Page 97 of Let Me In

My fingers are still trembling where they press into his ribs.

“Why?” I whisper.

He lifts his head just enough to look me in the eyes.

Because he wants me to know.

“To remind you that someone wants you,” he says, low and steady. “That you’re mine.”

A slow, sharp sting rises behind my eyes, and suddenly I can't even form words to respond. It’s not just what he says—it’s how he says it. Like he means it. Like he’s daring me to believe it, even when everything in me still flinches at the idea. “Just as you are.”

The wind moves through my hair.

But all I feel is him.

Still standing close.

Still watching me like I matter.

And somehow… I believe it.

Even when I turn toward the door.

Even when I step away.

Even when the world inside that house tries to tell me otherwise.

I believe him.

I walk the last few steps alone.

The gravel crunches beneath my boots, the wind tugging at the edge of my cardigan. The sun is warm against the back of my neck—but already, the air feels different.

Like the quiet here presses.

Not comforts.

I reach the front step and pause.

Glance back.

Cal hasn’t moved.

He’s still standing by the truck, one hand on the door, the other curled loosely at his side. Watching me like he doesn’t want to let me go. Like a man who’s already turning his body back toward the dark—but not before making sure I get to walk into the light.

I lift my hand.

He lifts his in return.

No words.

Just that.

I open the door, step inside, and it’s immediate. The shift. The heaviness.

Like the air in here doesn’t belong in my lungs anymore.

The TV blares from the living room. My father’s voice cuts through it—sharp, annoyed, barking something at my mother about bills. I hear a cupboard slam in the kitchen. A drawer pulled too hard.

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