Page 36 of Let Me In

His lips move with a kind of reverence, his breath warm against my cheek, one thumb brushing slow across my skin like he’s trying to remember how I feel. He’s not just kissing me; he’s telling me something. Something he won’t let me forget.

It’s not hurried.

It’s intentional.

A first kiss that feels like a promise. Like patience. Likefinally.

And beneath all that softness—there’s something else.

Not rough. Not demanding.

But like he’s claiming me, in the quietest way. Not because he owns me. But because he’s made the choice to be mine… and for me to be his.

It’s there in the way his hand stays on my jaw, thumb brushing just beneath my cheekbone. In the way his body leans in; not to trap, but to keep. To shield.

Like he’s saying: You’re mine. And I’ll take care of you, no matter what. Like he’s already made that decision for both of us—and he won’t let me forget it.

And not because I’m small or breakable.

But because I’m his to take care of. Because he’s already decided I’m worth keeping safe.

When we finally pull back, it’s only just.

His hand stays at my jaw, thumb still warm against my skin.

His forehead presses to mine, like he’s anchoring both of us there. The air between us is still charged.

His breath mingles with mine. Slow and even.

And then, his voice—low and rich, warm enough to curl around every bruised part of me—finds its way in:

“You don’t ever have to earn this, little one. Not with me.”

His words don’t just soothe. They wrap around me, like a coat shrugged over my shoulders. Like arms that don’t close in, but open up.

Safe, wanted, chosen.

And it settles somewhere deep. Where all the broken, tender parts live.

I close my eyes.

And I believe him.

13

EMMY

The air feels different now.

Not just around us, but inside me. Like the kiss didn’t just touch my mouth, but something rooted deep in my chest. It sent a warmth curling deep, slow and steady, like honey stirred through something once cold.

We stay on the hood of the Chevelle for a while, our shoulders close, our cups cooling beside us. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pull me in again. But I can feel the warmth of him beside me, steady and solid, like an anchor I didn’t know I needed.

His hand is still near mine. And every so often, his thumb brushes gently against my pinkie. Just a small reminder that I’m not alone.

When I finally glance over at him, he’s already watching me. Not with pressure. Not with hunger. Just… with care. Real care. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from me. The kind that makes my throat go tight.

He doesn’t speak until I do. My voice is soft.

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