Page 75 of Let Me In

I brush my thumb across her knuckles.

“I want you back, Emmy. Tonight.”

She doesn’t breathe.

“I’ll come get you,” I add, firmer now. “No walking.”

That hits her in a different place—somewhere deeper. I see it in the way her mouth trembles, in the way her eyes go glassy all over again.

“But—” she tries, weakly. “I don’t want to be—”

“You’re not,” I cut in. “Not a bother. Not a burden.”

I wait until she’s looking at me again.

Then I say it like a vow.

“You’re mine to take care of. And I’m not letting you walk home again. Ever.”

Her breath hitches—just the slightest tremble—but I feel it like a shout. Like her body hears the promise and wants so badly to believe it’s real.

She nods, tiny.

That small, fragile motion like she’s trying to believe it’s true. Like she wants to trust what I said—but the years before this moment still press too heavily on her shoulders.

And it undoes me. Because wanting to believe is its own kind of bravery. Because that flicker of hope in her, no matter howquiet, makes me want to be the man who never gives her a reason to doubt it again.

I press a kiss to the back of her hand again.

Then I let her go.

Because for now, she still thinks she has to.

My jaw clenches so hard it aches. My throat tightens around everything I’m not saying—everything I want to promise her but know she’s not ready to hear. Not yet.

But not for long.

I open the door for her anyway.

Luca hops out first. Cleo follows.

Emmy climbs down slowly, steadying herself on the edge of the seat like she’s bracing for something. And I hate that. Hate that she expects the world to hurt the second her boots hit the gravel.

She doesn’t look back when she walks up the path.

Her hair moves a little in the breeze. My shirt still loose around her wrist, half-hidden beneath her coat.

She doesn’t turn around.

But I don’t move.

I watch her go.

All the way to the door. Every step drags something taut inside me—like watching light disappear through a crack I can't hold open. Something inside me knots—slow and visceral—like a tether straining at its end. Like my body’s already leaning toward her, even as I sit frozen, fingers stiff against the wheel even as I stay rooted in place.

And still, I sit there.

Hands tight on the wheel.

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