Page 94 of Let Me In

I nod, my voice quieter now. “Felt like I should.”

He’s still watching me.

And then, just barely, his mouth curves.

“You’re something else, you know that?”

My cheeks warm and my pulse skips. “I just wanted to be useful.”

“You are,” he says. Firm. No room for argument. “In ways you don’t even see yet.”

And then softer again, almost to himself:

“My smart girl.”

I look out the window, heart thudding louder than I want it to.

And when he puts the truck in drive again, we don’t speak for a while.

We just ride.

Together.

And now—he’s holding part of what I found.

And I’m holding part of what he’ll do with it.

He pulls up outside my parents’ house slowly.

No rush, no sharp movements.

Just steady hands on the wheel and that same tension across his shoulders I’ve seen before—right before something breaks open.

I don’t want to get out.

Not because I don’t understand.

But because every part of me is already missing the warmth of his hand on my leg. The spot where it rested feels cold now, like something vital was taken away. There's a soft ache blooming there, not painful—just hollow. Like the ghost of something good still clinging to my skin. The way his voice makes the air easier to breathe. The way his cabin felt like the first place I didn’t have to shrink.

He doesn’t turn off the engine.

Doesn’t reach for the door handle.

Just sits there, watching the house like it’s a threat he can’t quite place.

Then he turns to me.

And I know he sees it.

The quiet sag in my shoulders. The soft dread in my posture. The way I’m already pulling back into myself.

“I hate leaving you here,” he says quietly.

And the way he says it?

It isn’t performative. It isn’t dramatic.

It’s true.

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