Page 92 of Let Me In

Always.

When I climb in, he helps me tuck my legs up. Makes sure the seatbelt lies flat across my lap. Doesn’t say a word about the way I immediately lean into his side the second he settles behind the wheel.

Just lets me rest there.

His hand stays on my thigh as we pull away from the field. Not possessive.

Just present.

And even with everything that just happened, even with everything still ahead—I close my eyes.

We don’t go straight home.

The gravel fades beneath the tires, turns to road again. The ocean disappears behind the hills.

And then, quietly, Cal signals left.

He pulls into a small trailhead lot. Empty but open. No trees are crowding in. Nothing to hide behind. Just a stretch of asphalt tucked up against the edge of a wide clearing, meant for hikers this time of year.

He puts the truck in park, but doesn’t cut the engine, and his hand stays on my leg.

He doesn’t look at me right away.

Just sits there, steady and thoughtful, like he’s trying to decide where to begin.

Then—

“You put a tracker on the car.”

Not a question.

Still, I nod. “Yeah.”

He looks at me now.

Really looks.

I can’t read his face. Not fully. But I don’t see anger there. Just… something else. Something sharp, but quiet.

“I have it pulled up,” I say, reaching into my pocket. “The app. It’s not an AirTag—those send alerts. This one doesn’t. I tested it when I first got it, just in case.”

He watches me power on the screen.

Sees the dot.

The blinking, undeniable signal.

Still moving.

Still traceable.

“Not an AirTag,” he echoes, low and impressed.

He leans closer. Studies the screen for a breath or two. Then—

“My smart girl.”

My chest warms instantly, a soft thrum spreading through me. There’s a quiet bloom low in my belly. It’s not the first time he’s said it. But this time feels different. Like it carries weight. Like it’s not just praise; it’s a kind of claim.

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