Page 252 of Let Me In

“You’re mine, Emmy. You always were.”

I try to say something. Maybe thank you. Maybe I’m sorry. Maybe justI love youin a way that doesn’t use words.

But he hushes me.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just stay right here. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His breath moves through my hair. Warm.

“Not your apologies. Not your bravery. Just your presence.”

I clutch his shirt tighter.

Cal shifts just enough to cradle me with both arms, then slowly lowers us back onto the couch.

He moves like he’s afraid I might break. Like he doesn’t want to jar the stillness now that I’ve finally settled.

He lays me gently on my side, one hand still at my back—warm and steady, the pressure of his palm a silent reassurance. My body instinctively leans into the heat of him, the safety he wraps around me without words.

And then, so carefully it makes my throat ache, he pulls my underwear and sleep pants back up. Not rushed. Not clinical. Just quiet care.

Like tucking something back into place that was never meant to be exposed to the cold for too long.

He strokes his hand over my hip once more before letting go.

The couch cushions shift as he sits beside me, back resting against the leather. I curl into him instinctively, my head on his thigh. One arm draped across his lap. The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat grounds me there, quiet and small and safe—his warmth wrapping around me like breath, like home.

A moment later, I hear the soft click of claws on floorboards.

Luca.

Then Cleo.

They approach slow, their bodies low and cautious, like they can feel the calm that’s settled over the room.

Luca presses close to the couch and rests his chin on the cushion near my feet. Cleo hops up gently and curls beside my legs, warm and watchful.

Cal doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just strokes my hair. Over and over again.

His touch never drifts.

And then I feel it—something small pressed into my palm.

The compass. His way of guiding me, even when he’s not beside me. Proof that I am claimed. Protected. Home.

I lift my head just enough to see his face.

He’s already watching me. Already speaking without words.

But then he gives them anyway. Quiet. Intentional.

“This may always point north,” he says, his voice barely louder than the wind outside. “But if you ever feel lost…”

He closes my fingers around the compass.

“You know where to go.”

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