Page 31 of Let Me In

I bite my lip.

He doesn’t say breakfast. Doesn’t sayI miss youor please. But I remember the way he traced the scar on my pinkie yesterday, as though it was something to be held, wordless and warm. The way he waited for me to finish speaking, even when the silence stretched long. It's there now, in the stillness of his message. In the waiting. In the quiet certainty that whatever this is, he means it.

And I want to go. God, I want to.

But instead of just saying yes, I do what I always do. Shrink a little. Tuck in.

If it’s not too out of your way, I’d really like that.

The reply comes:

It’s not.

Ten minutes.

I scramble.

Teeth brushed. Hair pinned. Something soft and neutral pulled on. A sweater I like. A pair of jeans that fit just right, even if I never say that out loud.

By the time I’m lacing up my boots, I hear it. The low, smooth growl of the Chevelle pulling up outside.

I press my fingers to the curve of my throat. Try to will the beat of my heart into something quieter.

No use.

Then comes the knock.

It makes me freeze. Just for a second.

I wasn’t expecting it.

Because I’m not used to effort. To someone coming to the door just for me. To someone waiting.

It’s not loud. Not rushed.

Just steady.

Like him.

I rush toward the door before anyone else can answer, but pause for a moment, trying to gather myself. And then, I open the door.

And there he is.

Dressed in black again—long sleeves pushed up, jeans that fit too well, boots dusted from gravel. He’s holding a tray of coffees. And something in a paper bag.

His eyes land on mine. And they don’t move. My breath hitches, chest tightening like I’ve been caught mid-thought. There’s a flutter low in my belly, sharp and unexpected, as if his gaze alone could unmake me.

“You said you liked it sweeter,” he says, voice low and certain, like he’s been carrying that memory close. He lifts the cup inhis left hand slightly. “Wanted to make sure you had it just the way you like it. Didn’t know how sweet, so I brought two—one’s black, just in case.”

My throat catches. Something tight and bright sparks behind my ribs.

“I… thank you.”

His mouth lifts just barely. That almost-smile. “Got one for your mom, too. And whoever else is inside.”

That makes my stomach flip again. Not because of the coffee. But because he thought about it. About what walking through that door might be like.

I step aside, wordless, and let him in.

---