Page 52 of Let Me In

We reach the bedroom.

I step in first, flipping on the lamp. It’s a plain room. Quiet. A heavy, comfortable bed, warm blankets. My books on the nightstand. A weathered cedar chest at the foot. Nothing fancy. Nothing loud.

But she looks at it like it’s something sacred.

And maybe it is.

I cross to the dresser, pull out one of my softest shirts—worn cotton, dark gray, still carrying the faint scent of soap and cedar and me. I hesitate for half a second, then bring it over.

She stands just inside the doorway, blanket still wrapped around her shoulders. Looking at everything with that quiet awe that makes me feel like I’m showing her something holy.

I hold the shirt out to her. “This alright?”

She nods. Looks down at it like it means something. Like I’ve just given her more than cotton and thread.

“It’s perfect,” she whispers.

And fuck. Something in me shakes. I want to reach out—just to touch her hand, her hair, anything that might steady the storm she doesn't even know she’s kicked up. But I don’t. I hold it in. Because this isn't about me. It's about her, and making sure she feels safe enough to want more.

I don’t say anything. Just nod once and leave the room.

Not because I want to.

Because I need a second. Alone. To keep my hands steady.

I step into the hallway, drag a slow breath through my nose.

And for just a second—I let it show.

The tension. The fury. The terror that bloomed in my chest the second I saw that car, and the second after, when I realized she hadn’t told me about it.

She didn’t want to ruin anything.

She thought asking for help would be too much.

Fuck.

And now she’s here, going to sleep in my cabin, wrapped in my blanket, slipping intomyshirt—and I don’t know who the fuck is out there watching us.

But I know this.

They’ll never touch her.

Not while I’m breathing.

I stay out there longer than I should. One hand braced against the wall, eyes shut. The weight of it pressing down on me—the near-miss, the could’ve-been, the fact that she didn’t say a word. The fear, the helplessness, the way it knots tight behind my sternum, coiling like it’s trying to claw its way out.

But I’ve got no time for that. She’s here now. Safe.

And I need to be the kind of man who keeps her that way.

I square my shoulders, take another breath, and turn back to the door. My hand hesitates just a beat before I knock, soft.

No answer.

I ease the door open anyway—just a few inches. Just enough.

And then I see her.

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