Page 41 of Let Me In

“Hey.” His voice is soft but firm, meant to interrupt not just my words, but the spiral they’re riding in on. “This is exactly how I pictured tonight.”

He glances at the dogs—Cleo already circling near the hearth, Luca curling on the rug like he owns it—and then Cal's eyes find mine again.

“All three of you.”

My knees go a little weak. Just a flicker. Like something inside me goes soft all at once. It takes me a second to breathe.

All three of you.

Because I wasn’t expecting that. Not really. Not in the real way—the way that wraps around something hollow inside me and holds it still. Like he meant it. Like he’s not just tolerating my mess, my life, the baggage that comes with me... but inviting it. Choosing it.

Choosing me.

My throat aches with the sudden threat of tears, and I blink hard, pretending to glance toward the fire so he won’t see the way my eyes shine.

“I didn’t want to assume…” I say quietly. “I know it’s a lot. The hair, the noise sometimes. And I didn’t know if Cleo would warm up to you. She’s not always—”

“She’s already curled up next to the fire,” Cal says simply, stepping in just close enough to reach me without crowding. “She’s fine. And Luca’s glued to your side like he’s worried you’ll float away.”

His gaze holds me still. Warm, unwavering. “I’m not worried about a little dog hair.”

I try to laugh, but it catches on something softer. “You say that now…”

“I’ll say it tomorrow, too,” he murmurs. “And the day after that.”

That’s when I break. Just a little.

Not enough for tears—but enough to look down at my hands again, still faintly trembling from the cold and the walk and the ache of being wanted. My voice wavers, quiet with uncertainty I don’t know how to hide.

“You really don’t mind?”

Cal doesn’t answer right away. He reaches past me instead, fingers brushing the edge of my bag where it rests by the door. Then his eyes come back to mine.

“I mind you thinking you’d have to ask.”

A tight breath stirs in my chest, and I blink hard, trying to keep the edges from spilling over. It’s not just what he says, but how he says it. As if it should’ve been obvious. Like being wanted isn’t conditional here. Not with him. I don’t cry, but something inside me quiets, held together by the truth in his voice.

He doesn’t rush me.

Just waits, one hand brushing against my back in that barely-there way that says you’re safe now, little one. You’re here.

The dogs pad ahead like they belong already; Luca with his careful perimeter sweep, Cleo making a slow circle before settling again by the hearth. And I take a breath that feels fuller than the ones before. Like the tension has stepped back for once, letting my breath settle into something real.

Cal steps into the kitchen and I follow, my steps quiet, cautious, curious.

And then I see it.

The cabin is simple, but it’s thoughtful. Modern where it counts, rustic and comforting where it feels right. Like everything here was chosen, not just for function but for comfort. For steadiness. The kind of space someone builds with his own hands and heart. Not just to live in, either, but maybe to shelter someone else.

It feels like him. Quiet. Solid. Protective. Every corner holds intention. The thick pine beams stretch overhead like the bones of something ancient and good, and the floor beneath my feet is worn smooth in places, rich with warmth from the firelight. The windows are deep-set, trimmed in dark wood, with the kind of thick curtains you know would block out any storm.

There’s a sturdy table tucked near the kitchen nook—but the centerpiece catches me: a small, hand-carved bowl, filled with smooth river stones and bits of driftwood. Like someone arranged a piece of the wild inside something still.

The walls aren’t bare. Not cluttered either, but lived-in. A few photographs. Framed topographic maps. A row of hooks holding everything from a canvas field coat to a dog leash that isn’t mine.

And the kitchen—God. It’s not fancy, but it’s real. Cast iron pans hang above the stove, and the air smells faintly of seared meat and rosemary. There’s a soft hiss as he turns down the heat, and he looks over his shoulder at me.

“Come on,” he says. “You’re just in time.”

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