Page 245 of Let Me In

“Because you’re mine.”

That word—mine—pulls something so deep it almost hurts. My mouth wobbles. My arms tighten around the book like it might anchor me to the floor.

“I don’t deserve this,” I whisper.

Cal stills.

I keep my gaze low. “Not the flannel. Not this house. Not you.” My voice barely makes it out. “I don’t deserve to be… someone who’s given things. Who’s chosen.”

His silence is so heavy I almost rush to fill it. But then I hear the shift. The quiet weight of him moving closer.

A warm hand rests under my chin, coaxing my face up.

His eyes are steady. Calm. But I see it—the ache.

“No, baby,” he says. “That’s not your voice talking. That’s theirs. The ones who taught you love was something you had to earn. That you had to shrink yourself to be worth anything.”

A breath leaves me. Shaky.

“You do deserve this,” he murmurs. “All of it. You deserve to be safe. To be held. To be someone’s everything.”

My face crumples.

He pulls me into his lap, cradling me close. I fold in instantly and his arms tighten around me, firm and sure. The slow rise and fall of his chest beneath my cheek, the solid heat of him seeps into my skin. I melt into it, into him, like I’ve finally found the place I was meant to rest.

And then I say it.

Not loudly. Just soft. Broken.

“He was going to sell it.”

Cal’s arms go still.

“The bike. My Surron.” My fingers bunch in the fabric at his side, not out of fear but something closer to anchoring—like if I hold on tight enough, I won’t come undone. “And I was going to let him.”

He exhales, slow and tight.

“I listened to that voicemail, and I... I just froze. I told myself it wasn’t worth the fight. That it was just a thing. But it wasn’t. It was the last thing that was mine.” My voice catches. “And I was ready to let him take it.”

There’s a pause. A long one.

Then he tips my face up again.

“You weren’t ready to let him take anything,” Cal says. “You told me.”

My lip trembles. “Because I didn’t know what else to do.”

He leans in, his forehead brushing mine, the rough stubble on his jaw grazing my skin. His breath is warm between us, steady and close, like a tether pulling me back to now.

“You trusted me. That’s what matters.”

I want to believe him. Want to let that be enough.

But it doesn’t quiet the storm inside.

Because I did hesitate. I did almost say nothing. And even though he came—stormed into that garage without blinking, took the keys, took the bike, took back what was mine—I can’t stop thinking about the part that still doubted.

My voice is barely a breath. “You didn’t even flinch.”

---