Page 42 of Let Me In

He’s already set the table.

Steak. Baked potatoes, split open with pats of butter melting slow into their centers. Roasted vegetables, edges kissed golden. A small pitcher of gravy, like he wasn’t sure if I’d want it but wanted to be prepared.

I blink. “You made all this?”

He shrugs one shoulder, already plating. “Didn’t want to send you home hungry.”

I don’t tell him that I didn't think we'd get this far. That I didn’t think I’d be welcome to, once he saw the dogs, or the weariness in my eyes.

Something in me knows I was always welcome. I just didn’t believe it until now.

He glances toward the glasses then turns to open the fridge, voice low. “There’s wine if you want. Soda, juice, water. Up to you.”

I hover, uncertain for a second, then point to the soda. “That one. Please.”

He pours without hesitation, then grabs one for himself too. Holds it up for a beat before setting it beside mine.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Thought we might agree on that.”

I sit down slowly, as if I move too fast, I’ll wake up.

The chair creaks under me, solid and worn. Cal’s pulled it out ahead of time—one of those tiny things no one ever does for me, and yet somehow he already does it without needing to be told. Without fanfare.

He places the plate in front of me, slides my glass closer. Then he sets his own down across from mine, but doesn’t sit yet. His eyes scan my face like he’s checking for something—fatigue, sadness, hunger. Like he won’t take his seat until he knows I’m okay.

And I try to keep it together.

Try to keep my breathing even, try not to let my eyes sting, try not to feel everything I’m feeling all at once. The warmth of the room. The food. The space. The dogs safe at my feet. The ache of being held without being touched.

I manage a whisper of a smile. “Thank you.”

Two words. That’s all I can get out without cracking.

But Cal hears everything in them.

His brows pull the tiniest bit. He crouches again, just beside me, like he had at the door. Only this time, he doesn’t reach for my chin.

Just sets his hand over mine. Warm. Anchoring. His thumb brushes across my knuckles like he’s smoothing the emotion out of them.

“You don’t owe me thanks, little one,” he says, voice low and sure. And something in me lets go. Quiet and slow, a knot of tension unwinding. It’s not just the words—it’s how he says them. Like I’m already enough. Like I don’t have to work so hard to earn the place he’s already given me. “You came. That’s enough.”

I swallow hard. My eyes flick to his face, and I know he sees it now. The wetness clinging to my lashes. The way I’m blinking too quickly, fighting it.

But Cal doesn’t call me out on it.

He just stands, silent for a beat, and moves behind me. I think he’s going to sit down, but instead, he presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

So soft I almost think I imagined it. But it settles into me like a hush, like a promise. Like the gentlest kind of claim—meant to soothe, not stake. And I don’t realize until then just how much I needed it.

And then he pulls out his chair and finally joins me at the table. Like nothing unusual just happened. Like he’s done that a thousand times. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to kiss me when I can’t bear to be seen crying.

I blink once. Then again. And something in me—some ache I didn’t realize I’d been holding—settles.

We eat.

Or rather, I try to. Cal eats like a man used to quiet dinners, slow and steady. Not rushed, not distracted. Like food is something to be respected. Like it matters that we’re sharing it.

I take a bite of the steak first—tender and perfectly cooked, just the way I like it. I don’t remember ever telling him that. I’m not sure I did.

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