Page 57 of Let Me In

I couldn’t if I tried.

I just watch her. Quiet. Reverent.

She’ll never have to ask for closeness again.

Not with me.

Not ever.

I don’t sleep, not really. But I do rest. Eyes closed, breath even, body still. But not asleep. Not while she’s in the room. Not when I can hear the quiet rhythm of her breathing, the small shifts of her weight beneath the blanket.

She doesn’t stir much.

Just once or twice—tiny movements, soft exhalations. Like she’s learning, even in sleep, that it’s okay to let go.

I stay where I am.

I don’t touch her. Don’t speak. Don’t give in to the ache that’s lodged somewhere beneath my ribs—the one that wantsto gather her up, press my lips to her temple, and promise her everything.

She’s already done the hard part.

She came to me.

That’s enough.

By the time the first pale threads of morning light slip through the trees, I’m already up. I move slow, careful. I don’t want to wake her.

The fire’s gone out, but the coals are still warm. I stoke them gently, add a few small logs, and coax the heat back to life. The kettle goes on next—quiet and practiced. I pour a glass of water for myself, then another, just in case she wants one when she wakes.

And then I return to her.

Still curled in the recliner, my quilt tucked around her shoulders, one arm wrapped beneath her cheek. The shirt she’s wearing has slipped slightly at the collar, revealing the curve of her shoulder.

She’s beautiful like this.

Undone. Unshielded.

I kneel beside her. One hand braced on the armrest, the other gentle against the fold of the blanket. I don’t rush. I just watch her for a moment—long enough to feel the rise and fall of her breath.

Then I reach for her hand.

Her fingers are tucked beneath her chin, so I go gently.

I slip my thumb along the back of her hand and lift it just enough to bring her knuckles to my mouth.

I kiss them.

Soft.

Barely a whisper. Like I’m grounding myself in the one place I want to stay anchored. Her skin, warm beneath my mouth,feels like home… like something I’ll protect with everything I’ve got.

Her eyelids flutter, slow and unsure, and I murmur it before she can open her eyes all the way.

“Good morning, sweet girl.”

The words come out quieter than I expect. Softer. Because they matter. Because I get to say them to her, to be the first voice she hears, the one anchoring her to morning and peace.

She blinks.

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