Page 80 of Let Me In

I think I smile.

And then he adds, just as quiet, just as grounding:

“Now breathe, little one,” he says, and it feels like permission I didn’t know I needed. "Let some of that air out.”

I do.

Right there, in the middle of that wide-open field with the ocean reaching just beyond the hill—I breathe.

Not sharp.

Not shallow.

A real breath.

In and out.

And for the first time since I walked through my front door, it doesn’t feel like something’s crushing my ribs from the inside.

“I’m okay,” I whisper.

“I know you are,” he says. “I’ve got you.”

And somehow, he does.

Even from a distance.

Even in the quiet.

CAL

I see her before she says it.

That small figure stepping into the field, the dogs rushing ahead like the world’s never held danger.

Her hair lifts in the wind, that same soft cardigan tied around her waist. She moves slow. Careful. But she’s here. She came.

And she called me first.

It’s a hell of a thing—being trusted like that. Not begged. Not pleaded with. Just called.

“I’m here now,” she says, voice quiet in my ear.

I don’t respond right away.

Because I need a second.

Just to feel it.

She followed the rules.

And now I get to do what I was made for.

To protect. To watch over. To be the steady hand when hers are trembling.

And God, the way she trusts me—doesn’t flinch, doesn’t doubt—it calms something wild in me, like a storm quieting beneath the surface. Sharpens me. Grounds me. Like I was waiting for this without even knowing.

I lower the scope. Just a little. Adjust my sightline. I’m not far—tucked into a bluff where the field curves toward the water, shadowed by spruce and stone. Not close enough to be seen. But close enough.

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