Page 221 of Let Me In

But her fingers twitch like they heard me.

And I kneel there a little longer, just watching her breathe, my heart too full for anything else.

29

EMMY

The first thingI register is the smell.

Butter. Garlic. Something savory and warm curls through the room like a lullaby.

The second is quiet. Not the kind that feels empty or stretched too thin, but full.

My eyes flutter open.

I’m on the couch, still tucked into one of Cal’s flannels. The blanket has slipped a little, but I’m warm underneath. Not just in body, but somewhere deeper. Somewhere I’d long stopped hoping anyone would ever reach.

The TV’s off. The dogs are quiet. The sun has dropped lower, soft amber bleeding through the windows.

I blink slowly, orienting.

And then I see him.

In the kitchen.

He’s got his back to me, but I know it’s him. The set of his shoulders. The stillness. The way even the act of stirring something in a pan looks measured and capable.

There’s something in my chest that twists sweet and aching.

Because he’s cooking.

For me.

Not just tossing something together. But really, carefully making dinner. Because I needed rest. Because he asked me to try—for him—and I did. And now he’s here. Still here.

I shift, just enough to let the blanket rustle.

He turns.

Meets my eyes.

And just like that—I’m not groggy anymore. I’m something else entirely. Small. Lit up from the inside. The way I imagine candles feel when someone strikes the match.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says softly, drying his hands on a towel. “You hungry?”

I nod, too fast. Then wince and smile at myself.

He chuckles, already crossing the room.

“Thought so.”

Before I can sit up fully, he kneels in front of me. Pushes the blanket back just enough to rest a hand on my ankle. Warm fingers. Steady thumb sweeping slow, absent circles.

“How was your nap?” he asks, voice low and warm. Like honey stirred into tea, or a blanket just out of the dryer. It wraps around me before the words even fully land.

I bite the inside of my cheek, almost shy.

“It was good,” I whisper. “You make it easy to feel safe.”

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