Page 227 of Let Me In

I hold her tighter. One arm braced under her knees, the other across her back, hand pressed to her ribs like I could shield her from every sharp thing that ever touched her.

“Shh,” I murmur into her hair, low and firm. “No, baby. Not right now.”

My steps are slow, deliberate, boot by boot up the porch stairs.

The screen door creaks and the dogs stir, watching silently as I bring her inside.

Through the kitchen. Past the firewood. Into the living room where the morning hangs still and quiet.

“I don’t care about rules right now,” I say, voice thick. “I care about you. In my arms. Breathing. That’s it.”

I lower us to the couch. Sit with her still wrapped against me, her legs draped over mine, her chest rising too fast and too shallow.

She’s trembling.

“I’ve got you,” I whisper, tucking her tighter beneath my chin. “I’ve got you, baby.”

And she lets out a sound then—a soft, broken thing. Like a knot finally unraveling. She melts into me by degrees. Her fists uncurl where they’ve bunched into my shirt. Her knees stop bracing. Her breath evens, just a little. And when I run my hand down her spine, slow and steady, she sighs.

A tremble, still. But the edge is dulled now. Softened by touch. By warmth. By this.

She doesn’t speak yet. But I don’t ask her to.

Not until I know she’s here. Fully here.

Not until the worst of the panic has passed, and what’s left is just her—small and breath-wrecked and curled in my lap like she doesn’t know where else she belongs.

And then—only then—I speak. Quiet. Gentle. The same way I’d ask her to hand me something sharp.

“Tell me what happened, little one.”

She stiffens. A quiet flinch.

But I stroke her back, feeling the warmth of her skin through the soft flannel. My fingers trail through her hair—fine and silken, slipping over my calloused hands like thread through cloth.

“Let me carry it,” I murmur. “Let me protect you.”

She pulls in a breath. And then nods, silent and fragile. Shifts off my lap, only far enough to reach her phone. Hands it to me without meeting my eyes.

Like it burns.

“There’s a voicemail,” she breathes.

The screen’s still unlocked. I thumb over to the voicemail tab and press play.

And I swear to Christ—

I see red.

“Hope you’re enjoying playing house. If you’re not coming back, I’m getting rid of that damn thing in the garage. Check the classifieds if you don’t believe me.”

Click.

Just like that.

My jaw locks. My hand clenches so tight the phone creaks.

He touched her peace. Threatened what’s hers.Again.

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