Page 43 of Let Me In

He doesn’t say anything when he sees me pause mid-chew with surprise, but I catch the way the corner of his mouth tugs up like he’s quietly pleased.

Then I move to the roasted veggies. Broccoli, peppers, cauliflower.

I hesitate over the cauliflower. Scrunch my nose without thinking as I poke it with my fork.

“Don’t like it?” he asks, mild amusement in his tone.

I glance up at him, guilty. “It’s not my favorite.”

Cal leans back in his chair, arms crossing loosely as he looks at me—like he’s measuring how far he can push. “Not your favorite… but still on your plate.”

I give a tiny shrug. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

He tilts his head. “And yet here you are, eyeing it like it might bite you.”

That makes me laugh. Quiet and sudden, like it slips out before I can stop it. His smile deepens when he hears it.

“Go on,” he says gently, but there’s an edge of something firmer beneath it. A coaxing wrapped in command. “Just one bite. For me?”

His voice dips just slightly at the end, and it hits low in my belly, warm and steady. My face goes warm at the way he says it. Like saying no isn’t even an option—not because I’m afraid, but because some part of me wants to obey him. Just to make him proud.

And because I don’t want to disappoint him—because something in me wants to be good for him—I lift the fork and take a small bite.

My nose scrunches again, and I give a sheepish shrug. “Still not a fan.”

But Cal’s chuckling now. “That’s alright. You tried. Good girl.”

The words settle over me with soft finality, like being wrapped in something safe and steady. It's not just praise—it’s permission. To rest. To let someone else be proud of me for once, over something so small.

I flush deeper, suddenly unable to look at him, my chest fluttering like something small and startled.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t tease.

Just cuts another piece of steak, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to call me that.

And somehow, it is.

My phone dings, and I flinch before I even realize it. Just a little. Barely a twitch of muscle in my shoulder, but Cal notices. I feel it in the way his gaze brushes mine, steady and quiet, waiting.

I reach for the phone without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen. A message glows at the top—read, unanswered. I don’t open it. Just flip the phone face-down and set it aside like it didn’t shake something loose in my chest.

“My sister,” I murmur, softer than I mean to. “She has a way of… keeping tabs.”

I keep my eyes on the table.

He doesn’t ask.

Just goes back to cutting another piece of steak, like he didn’t see me flinch. Like that tiny confession didn’t cost me anything at all.

And somehow—that makes it easier to breathe.

Dinner winds down in a hush. The kind of silence that doesn’t press or pull. Just is. And somehow, it’s not uncomfortable. Not even a little.

I watch him finish his last bite, steady and unhurried. And I feel it again—that ache to say something. To do something.Because all of this—this meal, this warmth, this place—it still feels like more than I know how to receive.

So when he stands and reaches for the plates, I move quickly, almost knocking my chair back in the process.

“Let me help.”

---