Page 57 of Let Me In

EMMY

I wake to stillness.

Not the peaceful kind. Not the kind that settles over the cabin like a quilt. This is the other kind—the kind that presses against the ribs, tight and hollow. The kind that tells you, before your eyes even open, that something’s shifted.

The sheets are empty beside me, the fabric faintly rumpled where his body used to rest, but now gone cold.

I listen for the usual sounds: the trees close to the window creaking with the light wind, fire crackling, maybe the soft tread of his boots on the hardwood.

But it’s quiet.

Too quiet.

I sit up slowly, Cal’s flannel slipping from my shoulders where I wore it to sleep, the fabric soft and heavy with his warmth. I press my face into it for a second. Try to breathe the unease out of my lungs.

It doesn’t work.

The floor is cold under my feet. I pad through the cabin, dogs still curled in their beds, the fire down to embers. Cal stands in the kitchen, not moving.

Something about the way he’s standing—the way he keeps checking the window, then the fire, then the door—makes my stomach twist.

He’s thinking. Calculating. Gathering himself.

He’s dressed already. Dark shirt. Jacket. His hands rest flat on the counter, shoulder blades drawn tight. He’s looking out the window, but I can tell he isn’t really seeing it.

Something’s wrong.

But when I say his name, he turns.

And the moment his eyes find mine—it’s him again.

My Cal. My center.

But steadier than usual. Quieter.

Like everything in him has been sorted already. All that’s left is the carrying out.

“Hey, baby,” he says, voice low.

I cross the room. My fingers find the edge of the counter, then slide over his. He doesn’t flinch. Just folds his hand around mine.

“What’s happening?” I ask.

His eyes flick to mine, and something in his face softens even more. Then opens one hand toward the couch.

“Come here, baby. Let’s sit for a minute.”

My chest pulls tight.

But I cross to him anyway, heart thudding, and let him draw me down into his lap once we’re settled.

He gathers me into his lap, one arm braced around my back, the other anchoring my thighs—his hold secure and strong, like he’s claiming me quiet and sure.

The firm press of his chest steadying mine, his warmth sinking deep into my skin.

I tuck my legs to the side. Rest my head against his collarbone. Feel the steadiness of his breath beneath my cheek.

“You’re leaving,” I say quietly. Not a question.

His jaw works. Not tense. Just slow.

“I need to,” he says. “Two nights. That’s all.”

My chest tightens.

He sees it instantly—tilts his head, studying me with that unreadable gentleness that always comes before he says something I don’t want to hear.

“I wouldn’t go unless I had to. And I wouldn’t go without telling you. Not anymore.”

I nod. Try not to blink too fast. Try to stay still.

“What is it?” I whisper.

His thumb strokes over my knuckles. That little scar on my pinkie, as if it matters.

“I won’t give you names,” he says. “Not details. But someone from my past… someone who should’ve stayed buried… didn’t.”

My fingers twitch against his shirt.

He strokes a hand down my back. Not soothing me out of it—just keeping me here.

“This person’s nearby,” he says. “And I need to make sure they never come close again.”

I lift my head slowly.

“Are you in danger?”

His eyes meet mine.

“No.”

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t hedge.

“But if I don’t deal with this,” he adds, “you could be.”

My stomach turns. But I nod. Quietly.

“When?”

“This evening,” he says. “Two nights. That’s all I need.”

I swallow. My throat aches.

He feels it—presses a kiss to my temple.

“I’m not leaving you unprotected,” he murmurs. “The same man I told you about before—The Watcher. He’s nearby again. Just like last time.”

A thin, sharp inhale breaks loose—small and sudden, like something inside me just tripped.

“I didn’t realize he’d still be close.” His jaw tips in a quiet confirmation, more breath than movement.

“Only when I need him to be. Tonight, he’ll come by. Drop something off." He pauses. "I want you to see him. That’s all. You don’t have to talk to him. But I want you to know his face. So you’re not afraid, if you catch a glimpse.”

I nod. It’s all I can do. My throat is too tight.

My voice is barely a breath.

“You’re really going.”

He exhales like that hit him in the chest. Lifts my hand to his heart.

“I’m coming back, Emmy.”

Tears prick at the corners of my eyes. I shake my head.

“I know. I just…”

“You don’t have to be brave,” he says gently.

“But I want to be,” I whisper.

And I do. More than anything.

“I’ll be back in two days,” he says again. “The Watcher will stay close. The dogs’ll be fine. You’ll have the car, just in case.”

I don’t ask what he’s taking with him. I don’t ask what he plans to do.

But when I finally speak, it’s just one thing.

“Keep the compass with you.”

His eyes soften. He nods once.

I don’t move.

And neither does he.

The cabin is still wrapped in early morning hush. Just the pop of a coal shifting in the woodstove. The faint brush of wind against the windows.

But his arms…

His hold is everything—solid and warm, a quiet tether pulling all my scattered pieces home.

Wrapped around me like he’s not just holding me—but keeping me.

Like he’s memorizing the shape of this moment.

“I hate that this was always going to catch up with you,” I whisper, voice barely holding.

“It didn’t catch up,” he murmurs. “I turned around.”

I pull back just far enough to look at him.

His eyes are clear. Calm. No storm. No dread. Just… acceptance.

“Does it scare you?” I ask.

“Not anymore.”

He brushes my hair behind my ear, slow and gentle.

“I’m not going because I’m afraid,” he says. “I’m going because I’m done. And I want what comes after to be clean.”

My throat aches.

“And us?” I ask, small.

His jaw softens.

“You’re not part of after, baby. You’re the why.”

A sound breaks from my chest then. Not a sob. Not quite.

He cups my cheek, thumb smoothing under my eye.

“I spent half my life disappearing,” he says softly. “But I’m not doing that now. Not from you.”

I nod, blinking fast.

His voice lowers.

“You are the only reason I’ve got something to come home to.”

He lets that sit.

Lets me feel it.

Lets the truth of it press into the cracks that still haven’t healed in me.

“Don’t know how I’m going to sleep without you,” I admit. Not to guilt. Just the truth. I say it into the crook of his neck as I try to burrow deeper.

“In our bed, baby. You’ll sleep in our bed, and you’ll hear my voice before you sleep.”

I close my eyes, my fingers curling into the soft cotton of his shirt—holding on like it’s the only thing keeping me from unraveling. He pulls me in even closer, his arms banding around me with a quiet, steady strength that tells me he feels it too.

“And you’ll leave the porch light on.”

I nod too. Tears welling relentlessly.

He kisses the center of my forehead and whispers it, just for me.

“So I can find my way back.”

He doesn’t ask me to come with him.

And I don’t offer.

But when I hear him moving through the bedroom an hour later, I follow.

Not because I’m trying to stop him.

Because I want to be part of the going.

He’s standing beside the bed, duffel unzipped, laying out a few things with quiet precision—two shirts, a pair of dark jeans, gloves, socks folded in neat bundles.

His movements are methodical. Controlled.

He doesn’t hear me at first. Or maybe he does, but lets me decide.

I cross the room without a word. Step up beside him. My fingers hover for half a second—then reach for the stack of clothes.

I start folding them smaller. Smoother.

Tucking them into the bag with care.

I don’t speak.

And neither does he.

But his hands still. His breath shifts.

And I feel it—the moment it hits him.

That I’m not doing this out of obligation.

I’m doing it because this is all I can give him right now. Because if he has to carry weight tonight, I want him to carry it with something of me woven into the silence.

He turns his head slowly, watching me.

And when I finally glance up, there’s something in his eyes that wrecks me.

A kind of awe. A kind of ache.

Like this—my quiet helping—has undone him more than any I love you ever could.

He doesn’t speak.

Just reaches out, cups the back of my neck, and draws my forehead to his.

Our breaths mingle. Steady. Silent.

I whisper, “I know you’re coming back.”

His hand tightens slightly.

“And I’ll be right here,” I add. “With the light on.”

The day passes like breath held in the chest.

Too slow and too fast all at once.

Cal doesn’t leave my side—not out of fear, but presence. Like he knows we’re both gathering something in ourselves, and this time, we do it together.

He doesn’t pace. His movements are slow, deliberate, measured like the ticking of a clock he refuses to race.

He moves through the cabin with quiet purpose, each action deliberate even in its stillness. Adjusting the wood in the stove. He fills the kettle and sets it aside—not out of forgetfulness, but intention. A silent gesture, meant for me.

His focus is sharp, his hands steady, every motion rooted in care. Preparing. Centered.

I curl into the corner of the couch, still wearing his flannel, knees pulled to my chest. Cleo’s draped across my legs. Luca lies by the front door, head on his paws, watching the wind move through the trees beyond the window.

Cal lights the lantern on the mantle. Then the one in the kitchen.

He moves like this is any other night.

But I know it’s not.

I feel it in the stretch of his shoulders. In the way his eyes keep drifting to the horizon. In the subtle tick of his jaw every time he comes near me and then steps away again.

The sun dips behind the trees. I feel it like a ticking clock, anxiety ramping higher as each moment passes. Comes closer to him leaving.

And still, Cal doesn’t stop moving—not in a frantic way, just steady. Controlled. Present.

I start to rise from the couch as he opens the fridge.