Page 253 of Let Me In

My chest tightens.

His hand returns to my hair. “To me.”

And that’s what breaks me.

Not the spanking. Not the compass. Not even the memory of what my father tried to do.

But this.

The way Cal says it—like it’s not a metaphor. Like it’s not a sweet thing people say when they mean I’ll try.

He says it like a vow.

Like wherever you are, whatever happens, however lost you become—I will be the place you come back to.

I stare at the compass in my hand. It’s heavier than it looks. Cold at first, but warming quickly from my skin. From the tears I didn’t know were still there.

And it hits me all at once.

This is what I’ve been searching for.

Not a place. Not a house. Not even freedom.

Him.

This man who sees the mess and the softness and the ruin in me—and doesn’t turn away.

Who makes room for every part of me, even the ones I’d rather keep hidden.

I draw in a shaky breath, press the compass to my chest. The cool metal shocks against my skin at first, its weight grounding. The edges press lightly, a reminder that it's real. It warms slowly, steadily—heat blooming beneath my fingers like a promise.

And whisper, “I didn’t know that could exist.”

His fingers still in my hair.

“What?”

“A person,” I say, the words trembling. “Being home.”

I blink up at him, and this time I don’t look away.

“You are.”

Cal doesn’t speak.

Not right away.

But his eyes say it all. That quiet reverence. That ruinous ache.

He leans down, kisses my forehead. Slow and warm, his lips linger like they’re imprinting something beneath my skin. Abreath shivers out of me at the contact, every nerve humming with the tenderness of it.

Then lower—my cheek. My temple. The bridge of my nose.

And finally, he whispers, soft and wrecked:

“I’m yours,” he whispers.

The words land between us like a promise.

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