Page 3 of Let Me In

He walks a few steps closer, but slow. Measured. Like he knows not to spook something that’s already skittish.

“I’m sorry—I wasn’t trying to—well, I guess I am trespassing, but I’ve been using this trail for years and I didn’t think anyone was ever up here—”

He doesn’t interrupt with words.

Just lifts his hand again.

Still quiet. Still calm.

He doesn’t speak like I’m already wrong. It feels... safe. In a way I can’t name yet. Like the air around him is steadier than mine, and I’m being offered a corner of it just long enough to catch my breath.

Then, after he anchors his weight just a little more firmly:

“Take off your helmet.”

His voice is quiet, but there’s no mistaking the weight behind it. Not a command, but not something I could ignore, either.

He doesn’t move. Just watches me, steady as stone, his broad frame still and sure in a way that tells me everything I need to know about how he handles uncertainty. And how he expects me to handle his requests.

The words land low—soft, but grounding. Like a hand at the base of my spine, firm and patient.

It creates a lump in my throat anyway.

I hesitate, because the helmet is safety. Distance. If I take it off, he’ll see me.

Not just my face, but everything I don’t know how to hide.

My fingers hesitate at the strap, then move. I tell myself it’s fine, that it’s just a helmet, just politeness. But deep down, I know—it’s trust. A small, trembling offering I don’t fully understand, given before I can second-guess it.

Not because I’ve decided. Because he asked.

Because something in his tone makes not listening feel… wrong.

I undo the strap, lift it free.

My hair’s damp. My cheeks are flushed. My throat is dry as bone.

He doesn’t watch me like I’m trespassing.

Not like I’m trouble.

Just… something he wants to understand. A curiosity. A puzzle. A presence he doesn’t mind disturbing his peace.

Then he speaks again, his voice low. “You ride that trail a lot.”

His tone isn’t accusatory. It’s just a fact laid down like a stone.

An opening.

My voice is softer now. “Yeah. I do.”

I don’t sayneed.But it’s there. In the space between my words.

He nods once, thoughtful. Like he’s settling something in his mind.

“You can keep doing that. I don’t mind.”

Another pause.

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