Page 25 of Let Me In

And still—so achingly gentle.

Like he knows my hand is something that’s never been held just to be held.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t claim.

He just stays.

And my heart doesn’t race.

It settles.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—

I feel safe right where I am.

It’s the kind of safety I never knew I could have. Not silence made of fear, or stillness built on eggshells—but presence. Steady. Undemanding. Warm where the world has always felt cold.

But eventually, I know I have to go.

I move slowly. Gather the tin, the empty mugs. Brush the crumbs from my lap with hands that still remember the shape of his. My fingers are warm, but there’s a pull low in my chest—like leaving is something my body isn’t ready for.

Because part of me already misses being here.

I reach for my helmet, hook it over my arm. Adjust the strap with shaky fingers. Twilight’s falling, slower than I expected. I didn’t mean to stay this long.

Then I hear his voice.

Low. Steady.

“You ever gonna use it?”

I blink. Turn.

He’s looking at me, eyes unreadable but fixed. There’s a shadow in them—like he’s not sure what the answer will be.

“The number,” he adds, quieter. “You gonna call? Or text?”

I should lie. Say maybe. Say I’ve been meaning to.

But it slips out—softer than I meant. Like it got away from me before I could tuck it back where it’s safe.

“I thought maybe you didn’t mean it.”

The words feel small as they leave me, but they carry the weight of a lifetime. Every moment I’ve been let down. Every time someone said something kind and didn’t follow through. Every instance I believed I mattered—only to find out I was wrong. I don’t just mean the number. I mean him. His presence. His quiet steadiness. And somewhere deep down, I already knew the truth—I was afraid to believe he meant it because wanting it too much felt dangerous.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s heavy. I flush. Immediately. Embarrassment floods hot across my chest, my neck. That small, awful feeling of being seen too clearly when I wasn’t ready to be.

His jaw ticks. Just once. A tight flick of muscle that tells me everything I need to know. Not irritation. Not frustration. Just…restraint. Like something hit him square in the chest and he’s holding the impact with quiet force.

It’s not just the words I said, it’s what they mean. That it wasn’t doubt. It was something quieter, something deeper. That I didn’t think I deserved it—his kindness, his presence, this steadiness he keeps offering without asking for anything back. That I thought it must’ve been given lightly, not because he meant it, but because I was easy to overlook. Easy to forget.

And maybe that hurts him more than he expected.

“I meant it,” he says.

And his voice is different now. Rougher at the edges. Like the words had to push past something he’s used to keeping down.

“Still do.”

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