Page 55 of Let Me In

So I make my way down the hall to the living room.

The fire’s mostly embers now—low and pulsing orange, shadows flickering like lullabies across the walls.

And then I see him.

Cal.

Asleep on the couch.

Too long for it, just like I thought he’d be. One arm resting heavy across his stomach, the other curled under a pillow. His legs stretch off the edge, one socked foot braced against the armrest. He looks… peaceful.

In a way that shouldn’t make sense for someone who carries so much. Who lives like he’s still waiting for the other shoe to drop.

He’s beautiful in sleep, too.

So quiet. So still.

Like something in him knows I’m here. Like he doesn’t have to be on guard tonight.

I stay where I am for a beat. Just watching. Heart too full, too sore, too soft to hold.

And then I move.

Not to him. I wouldn’t dare.

I just ease into the recliner across from him. The quilt he gave me wrapped tight around my shoulders, the hem of his shirt brushing my thighs like a secret.

I curl in as small as I can get. Where I can see him, if I need to.

Where I can sleep.

And I do, not because I’m tired, but because I’m no longer afraid to rest.

And I do—within minutes. Like my body finally understands it doesn’t have to be on high alert anymore.

Because I’m near him.

Because I’m safe.

CAL

She moves.

I hear it before I’m even fully awake.

Not loud. Not frantic. Just soft padding across the floorboards. The subtle shift of weight. A door creaking open with the kind of care only someone gentle would give it.

I don’t open my eyes.

Don’t need to. I know it’s her.

I track every step in the quiet, the faint swish of fabric, the hush of fabric settling, like she’s wrapping herself in quiet certainty. She pauses in the doorway to the living room—I feel her hesitation, the way it catches like breath in her chest—and then she steps forward.

Slow.

I keep my breathing even. Not pretending to sleep. Just… not intruding. Not yet.

Because this?

---