Page 19 of Let Me In

EMMY

The first thing I feel is warmth.

Not just the blanket. Not just the steady thrum of heat from the fire.

But him.

His presence, close and quiet and anchoring. The gentle drag of a thumb along my hand. The press of lips to my knuckles, so soft it almost doesn’t feel real.

And then his voice, low and steady and impossibly tender.

“Good morning, sweet girl.”

My eyes flutter open.

Everything’s still blurry. Still wrapped in the hush of sleep and wool and something gentler than I’ve ever woken to.

Cal’s face is the first thing I see. Right there. Kneeling beside me, one hand resting on the arm of the chair, the other still cradling mine like it’s something delicate.

He gives me a moment to come to. Doesn’t rush me. Just lets me blink up at him, a warm pull low in my belly, steady and sure in a way that has nothing to do with nerves.

When he finally speaks again, his voice drops just a little. Soft, but firmer now. That low, grounding tone he uses when something matters.

“Little one,” he says, “you souldn’t have slept well on that recliner.”

My breath catches.

There’s no judgment in his voice. Just quiet concern. A little nudge, an opening.

I could deflect.

Say I was fine. Say the recliner was comfortable enough. That I didn’t want to disturb him. That I just… wandered.

But I don’t.

I can’t.

Because something in his eyes tells me the truth is safe here.

So I glance down, and my voice is small, a little hoarse with sleep and something deeper.

“I just… felt better.”

I stop there. But the words hang heavy in the air.

Not here in the living room.

Not here in the recliner.

Here—near him.

And I know he sees it. The rest of it, tucked in the corners of my eyes.

With you.

I feel it in the way his eyes soften, in the slow breath he lets out like he’s been holding it. Like something unspoken in him just loosened at the seams.

He lifts my hand again. Not to kiss it this time—just to hold it. Warm and sure between both of his.

“Next time,” he says quietly, “you’ll ask.”

His voice is low. Not demanding. Just… certain.

“No more sleeping on recliners. Not when there’s space to stretch out. Not when I’m right here.”

My cheeks flush. I try to look away, but he doesn’t let go.

Doesn’t shame me, either.

Just sees me.

Then, without warning, he shifts.

Moves with that quiet efficiency I’m starting to recognize. And before I can ask what he’s doing, his arms are around me—blanket and all—scooping me up like it’s nothing. Like I weigh less than a thought.

I gasp, breath catching against his chest. “Cal—”

But he just hushes me with the gentlest murmur.

“Let me take care of you.”

His words are like a blanket over my nerves—warm, firm, impossible to argue with.

My heart gives a tiny stutter, then settles.

It’s not just the way he says it. It’s because I believe him.

That a part of me has been waiting my whole life to hear it said just like that—and to finally feel safe enough to believe it.

And he does.

He carries me all of five feet and deposits me carefully onto the couch, adjusting the blanket as he goes, making sure I’m tucked in just right. His hands brush over my shoulders, my knees, smoothing everything down like he’s done this a thousand times.

Like he wants to.

Then he pulls back, just far enough to meet my gaze.

“Stay put,” he says softly. “Stretch out. I’ll make breakfast.”

I nod, too stunned and warm and full to speak.

And then he’s gone, moving toward the kitchen—quiet, steady, real.

And I sink deeper into the couch.

Not because I’m tired.

But because being taken care of like this?

It does something to me I don’t have words for yet.

Something that feels dangerously close to home.

The couch is still warm beneath me.

I’ve barely sunk into it when I remember.

The dogs.

I sit up quickly, the blanket pooling around my waist, and glance toward the front door. Luca’s awake now, watching me from his place near the hearth. Cleo’s stretched long across the rug, her ears twitching, ready.

“Cal?” I call out, half-turned toward the kitchen. “I’m just gonna take the dogs out for a minute—”

He’s there before I finish.

He steps around the corner, still drying his hands on a dish towel, his shoulders a little too tense, his mouth already set.

Like he’d been waiting. Like he'd been standing just out of sight, wound tight with worry and readiness. His jaw is set, shoulders squared—not cold, not angry, but protective in a way that hits low in my belly.

I blink. “What—?”

“I’ll come with you,” he says, voice even but final. “For now… I need to be with you when you go outside.”

Something in his tone roots me in place.

It’s not controlling. Not sharp.

But it’s different.

Steeled.

Like a line’s been drawn, and I just can’t see it yet.

I stare at him for a second, heart picking up in my chest. Not because of him. Never because of him.

But because I know.

I know without asking what this is about.

That car.

That damn car.

I don’t say it. He doesn’t either.

But it’s there—in the way his eyes flick to the window. The way he shifts his weight like he’s ready for something he won’t name.

And suddenly, the morning feels colder. Wider. Less safe.

I wrap the blanket tighter around me.

“Okay,” I say softly. Just one word.

His shoulders ease.

Only a little, but enough.

Like something in him melts at the fact that I didn’t push. Didn’t demand answers. Just… trusted him.

He nods once, already reaching for his coat by the door.

And even though I’m scared—of whatever is coming, of why he’s like this—I’m not scared of him.

Not for a second.

The dogs are already waiting.

Luca stands at the door like a soldier on duty, eyes bright, tail still. Cleo stretches with a little huff before trotting after him, tail wagging half-heartedly, like she hasn’t decided if she’s excited or suspicious of the frost-laced air beyond the glass.

Cal opens the door for me.

Doesn’t tell me to wait.

Just steps aside, lets me move first.

But I feel him behind me the whole way. The heat of him. The watchfulness.

Outside, the morning is still half-asleep.

The trees are dusted in frost, even though it’s mid-May. It will melt away by noon. The yard glows soft in the pale light. Everything smells clean and sharp.

I tug the blanket tighter and step onto the porch. Luca bounds into the yard, nose to the ground. Cleo hesitates, then follows.

I take one slow breath.

Cal stays close, while the dogs do their business. I don’t move either.

Not touching. Just there. And even though he’s not looking at me, I know he’s not really watching the dogs either.

He’s scanning the tree line.

Not obvious. Not dramatic. Just quiet, practiced attention. Eyes moving slowly, shoulders loose but ready. Like someone who’s done this before. Like someone who knows what to watch for.

I don’t ask, but I feel the chill crawl higher.

My fingers clutch the blanket tighter, and I shift unconsciously closer to him. I don’t mean to. I don’t think about it. I just… do.

And without a word, he steps half a pace in front of me.

Places himself between me and the woods.

The move is so subtle I might have missed it if I weren’t already watching him like he’s the fixed point I didn’t know I’d been orbiting.

He doesn’t speak.

Doesn’t explain.

But every part of him is saying something—through the set of his shoulders, the way his feet plant just slightly wider, grounding him. In the subtle rhythm of his breath. In the way his eyes scan and settle and scan again, calm but relentless.

You don’t need to be afraid.

I’ll see it before it sees you.

Nothing touches you while I’m here.

The dogs finish quickly. Luca trots back first, Cleo bounding behind, tail up now like the danger was never real. I open the door, and they hurry inside. I turn back just once before I follow—

Just long enough to see Cal still watching the trees.

Still listening.

And for the first time since last night, a shiver ghosts through me, not from the cold, but from the weight of being watched over so completely.

Inside, the door clicks shut behind us.

Warmth greets us instantly—soft and slow from the fire he stoked earlier, the scent of smoke and pine lingering faintly in the air. The dogs settle in quick. Cleo curls back up near the hearth, satisfied with her morning patrol. Luca takes his usual post near the couch, where he can see everything.

I don’t know where to go for a second.

I hover in the center of the room, the blanket still wrapped around me, Cal standing just behind. He doesn’t move past me right away. Just looks at me for a moment, eyes steady, unreadable in the way they get when he’s thinking too much and saying nothing.

And then—so quiet I almost miss it—he says, “Thank you.”

I blink. Turn to look at him fully. “For what?”

His gaze holds mine.

“For not asking,” he says. “Not yet.”

And I feel it—what it costs him not to push, what it costs me not to ask. Trust running both ways. Fragile and real and thick in the space between us, like breath held between waves.

The words hit something tender. I nod, unsure what to say, but the silence that follows doesn’t feel empty.

It feels earned.

Cal moves toward the kitchen then, quiet as always. I expect him to disappear behind the counter, start chopping or boiling or something, but instead he glances back over his shoulder and nods toward the couch.

“Sit, little one. I’ve got this.”

I hesitate. “Are you sure I can’t help?”

“I’m sure,” he says gently, already reaching for the pan. “You did enough just showing up.”

So I sink back onto the couch.

The blanket stays around me. The fire crackles softly. And Cal moves through the kitchen like he was born to take care of someone. No noise. No fuss. Just steady hands, practiced and patient. Eggs crack. Butter hits the pan with a hiss. Something familiar and good starts to fill the room.

I watch him for a while before I speak.

“How did you sleep?” I ask softly.

He doesn’t look over. “Didn’t.”

I blink. “At all?”