Page 34 of Let Me In

He retrieves the same tray from earlier—now missing a couple of cups—and sets it on the hood beside us. There are two mismatched mugs beside it, like he planned ahead. He pops the lid on the paper cups, and pours into the mugs.

He hands me the same one he gave me yesterday—the one with the little faded flowers near the handle. Like it’s mine now. Like he’s decided.

“Tea,” he says again, with a tip of a smile. “Black. But a little sweet.”

My fingers wrap around the mug, warmth blooming into my palms.

“Thank you,” I say. Then add, a little shyly, “Coffee’s always too bitter. I like the softness in tea. The sweetness.”

He doesn’t answer right away. His gaze flicks to the steam rising from his cup, then to the view beyond the hood. One thumb strokes absentmindedly along the curve of the mug, like he’s measuring his words, or feeling them settle.

When he does, it’s with a smile—soft and warm and real.

“Yeah,” he says. “That fits.”

And something in my chest opens just a little wider.

We sit like that for a long moment.

Not saying much.

Just breathing in the quiet.

The breeze moves through the trees above us, light and cool. His arm is close—shoulder brushing the edge of mine every time he shifts slightly. His hand, the free one, is braced against the hood between us.

I glance at it. Just for a second.

Strong. Callused. Familiar now.

It’s the same hand that held mine yesterday. Gentle in a way that shouldn’t make sense for a man like him.

But it does.

It makes too much sense, and I look away before my heart can leap ahead of itself.

Then I glance at the bag beside him.

“You didn’t have to do all this.”

He looks at me. Not away. Never away.

“I know,” he says.

Then, after a breath—

“But I wanted to.”

We sip in silence for a moment more, the steam curling between us. The view stretches out in front of us, water soft with mist, the sky still holding onto morning gray.

“It’s weird,” I say softly. “I’m not used to this. Just… sitting. Being.”

He looks over, patient. Letting me finish.

“It usually feels like I have to earn it. Or escape to find it.”

Cal doesn’t rush to answer. He never does. When he finally speaks, his voice is low.

“That’s not how it should be.”

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