Page 38 of Let Me In

CAL

She shifts once against me.

Then again, slower.

Her shoulders drop, just slightly, like the last remnant of tension has loosened and let go.

The kind of drop that means she’s letting go.

Falling under.

Her body softens completely. The tension drains from her muscles like it was never there, though I know better.

She curls in tighter, the warmth of her body pressing close. Something in my chest eases, loosens, like I’ve just remembered how to breathe.

My shirt loose on her shoulders, her thighs tucked up against mine beneath the quilt, her hand still fisted gently in the fabric of my tee.

Like even in sleep, she doesn’t want to let go.

And God, I don’t want her to.

I don’t move.

I just sit there, still as stone, watching the firelight catch in the curve of her cheek, the dark of her lashes.

I watch her fall asleep.

Not like it’s something small.

Like it’s sacred.

Like I’ve been given something no one else on this earth has ever been trusted with. It awakens something old and deep in me—a vow I didn’t know I was still capable of making. Reverence, yes, but more than that. A fierce kind of devotion that spreads through my chest, protective and unshakable.

She fell asleep on me.

After everything.

After pain. After correction. After care.

After the words she whispered when she didn’t know how much they’d gut me.

Then hold me more.

I did.

I do.

And I will—again and again.

Even if this is the last night I breathe free air.

Because nothing else matters more than this.

More than her.

I wait until her breathing deepens.

Until her fingers go slack where they’ve clutched at my shirt.

Until the last of the firelight flickers low, casting the room in a soft, gold hush.

Then—slowly, carefully—I begin to shift.

She makes the smallest sound when I move.

A sigh, barely audible.

But I pause anyway.

One hand at her back. The other stroking her hip beneath the quilt.

“I’m right here, little one,” I whisper. “Just sleep.”

She doesn’t wake.

And it takes everything in me to ease out from under her.

To tuck the blanket high beneath her chin, a quiet hope blooming in my chest that the weight of it keeps her safe, held, even when my arms aren’t there to do it.

To pull the armchair close so she’s cradled on all sides. So she won’t feel my absence too sharply.

I place a kiss to her hair.

Hold it there for a breath longer than I should.

Then I stand.

Cross the room.

And step out into the night.

The Watcher is already here.

I knew he would be.

His truck’s tucked behind the rise near the edge of the tree line, blacked out, no lights, no sound. Same as always.

He doesn’t approach.

Just waits.

I walk to him in silence.

We don’t shake hands.

We haven’t in years.

He nods once. A low flick of his chin. The kind of greeting you earn after a lifetime of loyalty.

“She’s inside,” I say.

His eyes flick toward the cabin. No surprise. He already knows.

“She’s important,” he says.

My jaw clenches.

“She’s everything.”

Another nod.

We don’t need more.

I hand him a burner phone. Show him the alerts. The tracking perimeter.

“If it moves within twenty kilometers, I get the ping. You get the ping.”

He doesn’t ask what I’m doing tonight.

And I don’t offer it.

Because he knows.

He just glances at me once more, eyes sharp under the brim of his hood.

“I’ll keep her safe.”

I nod.

Then turn back toward the cabin.

One last time.

I step back inside.

Close the door without a sound.

The heat greets me like a memory—faint woodsmoke, her shampoo, the lingering trace of lotion and sleep. The scents wrap around me, grounding and aching all at once, like stepping into a life I never believed I could have.

The fire’s mostly embers now, still pulsing low in the stove.

And there she is.

Exactly where I left her.

Curled beneath the quilt. One hand tucked beneath her cheek. The other resting loose over the place I used to be.

Her lashes don’t flutter.

She doesn’t stir.

But something in me does.

I cross to her slowly. Kneel beside the couch.

One hand finds the edge of the quilt, smoothing it back up over her shoulder.

The other lifts—hesitates—and then brushes gently through her hair.

She leans into it in her sleep.

Of course she does.

Even asleep, her body knows me now.

Knows I’m safe.

Knows I won’t leave unless I have to.

“I’ll be back before you miss me,” I whisper, barely audible.

I press a kiss to her temple, and one more to her hairline.

And then I rise.

Already halfway into the man I used to be.

But I carry her with me... every step. Every breath. Every piece of me that’s still human.

Because she’s the reason I ever came back to life.

The bedroom is dark when I enter, but I don’t turn on the light.

I move by memory. By instinct and raw purpose.

The door to the bathroom clicks shut behind me, sealing the warmth in, the world out.

I peel my shirt off first.

The one she wore last night.

The one she slept in.

It hits me harder than I expect—the scent of her still clinging to the fabric. My chest tightens, breath hitching once before I can reel it back. I close my eyes for a beat, grounding myself in the ache and awe of what it means to hold even this small piece of her.

I fold it carefully. Set it on the counter like it’s something fragile.

Because it is.

Because she is.

The rest comes off in silence.

I step into the shower.

The water’s already hot, steam curling up around my shoulders before I even draw the curtain closed.

It hits me hard.

On the back of the neck. Down my spine.

Cleansing.

Not just sweat or sleep or touch.

But everything soft.

Everything that needs to be set aside now.

My palms press flat against the wall.

Head bowed under the stream. I force myself to let go of the part of me that wants to stay wrapped around her softness and never leave. I bury it—deep—because what I need now isn’t comfort. It’s clarity. Resolve.

I don’t rush.

I don’t speak.

I just breathe.

And let the water do what it’s always done.

Strip me down.

Steel me up.

Make me clean enough to carry out what has to be done—without a tremble, without a second thought.

When I finally shut the water off, I don’t feel softer.

I feel clear. Not cold. Not cruel.

Just ready.

I towel off fast. Pull on the black clothes that I haven't touched in years, the layers that fit like armor.

No creases.

No color.

No room for error.

I check the gear once more. Every piece where it should be, every weapon chosen with care, every movement silent.

Efficient.

Final.

I cross the room barefoot, the floor cool beneath me.

The rug shifts just slightly when I drag it back.

My fingers find the seam in the boards by muscle memory.

One firm tug.

The panel lifts clean.

And there it is.

The compartment I hoped I’d never open again.

But always kept ready.

Because part of me always knew: peace is borrowed. Protection is earned.

It's a mantra I’ve carried in my bones since long before I met her—sharpened by every mission, every vow I made and kept in blood. It steadies me now, not softens. A promise to myself as much as to her; that nothing gentle survives unless someone hard stands guard around it.

I crouch low.

My hand reaches in.

One by one, I take what I need.

A matte black Glock. Silenced. Clean.

The weight fits my hand like it never left.

A sheathed blade. Sharp. Silent.

A burner phone. New. Preloaded. Wiped.

The gloves—plain, dark, thin—but lined with memory. I pull them on, flexing my fingers once. They still fit like they were made for me.

And then—

The vial.

Clear.

Small.

Unassuming.

Lethal.

I stare at it for a beat longer than I should, the glass catching a sliver of dim light.

Let the cold kiss of glass rest against my skin.

It hums in my palm, a reminder of just how far I'm willing to go. My jaw tightens, chest cinching around something old and unrelenting. There’s no tremble in my grip, but there is weight. History. Intention.

Then I slide it into the inner pocket of my jacket.

I close the floor, replace the rug, and stand up to look around once.

The room is dark. Still. Hers.

She’s not in here—but I see her everywhere.

The quiet hum of her lingers in the room. Lavender and tea and the lotion I rubbed into her skin not an hour ago.

I whisper it... not a threat, not a prayer. Just truth.

“This is for her.”

And then I leave.

The gravel crunches under my boots as I cross the drive.

Not loud.

Just enough to remind the trees I’m coming.

The Watcher is in position—out of sight now, but I know exactly where he’s posted. Hidden between the trees with a rifle that won’t miss. He won’t take a shot unless he has to.

He won’t need to.

That’s my job.

I reach the truck. Slide into the driver’s seat.

Start the engine without hesitation.

Lights off.

The cabin behind me stays dark.

But I feel her in it.

Like the weight of her lingers in the air. Settling in my chest. Soothing something jagged. My breath softens without me meaning it to.

Sleeping in my flannel, and warm and safe beneath the quilt I wrapped around her shoulders.

The sight of her like that—nestled in what used to be just mine—stirs something fierce and aching in my chest. Reverence, yes, but also a bone-deep protectiveness that roots me right there, breath caught, heart slowed, like the world narrowed to her resting against my absence.

Her hair spread across my pillow. Her scent in the sheets.

Mine.

I check the tracker again.

The car hasn’t moved.

Still tucked behind the rundown motel where he’s been holed up for two days.

Long enough to confirm, long enough to plan. Long enough to know this isn’t just surveillance.

It’s a message.

I tap the screen once. Map confirmed, route clean. No cameras and no traffic.

No witnesses.

Just me and the night.

I pull out slow. Gravel muted under the tires.

Hit the road with the windows down just enough to feel the air shift around me.

And as the trees blur past—

I let go.

Of warmth.

Of softness.