Page 44 of Let Me In

He glances at me over his shoulder, calm. “You don’t need to.”

“I know,” I say softly, already gathering the cutlery. “But I want to. It’s the least I can do.”

That’s when he turns.

Sets the dishes down on the counter and faces me fully. Not unkind. Not stern. Just solid. Present.

His voice drops into something deeper. Steadier.

“The least you can do, sweet girl,” he says, “is let me take care of you.”

It’s like balm and a command all at once.

I go still. My fingers curl around the utensils, then release.

He crosses to me, slow but sure, and takes the fork from my hand. Places it gently on the counter. Then he cups my elbow, thumb brushing the soft skin just above it, and guides me with unshakeable calm toward the living room.

“The couch is warmed up,” he says. “Go. Sit. Be still for once.”

There’s no edge to it. No impatience.

Just quiet certainty. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.

And somehow, I go.

I walk to the couch, heart caught in my throat, and sit down. Luca follows, settling at my feet like a shadow. Cleo’s already in her spot, half-curled by the hearth, the flicker of firelight dancing across her small frame.

Behind me, I hear the soft clatter of plates, the gentle rush of water. The sounds of someone handling it. No theatrics. No resentment.

Just care, given freely.

And I sit there, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and rosemary and soap, held beneath it like warmth in the walls—quiet, steady, and everywhere at once. And I feel the quietest kind of unraveling.

Not like breaking.

Like being undone in the safest way.

He doesn’t rush through the cleanup. I can hear it—the way he moves with that same quiet efficiency he always does. Not loud. Not showy. Just… thorough. Like everything he does is a reflection of something deeper.

And then, before I can talk myself out of feeling wanted, he appears again.

A blanket draped over one arm. Two fresh soda cans and sweating slightly in his hands.

“Figured we’d get comfortable,” he says, setting the drinks down. Then he unfolds the blanket and settles beside me, spreading it over both our laps like it’s the most natural thing in the world. And somehow, that hits me harder than anything else tonight. The quiet inclusion. The way he doesn’t hesitate. Like his warmth is something I’m meant to share. Like I’ve already been counted in.

The couch dips under his weight. Not in a way that crowds me—but in that anchoring way that makes it easier to breathe.

His thigh brushes mine.

His arm settles along the back of the couch, not quite touching my shoulders, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

The television glows faintly across the room, casting gentle shadows. He picks up the remote, scrolls briefly through the main screen.

That’s when I notice it.

All the streaming services. Every single one.

“Do you watch a lot of TV?” I ask, glancing at him sideways.

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