Page 63 of Let Me In

The car. The weight in his shoulders. The shift in the air that hasn’t left since we stepped outside.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just turns the burner down, slow and deliberate.

Then he looks at me.

And his voice, when it comes, is low. Solid. Final.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “it will never touch you.”

The words sink into me like heat through skin. My breath stutters. My chest goes tight in a way that feels like a promise wrapped around my ribs. I nod before I even know I’m doing it—slow, small—like my body believes him before my mind catches up.

It’s not just a reassurance.

It’s a vow.

One I feel in my spine. In the silence that follows. In the way he holds my gaze like he means it more than anything.

And I believe him.

God help me, I do.

The food is simple. Warm. Thoughtful.

Eggs, gently scrambled. A few slices of apple. Toast—grainy and seeded and a little too earnest, but clearly picked with care.

Cal plates it all without ceremony and brings it over, placing mine in front of me before settling into the chair beside the couch. Not across. Beside. Just close enough to share warmth, but not crowd me.

We eat in silence for a minute or two. The fire crackles. Cleo sighs in her sleep.

I manage half my toast before I pause.

Not because I’m scared, not because my stomach’s tight with nerves.

Just… the bread is dense. Chewy. Too many seeds.

I set it down and reach for my apple instead.

Cal notices.

Of course he notices.

His gaze flicks to the plate, then to me. Calm. Measuring.

“You’re not gonna finish that?”

I glance at him sheepishly. “It’s just… really healthy.”

That gets a faint twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

“Good for you,” he murmurs, lifting his own toast. “That’s the point.”

I scrunch my nose. “It tastes like cardboard with seeds.”

“Mm,” he hums, taking a slow bite. “Nutritious cardboard.”

I laugh quietly, ducking my head.

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