Page 47 of Let Me In

And on the screen, Buttercup tells Wesley, “Farm boy… fetch me that pitcher.”

I smile without thinking. Feel the rumble of Cal’s quiet laugh against my cheek.

“‘As you wish,’” he says lowly, right as the line plays.

I laugh too. Soft. Sleepy.

And I don’t even realize it until later—but that’s the moment I stopped bracing.

That’s the moment I let go.

The movie plays.

Soft dialogue, gentle nostalgia. It’s the kind of film you don’t really need to watch to feel it working. It’s in the rhythm, the cadence, the comfort of something beloved. And I try—I really try—to keep my eyes on the screen.

But I can’t stop glancing at him.

Not in an obvious way. Not like I’m staring. Just these quiet, sideways flicks of my gaze. Like my heart needs constant proof that he’s real.

That this is real.

That he’s here, beneath me, beside me, around me. Like a barrier against the world. Like nothing bad could reach me here—not with him holding the line.

His arm is still curled across my back, and every so often, his thumb makes a slow pass along my side. Not even like he means to. Just… like he can’t not touch me.

And every time I glance up at him—every time my eyes trace the line of his jaw, the slope of his nose, the quiet peace he wears—I think I’ll get used to it.

But I never do.

And I don’t think I ever will.

I turn my eyes forward again. Then back. Just a flick. Just long enough to take him in again like a secret.

But this time… he catches me. Not in an embarrassing way. He doesn’t smirk or tease or say anything at all.

Just shifts slightly.

His hand lifts from my waist, and his thumb—warm and certain—finds the edge of my chin. Tilts it.

Not urgently. Not roughly.

Just enough to guide me where he wants me.

To where he knows I want to be.

My breath catches, and a flicker starts low in my belly, like my whole body just paused to listen.

And then—without a word—he kisses me.

Soft. Slow. Certain.

Like he’s claiming my mouth in the quietest way possible. Like he’s letting me know exactly whose lap I’m curled into. Not to rush me. Not to consume me. Just to show me I’m his.

And that I’m safe.

His lips are warm and sure and careful, but there’s something beneath the gentleness too—something restrained. Like he’s holding back just enough to keep from unraveling. A low sound hums in his chest, rough and full of heat, and it curls into me like a second touch.

I don’t even realize I’m holding my breath until I release it into him. And with it, something inside me unknots—like I’ve just been told, without a single word, that I don’t have to do this alone anymore. His hand spreads a little wider at my back, anchoring me. Like he feels the shift too. Like he’s holding me through the letting go.

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