Page 4 of Let Me In

EMMY

I take the long way. Twice.

Once on purpose. The second, out of habit. Or maybe fear, dressed up as caution.

It adds nearly forty minutes to the ride, winding through the lower trails, looping up the back ridge. I tell myself it’s better this way, that I need the time. That I’m avoiding soft mud, or sharp gravel, or something else that doesn’t wear his face.

But I’m lying.

I don’t want to see him again. Not because he was unkind... he wasn’t. He was the opposite. And that’s the problem.

Because I can’t shake the way he looked at me, like I wasn’t something to glance past, but something to see. Like I wasn’t something to be tolerated, but something quietly… welcomed.

So on the third day, I idle at the mouth of the shortcut. Helmet on. Gloves tight. The bike is quiet but pulsing beneath me like a heartbeat I can’t steady.

I tell myself I’m only taking it because I’m tired. Because the weather’s good. Because it’s a shortcut, and I’m allowed to use it.

I tell myself a lot of things.

The trees close around me like they always do—cool, green, quiet. I ride slower than I need to. Listening for something I won’t admit I want to hear. My eyes catch every shadow, every shift of light through branches, waiting for the shape that means he’s still there.

And then I see it.

The cabin. Low and wide. Solar panels catching sun on the roof. The deck empty.

But he’s there.

Down by the woodpile this time. Splitting logs with a practiced swing that looks more like choreography than labor. Like it’s something meditative. Or precise.

He looks up before I stop.

Doesn’t wave. Doesn’t move.

Just watches.

I don’t even realize I’ve stopped until the silence catches me—my hands easing off the grips, the hum of the bike fading.

Until my helmet is halfway off and his eyes are already on me.

He doesn’t speak yet. Doesn’t pressure. Just… waits.

I lift my gaze to his, unsure. My fingers twitch slightly on the chin strap. There's a flicker in his eyes when he catches it, like he sees more than I meant to show. Like he feels it too. Then he speaks.

“You’ve already said sorry,” he says, voice low and steady, with just enough edge to make it stick. “That’s enough. It’s okay now.”

It’s uncanny—because I was just about to. The words were already lining up behind my teeth, reflexive and automatic. But he caught them before I could, like he knew. Like he was already looking out for the part of me that can’t help but flinch first.

And it doesn’t sound like dismissal. It sounds like reassurance. Somehow, that shakes me more than if he’d raised his voice.

Then, just long enough to let the air settle between us:

“What should I call you?”

His eyes hold mine as he says it. Not hard. Not sharp. Just… steady. Like he means to hold the answer as carefully as I choose to give it.

He plants the axe into the stump beside him with one hand—clean and casual. Leaves it there and steps a little closer. Not too close. Just enough to show me he’s here because he wants to be. Because he’s listening.

I shift on the bike, flustered, already brushing my gloves down my jacket like I can clean the nerves off me.

“Um… Emmy. Emilia, but just Emmy or Em,” it comes out in the same breath I start trying to explain. Why I’m here, why I stopped. My existence as a whole, maybe. “I didn’t mean to make this weird. I just needed the shortcut. I didn’t want to cross a line.”

He watches me for a moment longer than feels fair, like he’s taking in more than what I’m saying, reading what I didn’t say, too.

“You’re not weird,” he says finally. His voice stays low, steady, but there’s a change in it now—calmer, more certain, touched with a quiet warmth that wasn’t there before.

“You’re real. People don’t know what to do with that sometimes.”

A beat passes. Then, softer, like it’s just for me, “You don’t have to apologize for being exactly how you are.”

“Emilia,” he says, like he’s saying it for the first time—slow and certain, like it matters to him. Like he’s trying it on not just as a name, but as something he wants to keep saying. I don’t even care that he used my full name, the one that always felt like it never quite fit.

Because when he says it, it does.

“Emmy is good, too,” and when he says that, something in me… loosens.

Then: “Cal. Or Calder.”

Not quite a smile. Just a flicker at the corners—subtle, warm, like a promise he isn’t ready to speak.

“You can use it,” he says. “Anytime.”

My mind trips over it. Use what? His name? The trail? The welcome in his voice?

“I don’t mind seeing you, either.”

That one nearly undoes me. Not loud. Not showy. Just said like it’s simple, obvious. Like I’m not a burden to notice.

He glances over his shoulder toward the deck. “You want some water?”

I blink. Caught off guard. Still thinking about using his name, anytime. “Water?”

He nods toward a thermos sitting on a small wooden crate beside the logs. “Or tea.”

My fingers fidget around the chin strap of my helmet. “What kind?”

“Nothing fancy,” he says. “Black. No sugar.”

I hesitate, then finally let my grip fall from the handlebars and lean back on the seat. “Please, if it isn’t too much trouble.”

I add, light and half under my breath, “You always keep a thermos ready for strangers on bikes?”

His reply is so quiet I almost miss it.

“Just the ones who stop twice.”

The words are spoken softly, but they lodge deep. I feel my chest tighten—not in fear, but in that strange, breathless way kindness sometimes stings. Like warmth reaching a place gone too long without it.

I don’t settle, but I do hook my helmet onto the end of one handlebar, and rest my gloves over the other.

He steps over, uncaps the thermos, pours the tea into a tin camping mug, and hands it to me. The warmth seeps into my fingers.

I don’t drink yet. Just hold it.

“Thank you,” I say, and I mean it. Simple as that.

His eyes rest on me a little longer than necessary.

Like the thank you caught him off guard.

Like the fact that I sound surprised by the kindness does something to him he won’t let show.

“I’ve been riding up here for years,” I say, eyes drifting toward the trees. The ridge that goes for miles above. “Since I was a kid, on and off.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just listens.

“But I wasn’t up here last summer. Got hurt. So when I finally came back and saw the house… and you…”

I shrug a little. “It surprised me, that’s all. Sorry I didn’t stop that first time.”

My voice drops a little, caught between apology and something else I can’t quite name. Like I’m afraid he might think I didn’t want to. That I didn’t notice him. But I did. And I haven’t stopped thinking about it since.

“You didn’t owe me anything,” he says, like it’s the easiest truth in the world. “You stopped when you were ready.”

He nods. Once. Like that’s enough. Like it makes sense.

Then he says, “Don’t see many of those around here.”

I follow his gaze to the Surron. “Yeah. Had something heavier before.”

His eyes flick to mine, quiet and waiting.

"Burned me,” I say simply. “Didn’t go back to it.”

Then, dryly, almost without thinking: “Hot exhaust and short legs? Not a great combo.”

To my surprise, his mouth twitches. Not quite a smile, but the beginning of one.

“Not everyone learns it the first time,” he says, and I think it’s the closest thing to teasing I’ve heard from him yet.

Another nod. Not just understanding—approval.

“Surron’s a good fit,” he says. “Clean. Light. Fast.”

Then, softer: “Smart.”

Praise isn’t something I’m used to hearing. Not without a sharp edge behind it. But this—simple, sincere—settles in a place I didn’t realize was hungry for it. I look away before I can show how much it matters.

I take a sip. It’s hot and dark—no sweetness—but not harsh either. Familiar, in a way that surprises me.

“I usually like mine sweeter,” I murmur into the rim of the cup, then glance at him. “But black’s my favourite too.”

He doesn’t respond with words. Just a small nod. A flicker in his expression like he’s memorizing that fact for later.

I shift my weight, glance toward the trees, then back at him. “You always lived in the quiet?”

Cal doesn’t answer right away. Just watches the ridge for a second, like he’s measuring something before handing it over.

“Not always,” he says. “But I earned the quiet. And now, I don’t trade it easy.”

The words come low and quiet—like something with roots. Not a warning, but a boundary shaped by survival.

I don’t know what to say to that, so I don’t push. But I hold onto the weight of it.

After another sip, I offer the mug back.

Our hands brush, just slightly, as he takes it.

No spark. No jolt. Just a quiet warmth. Steady and sure, like the world held still for one soft second.

A quiet contact that lingers longer than it should.

My breath catches before I can stop it, and his eyes flick to mine— not asking, not demanding, just…

noticing. A silent note passed between us. Something that says, I felt that too.

He looks at me a moment longer than I expect. Like he’s letting the quiet stretch on purpose.

Then he moves back to the crate, sets the mug down, and leans a hip against the deck rail.

“You need to head back soon?” he asks, nodding toward the trail like he’s giving me the out. Not pushing. Just letting me choose.

I follow his gaze. Then look back at him.

I don’t answer right away.

Because for the first time in a long time, I don’t feel like I have to go.

There’s no tension tugging at the edges of me, no invisible leash yanking me back to where I’m supposed to be quiet, useful, invisible.

Just this stillness. Just him. And the strange, quiet freedom of not needing to explain why I want to stay.

But I can’t say that aloud. Don’t know how to say I don’t want to leave, but I don’t know how to ask to stay.

“Thank you,” I say again, quieter this time. Not just for the tea. For all of it.

He nods, but doesn’t fill the space with anything else. Like he knows that’s the kind of thank you that carries weight.

I reach for my gloves, push my helmet back onto my head, and cinch the strap beneath my chin. My fingers move slower than usual.

And somewhere in the middle of it, it hits me—

That’s the most I’ve spoken to anyone in months.

Maybe longer.

I didn’t even notice it happening. Like his quiet made space for mine.

And I already know I’ll be back.

I’ll carry this stillness with me as long as I can.