Page 48 of Let Me In

His chin rests against my shoulder. His breath is warm at my neck. And even though the food is gone and the tea’s cooling in the mugs, neither of us says a word about getting up.

Because this?

This is more than breakfast.

It’s a kind of belonging I don’t know how to hold with words.

So I hold it with my body instead.

With the way I curl into him.

With the way I let my head rest beneath his jaw.

With the way I breathe slower when he strokes his palm along my hip in slow, quiet circles.

“You’re everything,” he says softly.

Like it’s just for me.

Like it’s not something he meant to say out loud.

And maybe it wasn’t.

But I hear it.

I feel it.

It folds into me like the heat of the morning sun through the windows.

Like something I’ll carry long after I leave his lap.

If I ever leave it at all.

The warmth between us has gone still, heavy with comfort.

Cal’s heartbeat has slowed beneath my ear. His hand rests low on my side, thumb drawing soft shapes I can’t name. We haven’t spoken in minutes, but it doesn’t feel like silence.

It feels like a sanctuary.

And then—

A cold nose presses under Cal’s arm.

He glances down just as Cleo tries again, more insistent this time, pawing gently at his thigh.

Luca’s tail thumps against the floorboards, and a low whine escapes him as he noses toward the door.

Cal groans—quiet and fond.

“They’ve waited long enough.”

I smile into his shirt.

“They have.”

He doesn’t move right away.

Just pulls me closer for one last squeeze. One last slow inhale against my hair.

Then he shifts, standing with me still in his arms.

My breath leaves me in surprise, even though I should be used to this by now. But how could I ever get used to all of this?

“Cal!”

“I told you,” he murmurs, smirking. “I’m keeping you today.”

He sets me down only when we reach the bench near the door, guiding me to sit while he reaches for our boots.

Mine first. He kneels to tug them on, pulling the laces snug.

Then his own.

Then the leashes.

Then—

“Let’s go, little one.”

He holds the door open for me.

The morning greets us with bright green woods, a soft breeze, and the sharp, sweet scent of earth warmed by spring.

And I realize I’m not just stepping outside.

I’m stepping into something. Something real. Something good.

Something that feels like a beginning.

The woods feel different today.

Not because the trail has changed—it hasn’t. The pine needles still muffle our steps. The sun still filters down in gold slants through the trees. The breeze still carries birdsong and something green and new.

But I’ve changed.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m not walking alone.

Cal stays close beside me.

Close enough that I feel the brush of his fingers at my lower back every so often. Each time, my body responds before my mind can catch up—leaning in without thinking, drawn to the quiet safety in his touch. It anchors me. Reminds me I'm not alone anymore. He's not pushing. Not guiding.

Just there, a silent reminder.

Every time I veer too far toward the edge of the trail, he’s there.

A touch to my hip.

A quiet, “Easy, little one.”

Every time I pause to watch the way Luca bounds ahead or how Cleo stops to sniff every third tree, he waits.

Never rushes me.

Just watches with that soft kind of patience that makes me feel like there’s nothing I could do that would make him want to be anywhere else.

“You warm enough?” he asks at one point, his hand slipping from my back to brush my arm.

I nod. “Perfect.”

He grunts softly. “You’d tell me if you weren’t?”

I don’t even think.

I just say it.

“Yes, Daddy.”

The words leave my mouth before I can second-guess them—low and steady, but trembling slightly at the edges.

They bloom in my chest like warmth after a long freeze.

My stomach flutters, but not from nerves.

From relief. From the soft, aching clarity of saying something I’ve wanted for so long it feels like breathing.

And the world reacts.

Or maybe it’s just him.

Cal stops walking.

Dead still.

The dogs keep going ahead, oblivious. The breeze keeps moving through the trees. But everything close to me… goes quiet.

His hand is still at my waist.

But now it’s tighter.

Not rough. Just… anchored.

Like the ground moved beneath him and he’s holding on.

I blink up at him. Heat floods my cheeks.

“I—was that okay?”

My voice is small. Uncertain. I hadn’t planned to say it. It just fit. Like it had always been there, waiting.

His eyes are on me. Wrecked.

Not in the breaking way.

In the found way.

“Okay?” he says, like the word doesn’t make sense. His voice is hoarse. Roughened at the edges in a way I’ve only ever heard when he’s holding something back.

He takes a breath, shoulders rising with the weight of it. His jaw flexes, a muscle ticking just beneath his stubble. Then he shakes his head slowly, like he’s trying to steady something inside him before it breaks loose.

“Baby…”

It’s all he says. His voice trembles, like it cracked open on the way out. His eyes are locked on mine, shining with something he’s not hiding anymore. One hand curls slightly at his side, as if he’s grounding himself in the moment. If he doesn’t hold still, he might fall apart right there.

It’s not the word that undoes me. It’s the way he says it.

His hand comes up—cupping my cheek so gently I could almost cry. His thumb brushes beneath my eye, even though there are no tears. Just… something bigger.

“I need you to hear this,” he says, voice low. Steady, but almost ruined. “You never have to ask if that’s okay.”

My breath hitches.

He steps in closer.

“That word?” he murmurs. “That’s everything I’ve been holding back. Everything I’ve wanted to be for you.”

His forehead comes to rest against mine.

“And hearing you say it… I swear, baby. It just about dropped me to my knees.”

I close my eyes.

Because I feel it.

Every part of him wrapped around every part of me, even when we’re barely touching.

His thumb keeps stroking my cheek.

“I’ll earn it,” he adds. “Every day, in every way. I’ll earn being your Daddy.”

I lean into his palm.

He pulls me in.

Not just a hug.

An offering.

He wraps around me like he’s not sure where he ends and I begin. Like he doesn’t want to know. His hands spread wide across my back. His chin tucks over my head. His whole body stills.

And I whisper, into the soft space beneath his jaw—

“Okay.”

He holds me for longer than he needs to.

But I don’t pull away.

Not even when the dogs double back, curious. Not even when Luca noses at the hem of my leggings or Cleo flops down nearby with a huff.

Cal just rests his chin on my head and lets the world go on without us.

Then, softer than I expect:

“So now that I’ve got you sayin’ Daddy,” he murmurs, his thumb brushing a slow arc at the base of my spine, the edge of a grin tugging at his mouth—more warmth than tease, like he’s proud and a little undone, he murmurs, “does that mean I can finally make you eat the carrots without the dramatic sighing?”

I laugh. Not because it’s that funny.

Because it’s safe.

Because it’s exactly what I needed.

I glance up at him, cheeks warm. “You like the sighing.”

He raises a brow. “I tolerate the sighing. Barely.”

I poke his chest. “Liar.”

He smiles, slow and devastating.

“Maybe. But I’m your Daddy now.” He says it low, warm, entirely without edge. “And that means I get the final say.”

I pretend to huff. “That sounds suspiciously like a dictatorship.”

He tilts his head. “Sounds like care to me.”

And there it is again.

That hum beneath the teasing. That steady, grounding truth.

I press my face into his chest for one more breath.

Then nod.

And we start walking again.

This time—his hand never leaves my back.

The trail climbs in slow curves.

Roots twist underfoot, softened by moss. Every few steps, I glance over my shoulder—half from habit, half just to see him. Cal walks close behind me, one hand resting lightly at my lower back, the other holding both leashes with quiet ease.

The dogs move like they know this place. Like they trust it.

Like I’m allowed to trust it too.

Then the trees begin to thin.

One by one, they fall away, trunks spreading out like open hands until suddenly—

There it is.

The ridge.

The clearing breaks open into sky and valley and light. Green spills out below us in every shade, stretching wide and full and endless. And the wind up here is soft—cool against my cheeks, warm against my chest. It smells like pine and sun-warmed stone and something that feels like home.

I stop without meaning to.

Cal pauses beside me, silent.

And then—he moves.

No announcement. No grand gesture.

Just a quiet kneel, unfolding the blanket from where he’d tucked it under his arm. He spreads it over the flat rock that catches the most sun, smoothing each corner with quiet care. It’s not just a blanket. It’s a place. A space he’s making for us. And it feels like being chosen.

Then he looks up at me.

“Come here, little one.”

His voice is soft. Rough with something I can’t name.

I go.

I always go.

He sits first. Legs long, hands braced behind him.

I lower beside him, uncertain for a second where to fit.

But Cal fixes that too.

He tugs me close. One arm around my shoulders, the other resting across my thigh like he means to keep me there.

And I let him.

I lean into his side, my head tucked beneath his chin.

The wind combs gently through the grass. Cleo curls up nearby. Luca flops down with a grunt and a huff, his chin resting on his paws like he’s settled in for the long haul.

Cal’s thumb strokes slow circles against my arm.

And in that hush—where nothing aches and nothing asks—I feel it again.

Not the fear.

Not the fight.

Just this.

This quiet.

This choice.

This day that’s finally ours.

I don’t mean to kiss him.

I just… look up.

His face is tilted toward the trees, eyes half-lidded against the sun. He looks so still, so sure. Like the world could turn itself inside out and he’d just pull me closer.