Page 259 of Let Me In

I close my eyes, my fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt—holding on like it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling. He pulls me in even closer, his arms banding around me with a quiet, steady strength that tells me he feels it too.

“And you’ll leave the porch light on.”

I nod too. Tears welling relentlessly.

He kisses the center of my forehead and whispers it, just for me.

“So I can find my way back.”

He doesn’t ask me to come with him.

And I don’t offer.

But when I hear him moving through the bedroom an hour later, I follow.

Not because I’m trying to stop him.

Because I want to be part of the going.

He’s standing beside the bed, duffel unzipped, laying out a few things with quiet precision—two shirts, a pair of dark jeans, gloves, socks folded in neat bundles.

His movements are methodical. Controlled.

He doesn’t hear me at first. Or maybe he does, but lets me decide.

I cross the room without a word. Step up beside him. My fingers hover for half a second—then reach for the stack of clothes.

I start folding them smaller. Smoother.

Tucking them into the bag with care.

I don’t speak.

And neither does he.

But his hands still. His breath shifts.

And I feel it—the moment it hits him.

That I’m not doing this out of obligation.

I’m doing it because this is all I can give him right now. Because if he has to carry weight tonight, I want him to carry it with something of me woven into the silence.

He turns his head slowly, watching me.

And when I finally glance up, there’s something in his eyes that wrecks me.

A kind of awe. A kind of ache.

Like this—my quiet helping—has undone him more than any I love you ever could.

He doesn’t speak.

Just reaches out, cups the back of my neck, and draws my forehead to his.

Our breaths mingle. Steady. Silent.

I whisper, “I know you’re coming back.”

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