Page 15 of Let Me In

I hover, uncertain for a second, then point to the soda. “That one. Please.”

He pours without hesitation, then grabs one for himself too. Holds it up for a beat before setting it beside mine.

“Good,” he says quietly. “Thought we might agree on that.”

I sit down slowly, as if I move too fast, I’ll wake up.

The chair creaks under me, solid and worn. Cal’s pulled it out ahead of time—one of those tiny things no one ever does for me, and yet somehow he already does it without needing to be told. Without fanfare.

He places the plate in front of me, slides my glass closer. Then he sets his own down across from mine, but doesn’t sit yet. His eyes scan my face like he’s checking for something—fatigue, sadness, hunger. Like he won’t take his seat until he knows I’m okay.

And I try to keep it together.

Try to keep my breathing even, try not to let my eyes sting, try not to feel everything I’m feeling all at once. The warmth of the room. The food. The space. The dogs safe at my feet. The ache of being held without being touched.

I manage a whisper of a smile. “Thank you.”

Two words. That’s all I can get out without cracking.

But Cal hears everything in them.

His brows pull the tiniest bit. He crouches again, just beside me, like he had at the door. Only this time, he doesn’t reach for my chin.

Just sets his hand over mine. Warm. Anchoring. His thumb brushes across my knuckles like he’s smoothing the emotion out of them.

“You don’t owe me thanks, little one,” he says, voice low and sure.

And something in me lets go. Quiet and slow, a knot of tension unwinding.

It’s not just the words—it’s how he says them.

Like I’m already enough. Like I don’t have to work so hard to earn the place he’s already given me. “You came. That’s enough.”

I swallow hard. My eyes flick to his face, and I know he sees it now. The wetness clinging to my lashes. The way I’m blinking too quickly, fighting it.

But Cal doesn’t call me out on it.

He just stands, silent for a beat, and moves behind me. I think he’s going to sit down, but instead, he presses a kiss to the crown of my head.

So soft I almost think I imagined it. But it settles into me like a hush, like a promise. Like the gentlest kind of claim—meant to soothe, not stake. And I don’t realize until then just how much I needed it.

And then he pulls out his chair and finally joins me at the table. Like nothing unusual just happened. Like he’s done that a thousand times. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world to kiss me when I can’t bear to be seen crying.

I blink once. Then again. And something in me—some ache I didn’t realize I’d been holding—settles.

We eat.

Or rather, I try to. Cal eats like a man used to quiet dinners, slow and steady. Not rushed, not distracted. Like food is something to be respected. Like it matters that we’re sharing it.

I take a bite of the steak first—tender and perfectly cooked, just the way I like it. I don’t remember ever telling him that. I’m not sure I did.

He doesn’t say anything when he sees me pause mid-chew with surprise, but I catch the way the corner of his mouth tugs up like he’s quietly pleased.

Then I move to the roasted veggies. Broccoli, peppers, cauliflower.

I hesitate over the cauliflower. Scrunch my nose without thinking as I poke it with my fork.

“Don’t like it?” he asks, mild amusement in his tone.

I glance up at him, guilty. “It’s not my favorite.”

Cal leans back in his chair, arms crossing loosely as he looks at me—like he’s measuring how far he can push. “Not your favorite… but still on your plate.”

I give a tiny shrug. “I didn’t want to be rude.”

He tilts his head. “And yet here you are, eyeing it like it might bite you.”

That makes me laugh. Quiet and sudden, like it slips out before I can stop it. His smile deepens when he hears it.

“Go on,” he says gently, but there’s an edge of something firmer beneath it. A coaxing wrapped in command. “Just one bite. For me?”

His voice dips just slightly at the end, and it hits low in my belly, warm and steady. My face goes warm at the way he says it. Like saying no isn’t even an option—not because I’m afraid, but because some part of me wants to obey him. Just to make him proud.

And because I don’t want to disappoint him—because something in me wants to be good for him—I lift the fork and take a small bite.

My nose scrunches again, and I give a sheepish shrug. “Still not a fan.”

But Cal’s chuckling now. “That’s alright. You tried. Good girl.”

The words settle over me with soft finality, like being wrapped in something safe and steady. It's not just praise—it’s permission. To rest. To let someone else be proud of me for once, over something so small.

I flush deeper, suddenly unable to look at him, my chest fluttering like something small and startled.

He doesn’t press. Doesn’t tease.

Just cuts another piece of steak, like it’s the most natural thing in the world to call me that.

And somehow, it is.

My phone dings, and I flinch before I even realize it. Just a little. Barely a twitch of muscle in my shoulder, but Cal notices. I feel it in the way his gaze brushes mine, steady and quiet, waiting.

I reach for the phone without thinking, thumb hovering over the screen. A message glows at the top—read, unanswered. I don’t open it. Just flip the phone face-down and set it aside like it didn’t shake something loose in my chest.

“My sister,” I murmur, softer than I mean to. “She has a way of… keeping tabs.”

I keep my eyes on the table.

He doesn’t ask.

Just goes back to cutting another piece of steak, like he didn’t see me flinch. Like that tiny confession didn’t cost me anything at all.

And somehow—that makes it easier to breathe.

Dinner winds down in a hush. The kind of silence that doesn’t press or pull. Just is. And somehow, it’s not uncomfortable. Not even a little.

I watch him finish his last bite, steady and unhurried. And I feel it again—that ache to say something. To do something. Because all of this—this meal, this warmth, this place—it still feels like more than I know how to receive.

So when he stands and reaches for the plates, I move quickly, almost knocking my chair back in the process.

“Let me help.”

He glances at me over his shoulder, calm. “You don’t need to.”

“I know,” I say softly, already gathering the cutlery. “But I want to. It’s the least I can do.”

That’s when he turns.

Sets the dishes down on the counter and faces me fully. Not unkind. Not stern. Just solid. Present.

His voice drops into something deeper. Steadier.

“The least you can do, sweet girl,” he says, “is let me take care of you.”

It’s like balm and a command all at once.

I go still. My fingers curl around the utensils, then release.

He crosses to me, slow but sure, and takes the fork from my hand. Places it gently on the counter. Then he cups my elbow, thumb brushing the soft skin just above it, and guides me with unshakeable calm toward the living room.

“The couch is warmed up,” he says. “Go. Sit. Be still for once.”

There’s no edge to it. No impatience.

Just quiet certainty. Like this is how it’s supposed to be.

And somehow, I go.

I walk to the couch, heart caught in my throat, and sit down. Luca follows, settling at my feet like a shadow. Cleo’s already in her spot, half-curled by the hearth, the flicker of firelight dancing across her small frame.

Behind me, I hear the soft clatter of plates, the gentle rush of water. The sounds of someone handling it. No theatrics. No resentment.

Just care, given freely.

And I sit there, wrapped in the scent of woodsmoke and rosemary and soap, held beneath it like warmth in the walls—quiet, steady, and everywhere at once. And I feel the quietest kind of unraveling.

Not like breaking.

Like being undone in the safest way.

He doesn’t rush through the cleanup. I can hear it—the way he moves with that same quiet efficiency he always does. Not loud. Not showy. Just… thorough. Like everything he does is a reflection of something deeper.

And then, before I can talk myself out of feeling wanted, he appears again.

A blanket draped over one arm. Two fresh soda cans and sweating slightly in his hands.

“Figured we’d get comfortable,” he says, setting the drinks down.

Then he unfolds the blanket and settles beside me, spreading it over both our laps like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And somehow, that hits me harder than anything else tonight.

The quiet inclusion. The way he doesn’t hesitate.

Like his warmth is something I’m meant to share. Like I’ve already been counted in.

The couch dips under his weight. Not in a way that crowds me—but in that anchoring way that makes it easier to breathe.

His thigh brushes mine.

His arm settles along the back of the couch, not quite touching my shoulders, but close enough that I can feel the heat of him.

The television glows faintly across the room, casting gentle shadows. He picks up the remote, scrolls briefly through the main screen.

That’s when I notice it.

All the streaming services. Every single one.

“Do you watch a lot of TV?” I ask, glancing at him sideways.

Cal shakes his head once. “No.”

And then, quieter: “Didn’t want to miss what you might want.”

My heart does something I can’t name. Something tender and terrifying and whole.

Before I can think better of it, I move.

Not just a lean—not just a glance of touch.

I turn toward him, crawl a little closer, and press my face into his chest. Wrap my arms around his middle and just… hold on.

Tight.

Like I need him to know what this means. Like I can’t say it out loud, but maybe he’ll hear it this way. Maybe he’ll feel it.

His arms wrap around me in an instant, folding me in tight. One hand on the back of my head, the other across my back.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper against his shirt. “If this is too much…”

“No.”

The word is quiet but absolute.

“Not too much,” he says. “Not even close.”

And then—God, then—