Page 13 of Let Me In

EMMY

The air feels different now.

Not just around us, but inside me. Like the kiss didn’t just touch my mouth, but something rooted deep in my chest. It sent a warmth curling deep, slow and steady, like honey stirred through something once cold.

We stay on the hood of the Chevelle for a while, our shoulders close, our cups cooling beside us. He doesn’t rush me. Doesn’t pull me in again. But I can feel the warmth of him beside me, steady and solid, like an anchor I didn’t know I needed.

His hand is still near mine. And every so often, his thumb brushes gently against my pinkie. Just a small reminder that I’m not alone.

When I finally glance over at him, he’s already watching me. Not with pressure. Not with hunger. Just… with care. Real care. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from me. The kind that makes my throat go tight.

He doesn’t speak until I do. My voice is soft.

“I should probably head back soon.”

He nods, slow. “I’ll take you.”

We gather the mugs, the thermos, the crumpled bag that once held muffins. His hands are quiet and practiced. Like every small task he does is just another way of saying he’s here.

The ride back is silent, but not empty. His hand rests palm-up on the seat between us. I don’t even think before I place mine in it.

He squeezes, once.

At my front step, I linger.

So does he.

The quiet stretches between us—not awkward, not expectant. Just full of something I don’t quite know how to name.

And I don’t think about it before I do it.

I don’t think, I just step into him. Arms around his middle like it’s the only place I trust right now. It’s hesitant at first. Tentative. Like I might get it wrong. Like I might be asking for too much.

He goes still.

Just for a second.

Then I feel it—his breath slow in his chest, and his arms come around me. Not rushed. Not hesitant.

He pulls me in. Gathers me up like I weigh nothing at all. Like I’m small enough to be tucked against him, and wanted enough to be kept there. Like I belong there.

One hand between my shoulder blades, the other low on my back, anchoring me to him.

It’s not the kind of hug meant to soothe. It’s the kind meant to hold. To remind. To promise.

And it’s the best hug I’ve ever had.

Because it says more than either of us can right now.

It says: I’ve got you.

He doesn’t squeeze tight. Doesn’t hold me too long.

But he holds me right.

Like it’s something he’s been waiting to do.

And when I pull back—only enough to see his face—his eyes are softer than I’ve ever seen them.

That’s when he speaks, low and certain:

“Come back tonight.”

His gaze doesn’t waver. There’s something protective in it. Like he wants me in his space, where he can make sure I’m okay. Where I’m his to look after.

My belly flips.

“Just dinner. Maybe a movie.”

He leans a little closer. Not enough to crowd. Just enough to let the words land where they’re meant to.

“If you want.”

I nod. It’s all I can manage. My voice has disappeared tangled up in the part of me that still doesn’t believe I’m allowed to want this.

And before he walks away, he adds, “I’ll leave the porch light on.”

It’s such a simple thing, but it hits hard. Like safety I didn’t know how to ask for. Like he’s already made room for me in his world, and intends for me to stay. Welcomed. Light on, door unlocked, arms open.

He says it like a promise. One he means to keep, no matter what.

He waits for me to unlock the door, while I hold the warmth of his words like something fragile and glowing. His hand brushes mine one last time, our eyes locking. He reaches to graze his thumb along my jaw, and then he steps back. Like he physically has to force himself.

I try and fail to hide my smile. And watch him get into his car. I watch until I can’t see the shape of it anymore.

Inside, I don’t head straight to my room. I hover near the front window for a minute after I hear the Chevelle pull away. Watch the tail lights disappear down the road, the low purr of the engine fading into quiet.

And for the first time in I-don’t-know-how-long, I feel wanted.

Not for what I can offer. Not out of obligation.

Just… for being me.

I move through the house in a kind of daze.

Not disconnected, but the opposite. Warm, lit up. Hopeful.

The dogs pick up on it. Cleo watches me from the hallway, her head tilted just enough to ask a question without saying it. Luca follows close at my heels like he’s afraid he’ll miss whatever changed.

I feed them slowly. Fill their bowls, wipe the edges like it matters.

Everything feels softer. Lighter.

I’ll leave the porch light on.

I don’t know what it is about those words, said so quietly and simply, but they hold something bigger. Something that settles in the places inside me that are always braced for the door to close before I can get through it.

I carry that feeling into the kitchen, where Mom is at the stove. She doesn’t look up right away. The smell of dinner fills the air, something roasted.

“I’m going out tonight,” I say, gently. “Just for a little while.”

She glances at me, not sharp—but wary. Her eyes flick to the clock, then back.

“Where?”

I hesitate. “To Cal’s. He invited me for dinner. Movie too, I think.”

She goes still for a moment. The ladle she’s holding doesn’t move.

Then she says, slowly, “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?”

My breath catches. “What do you mean?”

“Men like that…” she starts. Her voice falters, like she doesn’t know how to finish it. Or doesn’t want to.

“He’s not like…” I stop. “He’s… different.”

She doesn’t answer.

And from the garage, I hear my father’s voice. Flat. Cruel in that way only someone practiced can manage.

“Maybe Luca’ll get out. Dogs like that don’t always come back.”

The words hit like a slap to the chest. My hands go still. My throat tightens.

He doesn’t even say it to me. Just… out loud.

A warning. A threat, thinly veiled.

I step outside a few minutes later, leash in hand, dogs close.

I don’t cry. Not exactly.

But I do pull out my phone.

I’m really sorry… I can’t leave the dogs alone tonight. It’s… complicated. But thank you.

The reply comes almost instantly.

Bring them.

A second later,

I’ve got room for all three of you.

And I just… stand there.

Heart cracking open. Again.

Because he doesn’t ask questions. Doesn’t make me explain.

Something in me loosens. My shoulders drop a fraction. A breath escapes that I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. And for a second, I want to cry. Not because I’m sad, but because it’s been so long since someone made space for me like that. But Cal...

Just open the door.

And means it.