Page 293 of Let Me In

“Got you,” he murmurs, mouth brushing my temple. “Always got you, baby.”

And I let go of the last of the fear.

Right there, in his arms.

I shift in his lap.

Just enough to lean back—but even that takes effort. His arms are locked around me like he’s afraid I’ll disappear if he loosens his grip.

“I’m not going anywhere,” I whisper.

And he does—slowly, reluctantly—let me lean away. But not far.

His hands stay on my thighs, warm and wide and anchoring.

I study his face first.

The faint stubble along his jaw. The shadows under his eyes. The shadows under his eyes, the lines etched deeper than before—marks that speak of what he’s carried back with him.

I cup his cheeks in both hands. Let my thumbs trace the roughness there.

Then I move lower.

Over his shoulders, down his chest. Feeling the way his ribs move with each breath. How tightly he’s wound beneath the softness of his flannel.

When I reach his hands, I still.

His knuckles are bruised. The skin cracked in places, rubbed raw.

I swallow hard.

Something fragile flickers through his eyes.

Like this is the part he didn’t want me to see.

I lift his hand gently.

Bring it to my lips.

Kiss each knuckle, one by one, so softly it feels like an apology I can’t speak.

Then I turn his palm over and press it to my cheek.

Close my eyes.

“Thank you,” I whisper, voice shaking. “For coming back to me.”

His other hand rises on instinct, cradling the side of my neck. His thumb strokes just beneath my ear.

“There was never a version where I didn’t.”

I nod, eyes still closed.

But a tear slips free anyway.

I keep his hand pressed to my cheek a moment longer.

His warmth seeps into my skin, his palm rough but steady.

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