Page 54 of Let Me In

And me?

I’m just lying here in Cal’s shirt.

Cal’s shirt.

In his bed.

I pull the covers higher, trying to calm my skittering pulse. The blanket is soft, its fabric a little stretched from wear. Itsmells like cedar and soap and something warm beneath it, like flannel sheets and pine smoke and him.

I press my face into the collar.

It’s too much.

Not in a bad way. My chest flutters like I’ve just stepped into something sacred. Like my body knows I’m somewhere peaceful, and doesn’t know what to do with the relief.. In the kind of way that makes it impossible to sleep.

The room doesn’t feel cold. Doesn’t feel too big or unfamiliar or haunted. But it doesn’t feel right, either.

Not without him.

I try.

I really do.

Tuck the blankets in tighter. Roll to one side. Then the other. Try counting breaths. Try pretending this ache in my chest isn’t what it is.

But I last maybe an hour.

And then I give in.

I slide one of the quilts from the edge of the bed—one of the ones Cal handed me with that soft, unreadable look in his eyes—and wrap it around my shoulders. It smells like the rest of the cabin. Like him.

I slip out quietly.

Bare feet on warm wood. Careful not to wake the dogs, though I know Luca hears me. He lifts his head, watches me go, but doesn’t follow. Like he understands.

I don’t go to wake Cal.

That’s not what this is.

I don’t want him to fix anything. I don’t want to pull him from the little sleep he gets, or make him feel responsible for this restless, aching quiet inside me.

I just… can’t sleep away from him.

Not when he’s this close.

Not after everything tonight—after his porch light glowing like a promise, after the kiss to the top of my head, after the way he looked at me like I mattered. Like I wasn’t a burden or a guest or a mess to be managed, but something worth making space for.

I can’t explain it, not even to myself.

Just that lying there alone in his bed, wrapped in the softest things he owns, wearing his shirt like a shield—it wasn’t the same as being wrapped in him. It wasn’t his arms, his warmth, his breath steady beside mine.

I still couldn’t breathe right. Not fully.

Because the safety wasn’t in the room.

It was in him.

In the way he moved. The way his voice could soften or steady me without even trying. He didn’t just carry calm—he created it. Like I could step into his presence and finally set everything else down.

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