Page 290 of Let Me In

Like he was waiting for this.

For me.

I bury my face in his neck the moment I reach him.

His flannel smells like salt and smoke and the cedar soap he keeps in the shower, comforting and achingly familiar. The scent hits me like a memory and a promise, and I feel myself unravel just a little more, breathing it in like I need it to stay whole. It’s damp in places—cool against my cheek—but none of that matters.

His arms come around me like a tidal wave.

One locking firm around my waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of my head.

He holds me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me, arms cinched tight around my ribs, the solid weight of his chest pressing into mine like an oath he’s not letting go of. Like he needs the proof of my body in his arms to finally let go of the ghost he just put to rest.

I don’t speak.

I can’t.

My throat aches with everything I want to say, but it’s all knotted in my chest.

So I just hold him tighter.

Curl my fingers into the fabric at his shoulder, gripping it like a lifeline.

Anchor myself to the thrum of his heartbeat against mine.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm at my temple. “I’ve got you, little one. I’m home.”

The word hits me harder than I expect.

Not I’m here.

Not I made it.

I’m home.

And for the first time in two days, my breath doesn’t tremble on the way out.

His grip shifts—deliberate, commanding—and then he lifts me.

Not just into his arms.

Onto him.

I wrap around him without thinking—legs around his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, face still tucked under his jaw. His breath stutters for half a second, and his grip tightens like instinct, like he’s claiming me all over again. Holding me not just close, butsafe.

His hands find the backs of my thighs, holding me close, strong and steady, his thumbs drawing slow circles into my skin like he’s grounding us both—anchoring me in the safest place I’ve ever known.

He exhales. Rough. Like the weight of me in his arms is the first thing that’s felt real in days.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice a low, ragged whisper that vibrates through my bones. One hand shifts slightly, thumb brushing up and down my spine like he’s memorizing every vertebrae, sealing the promise into my skin. “Not letting you go.”

My cheek presses against the soft flannel stretched over his chest, the same shirt he once draped over my shoulders when I couldn’t stop shaking. That memory rises like a tide, pullingme deeper into him, into now, into this—my place, always. I can hear his heart, slow and deep and steady. It thuds like it’s calling me back from wherever I’ve been drifting.

One of his hands lifts and cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair. I go still at the touch, breath catching, and lean into it like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, his breath brushing my cheek, warm and steady. “We’re okay now.”

He turns, starts walking toward the house with me still wrapped around him. Like he doesn’t even notice the weight. Like this is where I’m meant to be.

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