Page 309 of Let Me In

I was never too much. Never too hard to love.

And I’ll never have to run again.

This is what it means to come home.

His breath slows before mine.

I feel it in the way his chest rises and falls beneath my palm.

In the way his hold on me stays firm, even as sleep pulls him under.

But I’m still awake, just for a moment longer.

So I can memorize this.

The weight of his arm around me.

The low hum of his breath, steady against the back of my neck.

The lingering warmth of his kiss, still blooming soft on my temple, like a promise pressed into skin.

“I love you,” he’d said, and I believed him—not just tonight, not just now, but fully. Finally. I believe him.

Because real love doesn’t flinch. It doesn’t flee. It stays.

Even when it’s hard. Even when you’re sure you don’t deserve it—especially then.

I breathe him in one last time, soft and slow, and let my eyes fall shut. For the first time in my life, I don’t brace for what comes next. Because it’s him. Because it’s us. Because I’m not lost anymore, and I’m not alone.

I’m his.

38

CAL

It’s still darkwhen I wake. The kind of dark that hums with hush, with warmth, with something unseen but near enough to touch. Not cold or hollow, but heavy and full, like the whole night is holding its breath. Like it’s waiting on me to breathe it in.

She’s curled against me just like before, the way sleep left us: her body small and soft and warm against mine in every place I crave.

One of her hands is still fisted in my shirt—loose now, but there. Like her body didn’t mean to hold on. It just couldn’t help it. A reflex. A tether.

Her breath brushes the base of my throat, warm and steady. Each exhale whispering that she’s real. That she’s here. That we’re safe.

That we’re home.

And still—

Something in me won’t quiet. Like part of me’s still out there. Still crawling through ash and dark and blood. Still listening for the crack of bone. Still searching the chaos for the shape of her.

It lives under my ribs. A restless, prowling ache. Not adrenaline. Not lust. Not hunger.

Need.

Something older. Deeper. Like if I don’t touch her now—really touch her—I won’t come all the way back.

Not to the man she knows. Not to the man I’m trying to be.

I shift carefully. No rush. No sharpness. Just steady, like I don’t want to wake the ache. Like I want to anchor us both with the weight of this need.