Page 222 of Let Me In

His eyes soften. But there’s heat there, too. That low, focused kind. The kind that says he heard every word, and none of them will be forgotten.

“You are safe,” he says. Like it’s a truth he’s carving into the air just for me.

My breath hitches, then evens out. Not because I’ve talked myself into believing him, but because some deep part of me already does. And it aches, how much I needed to hear it. It’s fact. Like it always was.

He brushes my hair back, then presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

“Wait here, baby. Let me feed you.”

And I do. Willingly. Gratefully.

Because in this house, in these hands, I’m not too much. I’m not a burden. I’m just… me.

And somehow, that’s more than enough.

He disappears back into the kitchen for just a moment.

I hear the clink of plates. The soft scrape of a ladle. Then the hum of something low—maybe a tune under his breath, or just the natural weight of a man moving with care.

By the time he returns, I’ve tucked my legs beneath me, pulled the blanket up higher, still wearing his flannel like it belongs to me.

He sets the tray down gently on the coffee table. Two warm plates, steam curling from roasted carrots and something else rich and earthy. Mashed potatoes, I think. And chicken. Crispy, golden-skinned, falling apart at the seams. Even a little pot of gravy, and peas, not green beans—because he remembers.

It’s too much. Not in the overwhelming way. In the way that makes your throat go tight from being seen.

“You didn’t have to—” I start.

“I know,” he says, already sitting beside me. “But I wanted to. I’ll always want to.”

He arranges the tray so it’s within reach, then picks up a fork and spears a bite of carrot. Holds it out, just a little. Just an offering.

I hesitate, but only for a second.

Then I lean forward and take the bite from his fork.

His eyes don’t leave mine. Not even for a heartbeat.

“Good girl.”

My cheeks go warm.

I chew slowly. Swallow. And then, heart fluttering in my chest, I lift my fork. Scoop a bite of mashed potatoes. Offer it to him with a tentative smile.

“For you,” I say, a little shy.

His gaze goes molten.

He leans in. Takes the bite.

And the sound he makes—low and rough and quiet—isn’t about the food. Not at all.

“That’s dangerous,” he says, voice a little darker now. “Feeding me like that, baby.”

I bite my lip. Shrug, even though I’m blushing down to my bones.

He brushes his knuckles down my cheek. Then shifts just a little closer. Close enough that our thighs touch. Close enough to feel the heat rising between us again, even if neither of us moves to chase it.

We eat slow. Unhurried. He feeds me in turns, and I him. The dogs lie curled on the rug in front of us, breathing deeply, utterly at ease.

---