Page 125 of Let Me In

A spoon scrapes softly inside a second pan, one he must’ve had going already on the back burner.

He scoops out something soft—eggs, chopped bits of cooked meat, even a few green beans—and divides it between the bowls.

Stirs.

And places one in front of each dog, murmuring something to Luca and Cleo like they’re part of the conversation.

I cover my mouth.

The sob doesn’t rise with sound—it swells quietly, pressing thick against the back of my throat. In a way that catches my breath and forces an exhale all at once.

No one’s ever done that before. Not even thought to.

He made them breakfast.

Because they’re mine.

Because he knew they’d need it too.

It's too much and stunning all at once, him knowing.

I swallow hard, tears prickling behind my eyes. I blink them away as he rises again, comes to sit beside me at the table like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

“Eggs okay?” he asks.

I nod. My throat’s too tight to speak just yet.

He watches me for a beat. Doesn’t press. Just reaches over, squeezes my knee under the table.

“Eat slow,” he says. “You’ve got time.”

And I believe him.

We eat mostly in silence.

But it isn’t the uncomfortable kind.

It’s warm. Steady. I take small bites. Sip slowly at the tea he made—just the way I like it. Not because I asked. Because he knew.

He eats with one hand, the other occasionally drifting—brushing his fingers across my knee beneath the table, adjusting the quilt around my shoulders when it slips, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear like it’s second nature now.

Every small thing he does anchors me more.

Cleo and Luca eat contentedly near the hearth, tails thumping the floor every so often. Cal murmurs to them under his breath as he clears the pans—little nothings, gentle and low. I can’t hear all the words, but it makes me smile. Then, he makes his way back to me.

He sits beside me. Close, not crowding. His knee brushes mine beneath the table.

But I know something’s coming.

I can feel it in the way Cal moves. Not sharp. Not withdrawn. Just… measured. Like he’s walking a line he doesn’t want to cross too fast. His shoulders stay loose, but there’s a deliberate calm to the way he clears the dishes, wipes the counter. Everymovement is careful. Controlled. Like he’s giving me time. Like he’s readying the space between us for something he won’t rush me through.

When I finish the last bite, I set the fork down slowly, unsure of what to do with my hands.

Cal notices.

He always does.

His hand comes to rest over mine.