Page 74 of Let Me In

Not fully.

Not after she curled up on my couch like it was the first place she’d ever rested.

Not after she kissed her fingertips into my palm with her trust.

That place?

It’s hers now too.

Her real home.

Not this house. Not this cold shell of familiarity soaked through with judgment and silence and the kind of cruelty that comes in questions that pretend to be concern.

This isn’t where she should be.

But I don’t say it.

Because if I do, I won’t be able to let her go.

I stay quiet.

Just hold her hand.

And wait.

Her hand rests in mine like it’s caught between letting go and holding on. Her gaze is fixed on the front door. Not in longing. Not even in fear.

Just… resignation.

Like she’s already tucking herself back into the smallness they expect. And it hits me low, like a punch under the ribs. Like something sharp carving through the soft parts I've only just seen her start to show. Like the past twenty-four hours were borrowed light, and now she has to return it.

She clears her throat softly. “I should… go in.”

NotI want to.

NotI need to.

JustI should.

I don’t let go of her hand.

Instead, I bring my other hand up—rest it gently over hers, both palms warm, surrounding her fingers like they’re something I intend to keep safe.

I don’t trust the silence to hold everything I want to say. And I can’t let her walk in there without something tethering her back to me.

“You’ll come back tonight,” I say.

Not a question.

A quiet certainty.

Her eyes snap to mine, wide with surprise.

“You don’t have to,” she starts, the words rushing out like she’s trying to spare me. “I mean, if you’re busy or if it’s—”

“No.”

It’s soft. But it stops her cold.

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