Page 299 of Let Me In

37

EMMY

The cabin isquiet in that full, golden way it only gets in early afternoon. The fire’s still going. Luca is snoring softly under the table, his paws twitching in sleep. Cleo’s curled like a comma at the edge of the couch, her tiny breaths syncing with the quiet warmth of the room, her little chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

I’m warm. Clean. Held in the hush of everything being okay.

But there’s a knot in my stomach that won’t quite loosen.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Just… knowing.

Cal hasn’t said anything yet. He made tea for both of us, kissed the top of my head when he passed me mine. He refilled the dogs’ water bowl. Checked the stove. Moved around the cabin like it was any other day.

But I can feel it.

The shift. In the way the light catches on the set of his shoulders. In the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his steps—slower, heavier. Like the cabin is bracing for something it already knows is coming.

He carries it in his shoulders. In the set of his jaw. In the way his eyes linger just a beat too long when they meet mine, quiet and unreadable and full of something I don’t know how to name.

I think—maybe if I don’t speak, he won’t.

Maybe if I stay small—good and still, curled into the quiet like something delicate—he’ll let it go. Maybe the heat in his gaze will soften into something gentle. Maybe we’ll wrap the silence around us like a blanket and pretend it never happened. Just another evening. Just another hush between us.

But I know better.

I broke a rule.

Not just any rule. A safety rule.

And Cal—he’s not the kind of man who lets that slide.

Not out of anger.

Not because he wants control for the sake of it.

But because he loves me. Because his love holds shape and form. Because he builds safety with boundaries and makes his expectations clear.

Because structure matters—because I matter.

Still, even knowing all of that, I flinch a little when I hear it.

“Come here, baby.”

His voice is low. Steady. Gentle in that way that cuts deeper than anything sharp.

I look up from my tea. My fingers curl tighter around the mug.

He’s sitting in the recliner now. One leg stretched out, the other pulled close. His arms resting on the wide arms of the chair, palms open. He’s so still it feels deliberate—like he’s anchoring the whole room with his body, offering the kind of calm that draws everything in.

Waiting.

I set the mug down with careful hands, fingers brushing the edge like it might break.

My legs feel unsteady as I cross the room, the floor cool beneath my bare feet. The space between us feels longer than it is—like every step carries weight I can’t quite shake.