Page 83 of Let Me In

Too exposed.

And it costs me.

Every muscle in my body is strung tight, my grip on the rifle so controlled it’s starting to ache. I can feel the edge of the instinct—the need to move, to act, to shield her with more than just sightlines and whispered commands. But I don’t. I stay still. Because this is what protection looks like, too: restraint sharp enough to bleed..

Because there’s a difference between protection and recklessness, and I won’t risk her.

Not for anything.

Not ever.

The car slows.

Stops.

And then—

She sees it.

I don’t hear her voice, not yet. But I see the way her body stills. The way her head tilts. The slight pivot of her boot in the grass.

She knows.

But she’s not panicking.

She lifts the phone to her ear. One hand shielding her eyes from the sun.

“Cal?” she says, barely a whisper, but the line’s still open. “It’s here.”

And somehow, that quiet act—turning to me, waiting for my words—grounds me more than anything else could. It’s her way of saying,tell me what to do, and I will.And it does something fierce and fragile in my chest. Because trust like that isn’t quiet. It’s deafening.

My jaw clenches.

“I see it.”

“What do I do?”

That breaks something in me.

Because she shouldn’t have to ask.

But she’s still asking.

Still trusting.

Still mine.

“Stay calm,” I murmur. “Keep the dogs close. Don’t approach.”

And then—

She starts walking.

Toward it.

Not fast. Not direct.

“Don’t approach.” The words come out firm. Clipped. The line between command and plea.

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