Page 44 of Let Me In

EMMY

The first thing I feel is his hand.

Broad and warm, splayed low on my back beneath the sheets, fingers curling gently around my waist. The second thing is the heat of him: chest against mine, legs tangled through mine, the steady rise and fall of his breath brushing the crown of my head.

I don’t open my eyes right away.

His skin warm against mine, the faint scent of cedar and sleep lingering on him, each breath slow and grounding as it ghosts over my hair. He’s still here. Still wrapped around me like nothing could pry him loose.

And for the first time in a long, long time… I don’t want to move.

Not because I’m afraid.

But because this... this hush, this quiet, this safety, feels fragile in the most beautiful way. Like snow that hasn’t been stepped in. Like breath caught between heartbeats. And I’m still a little afraid I’ll somehow ruin it.

He shifts slightly, just enough to pull me closer. I feel the drag of his palm along my hip to my waist, slow and intentional.

“You awake, little one?”

His voice is low. Rasped with sleep and something deeper, something that wraps around my chest and holds.

I nod, barely, before curling deeper into his hold.

His hand rises to brush my hair back from my face, thumb stroking my cheek.

“Good. Didn’t want you waking up alone.”

I blink up at him then.

He’s already watching me, eyes soft. Still storm-grey. But quiet now.

Like he knows what last night meant, and he felt it, too.

“You okay?” he murmurs. “Anything hurt?”

“A little,” I whisper. “But… not in a bad way.”

His mouth lifts, just barely.

“Still mine?” he asks softly, voice low and rough around the edges. His eyes don’t waver from mine, steady and searching, like he needs this answer more than he’ll ever say.

My breath catches, but I don’t hesitate.

“Yours.”

That one word—his word—fills the room like sunlight.

He leans in and kisses my forehead, then lingers there.

“Good,” he says against me. “Because I don’t want to go another morning without you in my arms.”

He doesn’t move right away. Just stays there, holding me like I’m something precious and warm and his. His thumb strokes the curve of my waist through the sheets, each pass slow and grounding. I let myself melt into him, my cheek over his heart, its beat echoing in my chest.

Eventually, he speaks again. Low and close.

“You hungry?”

I nod against his skin. “A little. Not enough to get up.”

He hums. “I’ll make you something.”

I start to shift, to sit up, but his arm tightens around me—gentle but firm.

“Let me,” he says. “Just this once.”

Something in me softens at the words. My body stills against him, heat blooming low in my belly. It's not just the offer. It’s the way he says it. Quiet, sure. Like it’s a gift he wants to give, not a duty to take on.

My lips part, but I don’t argue.

Because maybe I like being taken care of.

And I’ve never really been taken care of like this before.

He slips out from beneath the covers and lifts me with him, strong arms bracketing me close. I squeak a little at the motion, instinctively, but I don’t resist.

“Cal—”

“Shh,” he murmurs, already walking. “I’ve got you, little one.”

He carries me to the kitchen like I weigh nothing. Like it’s the most natural thing in the world. One hand beneath my thighs, the other steady at my back. I curl into him without thinking, legs tucked loosely around his waist, my face buried against his neck.

He sets me down in one of the kitchen chairs, tucks a blanket around my shoulders, and presses another kiss to the top of my head.

“Sit. Stay warm. I’ll take care of the rest.”

And he does.

Moves through the space with the same quiet grace he always does. He cracks eggs into a bowl, sprinkles herbs without measuring, slices bread with a kind of reverence that makes it all feel like ritual.

I watch him from the table.

Still wearing his shirt. Still sore. Still stunned by how deeply I feel this ache for him—not just the physical one, but the one in my chest that wants to stay here forever.

He glances back once.

Catches me staring.

Doesn’t say anything.

Just smiles that slow, private smile that starts in his eyes and works its way through his whole face.

And something inside me just… warms.

Like maybe I’m not going to wake up and find it was a dream after all.

He makes it look easy, as if he’s done this a hundred times. That cooking for someone, caring for someone, is second nature.

But I know better. This isn’t just muscle memory. It’s intention.

Every time he stirs the pan or slices something or glances back to check on me, it’s deliberate. Grounded.

Real.

The cabin smells like toast and herbs and something savory I can’t name. My stomach growls quietly, and Cal doesn’t miss it—his mouth tips up at the corner as he slides a plate toward me.

Eggs, toast perfectly browned, few strips of bacon, crisp but not burned. And a little sprig of parsley on the side, like he wanted it to look nice.

He sets a cup of tea beside it. The exact way I take it, because he’s long memorized it.

“Eat up, little one,” he says, settling across from me with his own plate. “You need it.”

I pick up my fork, cheeks already warm.

But before I can take a bite, he leans forward, a piece of bacon in hand.

“Let me,” he says.

I blink.

“You want to… feed me?”

That same smile again—quiet, sure, a little amused.

“I want to take care of you.” His voice is low and steady, threaded with something soft. Not playful. Not teasing. Just true.

Heat blooms across my chest. Down my neck. My thighs press together instinctively beneath the blanket.

But I open my mouth, let him slip the bite between my lips. He watches me chew like it matters. Like every movement means something.

And god, it does.

To him.

To me.

He feeds me a few more bites like that—small things, easy things—but his eyes never leave my face. When I laugh softly at myself for nearly missing the edge of the toast with my teeth, he just smiles wider.

And then he reaches down, tears off a piece of bacon, and flicks it gently toward the floor.

“Here,” he murmurs. “One for you.”

Luca snuffles it up with a grunt.

Then Cleo gets hers.

And I laugh—really laugh—for the first time since I don’t know when. A soft, choked sound that bubbles up before I can stop it.

Cal freezes.

Then looks up at me.

Like I’ve just handed him something priceless. His eyes go wide, then soften, jaw flexing like he’s holding something back. His hand comes to rest over his heart, thumb pressing in as if to keep it from breaking open right there in front of me.

“You should laugh more,” he says.

My breath catches. I look down at my plate, fingers tightening around the fork.

He reaches over.

Brushes a crumb from the corner of my mouth with his thumb.

“Keep eating, sweet girl,” he says, voice low. “I want to see you full.”

I finish most of my breakfast.

Not because I feel like I have to.

But because he keeps watching me like he wants me to. Like every bite settles something in him too.

When I set my fork down, he leans back in his chair, studying me.

“How’s your body feel?” he asks softly.

I hesitate. Then shrug a little. “Sore.”

“Too much?”

“No,” I say quickly, and feel the heat build in my cheeks before I even say the next words. “In… in a good way.”

Cal closes his eyes for a moment, dips his head. I swear I see his mouth move, silently counting. It takes everything in me not to giggle. Maybe a small one slips out.

“You’re going to kill me, talking like that,” he rasps out, before standing and reaching for my hand. “Gonna make me throw the whole day out the window. Just take you to bed.”

My pulse races, and I say nothing, lips pressing together in a small, bashful smile. His gaze flares at my sudden shyness, at the fact that I don’t say no. That I might want that, too.

Then, he reaches for my hand.

“Come on.”

“Where?”

“I ran the bath before breakfast. I want you warm. And I want you to let me take care of you.”

I go quiet, struck with… how much this man cares for me. So deeply, and seemingly so easily.

But I follow.

Because of course I do. Because it’s Cal. Because every time he reaches for me, I want to be closer.

The bathroom is filled with steam. The air is thick with the scent of eucalyptus and something a little sweet. The tub is deep. The water—hot but not too hot—still swirling faintly.

He turns to me, gaze steady.

Undoes the buttons of the flannel I’m wearing, and with each one, something inside me flutters and folds inward.

It’s not just that I’m exposed; it’s the way he does it.

Slow and certain. Like he’s unwrapping something cherished, not undressing me.

I feel grounded and humbled all at once.

One by one, his fingers sure but unhurried.

His eyes never leave mine, not even when he pushes the fabric from my shoulders, lets it pool on the floor.

I shiver, standing there bare in front of him. Not from cold, but from the weight of his gaze.

Not hungry. Not possessive.

Worshipful.

He cups my jaw with one hand.

“You’re beautiful,” he says. “So damn beautiful.”

I close my eyes. Try to breathe through it. Breathe through all the memories of being told otherwise, and trying to unwire them with just this one.

He doesn’t push, like he knows. Just helps me step into the water, his hands at my waist, guiding.

Once I’m seated, knees pulled gently to my chest, he strips down too. Not slow or teasing. Just quiet. Unapologetic.

And then he climbs in behind me, pulls me back against him. His thighs bracket mine, while his arms come around my middle. His chin rests against my temple.

And we stay like that for a long, long time.

He doesn’t speak at first, doesn’t have to.

His hands move slowly over my skin. Washing. Rinsing. Stroking. Loving.

Fingertips over my thighs.

Palms across my arms.

The cloth trails along the backs of my knees, the slope of my shoulders, the dip of my spine.