Page 67 of Let Me In

“You don’t have to,” I whisper. “Not all at once.”

His throat works around something he doesn’t say.

Then, quieter than anything I’ve ever heard him speak:

“Thank you.”

Not casual.

Not automatic.

Like it costs him something.

Like it means everything.

He doesn’t let go of my hand.

If anything, he holds it tighter now. Like he’s afraid it’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor it there, between his fingers and the quiet.

His eyes stay on mine.

“I won’t ever ask that of you,” he says. Soft. Measured. “Not with this.”

I know what he means.

His past. The weight of it. The pieces too jagged for most people to look at, let alone carry.

“I’ll never put that on your shoulders, little one.”

His thumb brushes over mine again, slow and deliberate.

“But what you said… that offer…” He swallows, jaw working. “That means something to me.”

Another pause. A breath. Then—

“It means everything.”

His quiet admission lands between us like a truth he didn’t know he needed to say.

Not a burden, not a plea. Just quiet, reverent gratitude.

The kind that says: I see what you gave. I know what it cost. The kind that makes my chest ache, not because it hurts—but because no one’s ever thanked me like this. Not for care. Not for simply staying.

Like my offer didn’t scare him.

Like it healed something instead.

His words sit in my chest like something delicate and sacred.

That means everything.

Not said for effect. Not to make me stay.

Just… true.

I don’t know what to say back.

Not really.

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