Page 20 of Let Me In

“Didn’t need to.” His voice is low. Even. “Wasn’t tired.”

There’s something else in the words, but I don’t push.

I just tuck my knees up beneath the blanket, watching him stir something with the back of a wooden spoon.

“Cal?”

He glances over this time.

I search his face for something I can’t quite name. “Do you think it’ll come back?”

The question slips out before I can help it. Not fully formed. Not specific.

But he knows what I mean.

The car. The weight in his shoulders. The shift in the air that hasn’t left since we stepped outside.

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just turns the burner down, slow and deliberate.

Then he looks at me.

And his voice, when it comes, is low. Solid. Final.

“Whatever it is,” he says, “it will never touch you.”

The words sink into me like heat through skin. My breath stutters. My chest goes tight in a way that feels like a promise wrapped around my ribs. I nod before I even know I’m doing it—slow, small—like my body believes him before my mind catches up.

It’s not just a reassurance.

It’s a vow.

One I feel in my spine. In the silence that follows. In the way he holds my gaze like he means it more than anything.

And I believe him.

God help me, I do.

The food is simple. Warm. Thoughtful.

Eggs, gently scrambled. A few slices of apple. Toast—grainy and seeded and a little too earnest, but clearly picked with care.

Cal plates it all without ceremony and brings it over, placing mine in front of me before settling into the chair beside the couch. Not across. Beside. Just close enough to share warmth, but not crowd me.

We eat in silence for a minute or two. The fire crackles. Cleo sighs in her sleep.

I manage half my toast before I pause.

Not because I’m scared, not because my stomach’s tight with nerves.

Just… the bread is dense. Chewy. Too many seeds.

I set it down and reach for my apple instead.

Cal notices.

Of course he notices.

His gaze flicks to the plate, then to me. Calm. Measuring.

“You’re not gonna finish that?”

I glance at him sheepishly. “It’s just… really healthy.”

That gets a faint twitch of his mouth. Not quite a smile. But close.

“Good for you,” he murmurs, lifting his own toast. “That’s the point.”

I scrunch my nose. “It tastes like cardboard with seeds.”

“Mm,” he hums, taking a slow bite. “Nutritious cardboard.”

I laugh quietly, ducking my head.

Then I feel his hand settle lightly over mine, grounding and warm.

“Try one more bite,” he says, tone gentling. “Just one. For me.”

And just like that, I do.

Because I want to be good for him, and something in his voice makes me feel safe. Seen.

Because even in the middle of whatever this is, he still wants to take care of me.

I chew slowly. Swallow.

He watches, then nods, satisfied. “Good girl.”

His voice, those words… glide through me like warmth slipping into cold hands. Not heavy. Not expectant.

Just warm.

We fall into quiet again. A few more bites. A few more glances exchanged in the hush.

And then—without warning—he sets his fork down.

Turns to face me a little more fully.

“I don’t know who was in that car,” he says, voice low, even.

My hand stills around my fork.

“But I know what it felt like.”

I look up.

His eyes are darker now. Storm-grey and steady.

“I used to hurt people,” he says. Simple. Honest. No embellishment. “Bad ones. People who earned it. People who made others small, or scared, or broken.”

He doesn’t look away.

“But sometimes the bad tries to shimmy back. It gets curious. Looks for a crack.”

My breath hitches.

He reaches across the small space between us and takes my hand again.

Not as an afterthought.

Like he needs to.

“But not here,” he says quietly. “Not you. Never you.”

His fingers tighten around mine.

“You have nothing to worry about, little one.”

And for the first time since I saw that car… I believe it.

Because it’s him saying it.

The silence stretches.

Not tense.

Just full.

His fingers are still curled around mine, warm and steady. His plate sits mostly untouched now, forgotten. And the fire throws soft light across his face—across the sharp cut of his jaw, the faint hollows beneath his eyes. He’s not trying to hide anything.

Not anymore.

And maybe that’s why I ask.

Not to satisfy curiosity.

Just to understand.

“Were you… Army?”

His eyes shift to mine. Just a flick.

Then he nods once. “Special ops. For a while.”

His voice stays quiet. Matter-of-fact.

Then, after a breath: “Private sector after that.”

That’s all he says.

But it’s enough.

Enough to explain the steel in his posture. The precision in his movements. The way he stands like he’s still waiting for an order he’ll never take again.

The shadows in his gaze.

The silence he carries like a second skin.

I nod slowly. Don’t press.

I just study the hand still wrapped around mine, the strong curve of his fingers, the faint scars along his knuckles.

I swallow.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

He blinks. Looks at me—sharp at first, confused.

“Not for that,” I rush to add. “Just… that you had to carry it. That you still do.”

I meet his eyes, even though my chest is tight.

“I wish you didn’t have to carry it alone.”

His breath catches.

Just slightly.

And when I speak again, it comes out softer than I mean it to. Almost like a question. Almost like a vow.

“Can I help?”

That undoes him.

Not visibly.

Not entirely.

But something shifts.

His expression doesn’t change much. His jaw stays tight, his shoulders still squared. But his eyes—God, his eyes—

They soften.

As if no one’s ever asked him that before, and the idea itself is unthinkable.

And still… he lets me hold his hand.

Lets me stay, lets me mean it.

He doesn’t answer right away. Doesn’t look away, either.

Just holds my gaze like the ground might shift if he blinks.

“Can you help?”

I didn’t mean for it to undo him. But it does.

Not in a loud way. Not with tears or breaking.

Just this stillness.

This silence that wraps around the moment and makes it holy.

His thumb brushes once across the back of my hand. Like he’s grounding himself. Like I’m the thing keeping him from tipping over the edge.

“I don’t know what to say to that,” he murmurs finally.

His voice is low. Rough. But not distant.

Present.

“People don’t ask that,” he goes on, almost to himself. “They ask what I did. Why I did it. How I can sleep at night.”

His hand tightens around mine.

“But no one’s ever asked if I… if I needed anything.”

His eyes find mine again.

And what’s in them?

It’s not fear, or guilt, or even shame.

It’s awe.

Like I just cracked open a part of him he thought had long since gone still.

He shakes his head once, barely more than a breath.

“I don’t know how to let someone help.”

I press his hand between both of mine.

“You don’t have to,” I whisper. “Not all at once.”

His throat works around something he doesn’t say.

Then, quieter than anything I’ve ever heard him speak:

“Thank you.”

Not casual.

Not automatic.

Like it costs him something.

Like it means everything.

He doesn’t let go of my hand.

If anything, he holds it tighter now. Like he’s afraid it’ll slip away if he doesn’t anchor it there, between his fingers and the quiet.

His eyes stay on mine.

“I won’t ever ask that of you,” he says. Soft. Measured. “Not with this.”

I know what he means.

His past. The weight of it. The pieces too jagged for most people to look at, let alone carry.

“I’ll never put that on your shoulders, little one.”

His thumb brushes over mine again, slow and deliberate.

“But what you said… that offer…” He swallows, jaw working. “That means something to me.”

Another pause. A breath. Then—

“It means everything.”

His quiet admission lands between us like a truth he didn’t know he needed to say.

Not a burden, not a plea. Just quiet, reverent gratitude.

The kind that says: I see what you gave. I know what it cost. The kind that makes my chest ache, not because it hurts—but because no one’s ever thanked me like this. Not for care. Not for simply staying.

Like my offer didn’t scare him.

Like it healed something instead.

His words sit in my chest like something delicate and sacred.

That means everything.

Not said for effect. Not to make me stay.

Just… true.

I don’t know what to say back.

Not really.

So I don’t speak.

I just shift forward—slowly, so he knows I’m not asking for anything either—and lean into him. My shoulder brushes his, then rests there, light but certain.

His arm lifts instinctively, making room for me, and I settle against his side, head tucked just beneath his collarbone.

My hand still wrapped in his. Our plates forgotten.

The firelight flickers gently across his skin, casting everything in a hush of warmth.

His arm is solid beneath my cheek, steady and sure—like a ledge meant for leaning.

Like I could rest there as long as I need.

For a moment, neither of us moves.

I feel his breath change—deeper, slower.

Like something heavy just eased loose inside him.

It makes my chest soften, my body melt a little closer into his side.

Like I’ve just watched the wind still—and I get to be the place he comes to rest. Like something in him’s been fighting to hold still for too long, and now it doesn’t have to.

I close my eyes.

Just for a second.

Not to sleep.

Just to feel this.

To memorize it.

His body beside mine. The rise and fall of his chest. The faint thrum of his pulse beneath my cheek—steady, quiet, grounding.

I don’t say I want to help again.

I don’t have to.

He knows now.

And he’s letting me stay.

I think that might be the most important thing anyone’s ever done for me.