Page 23 of Let Me In

Even if neither of us says it out loud.

We stay there longerthan we need to.

The food is gone. The tea is cooling. The sun’s dipped just enough to cast the ridge in long, soft streaks of gold and dusk.

But neither of us moves.

The silence isn’t awkward. It feels… full. Like something just beginning, or breathing after holding it in too long.

My fingers twist in my lap before I stop them. I’m trying not to fidget. Trying not to shake. But my heart won’t stop racing.

Because I keep thinking about it.

We both hoped we’d show up.

At the same time. In the same way.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Because my heart is soft, and I’ve never known softness like this, not without it being taken away. Not without something sharp waiting underneath.

He notices. I can feel it in the way he doesn’t speak right away. In how he lets the moment stretch.

“You always bake?” he asks eventually. His voice low. Easy.

I smile down at the tin. “When I’m overwhelmed. Or bored. Or sad.”

He doesn’t comment. Just lets the quiet answer sit.

“It’s something I can make that doesn’t… hurt,” I add, barely above a whisper.

He turns slightly. Not all the way toward me, just enough that I feel it.

“I like that,” he says. And I can tell he means it.

Then, after a beat: “Used to make meals like this. Out in the field. Quiet, simple. Fast.”

He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t have to.

But he’s not rushing now.

That matters.

When we both reach for the tin at the same time, our hands brush.

Neither of us pulls away.

We both feel it.

A shiver traces up my spine. His hand stays just a second longer than needed before he draws back.

He looks at me—just a glance—and then back out at the ridge.

“You don’t have to go yet,” he says quietly.

And something inside me settles.

Because he’s not asking anything from me.

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