled up small, one hand near her mouth. Legs tucked. Wrapped in the throw blanket I pulled over her, but still wearing my flannel. It nearly swallows her whole. She looks so little in it.

So mine.

My throat constricts at the sight, at the way she tucks into herself like she finally believes she’s safe enough to rest. Something in me stills, goes quiet. Like every instinct I’ve ever had has found its answer in her.

And I swear—this right here, this moment, with her safe and sleeping and soft in my shirt—

It might be the best thing I’ve ever done.

I press one last kiss to her temple. Whisper soft against her skin.

“That’s my girl.”

She doesn’t stir.

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