Page 265 of Let Me In

“This doesn’t change anything,” he murmurs. “What I’m wearing. Where I’m going. Who I used to be.”

My breath catches.

“I know.”

“I’m still yours.”

I nod.

“I’m still coming home.”

My eyes sting.

I press my lips to his.

Once.

Then again.

He exhales like it’s the only thing he’s been waiting for. He doesn’t reach for his bag right away—just stands there, breathing me in. One hand still cupping the back of my neck, the other pressed against the curve of my spine.

I look up at him.

And I know I shouldn’t say it again.

But I do.

“I love you.”

His breath hitches. Just a little.

My own breath mirrors his, catching sharp in my chest as something flickers through me—recognition, ache, the weight of knowing I’ve broken through.

Then he leans down.

And finally, his mouth meets mine with nothing held back.

It’s not rushed or frantic. It’s deep. Like he’s trying to sink into this kiss—to find steadiness in it, to let it hold the parts of him that don’t get to rest.

My arms wind around his neck. His hands grip my waist like he’s trying to memorize the exact shape of me. My cheek brushes the edge of his collar, rough fabric catching on my skin. The zipper presses lightly against my ribs, anchoring me in his arms, in the now.

And when I melt into him—fully—he groans, low and raw, against my lips.

My tears come quiet.

No shudder. No sob.

Just soft, hot rivers slipping down my cheeks.

I don’t try to hide them.

But I don’t name them either.

He knows.

He feels them in the way I hold on tighter. In the way my fingers curl into the collar of his coat. In the way I kiss him back like I’d follow him into the dark if he’d let me.

But he won’t let me. And I don’t ask him to.

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