Page 35 of Let Me In

Then, quieter. Firmer:

“You deserve peace, Emmy.”

For a second, I don’t breathe. I want to believe him, but the words hit a place I’ve kept hidden—one that’s not sure how to hold something so kind. So certain. Part of me flinches from it, like it can’t be for me.

He says it like it’s a truth he’s known longer than I’ve known him. Like he’s sure. Like he’d stake something on it.

And I feel that line sink into me like warmth into cold hands—gentle, certain, and slow to fade.

He sets his cup down on the hood beside him. Looks out at the water. Then back at me.

“I want to keep seeing you.”

The words are steady. Unflinching.

“Not because you pass by. Not by chance.”

His gaze doesn’t waver.

“I want more. More time. More truth. More of you.”

A tremble stirs in my hands. My grip tightens slightly around the warm mug in my hands. I can’t look at him right away, not fully. My eyes drift to his hand beside mine, the one that had held me like something precious.

And when I finally lift my gaze, he’s already watching me.

Like I’m the only thing that matters.

Like he means every word.

“Me?” I whisper, almost disbelieving. The sound catches in my throat, small and raw. Like the question slipped out before I could stop it, because some part of me still doesn’t believe I’m the one someone could choose.

But he doesn’t blink. Doesn’t falter.

He nods.

“Yes. No one else,” he says, the words soft but firm. His eyes hold mine with quiet finality, like there was never a question in his mind. Like he’s known all along that I was the only one.Possessive not in the way that cages, but in the way that claims. A steady truth planted in the middle of all my doubt.

And something in me responds to that, something warm and aching. My heart cracks open in a way that feels like light.

His hand, still braced on the hood, shifts closer. Fingers barely brushing mine.

“You make it hard not to hope,” I say, voice shaking. My fingers graze his on the hood—just barely—and a shiver traces up my spine. The warmth of his skin, the quiet pressure of his presence, makes the hope feel dangerously real.

He leans in.

Not rushed.

Just steady.

His hand lifts slowly. Fingers brushing my cheek, tracing the line of my jaw like he’s memorizing it. Like he needs to feel the reality of me under his palm.

He holds me there. Not tight. Just enough to let me know I don’t have to go anywhere. Like he’s saying, without a word, that I’m exactly where I belong. That this space—in his arms, under his gaze—is one he’s claimed for me. Quietly. Unshakably. Like he’s already drawn the line around us and dared the world to cross it.

I don’t pull away.

I wouldn’t.

And when his lips touch mine, it’s soft. Certain. Possessive in the gentlest way, like he’s marking the moment into me.

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