Page 61 of Let Me In

“I—I didn’t mean to—she ran—”

He steps forward.

Just one step.

And holds her out with both hands, carefully. Like she’s something fragile.

Our fingers brush as I take her back. His glove is cool. Steady. Not warm, but certain.

I clutch her tight. Feel her heart, calm and fluttering, against my own.

“Thank you,” I breathe, voice thinned by cold and shame and something like gratitude.

It’s all I can manage.

And still, I have to know.

“Are you going to tell him?”

The Watcher’s expression doesn’t change. Doesn’t flicker.

He stares at me for a long moment. Long enough that my breath starts to hitch again.

Then he speaks. Voice low and flat, the trees swallowing the ends of the words.

“Go inside.”

I don’t run back.

I can’t.

My feet sting with every step—scraped raw from the underbrush. There’s dirt on my calves, scratches on my arms. Something sharp must’ve caught me, because I feel a warm line of ache just below my knee.

But I don’t stop.

Not even when my breath catches.

Not even when the trees thin and the porch light finds me again.

Cleo is quiet in my arms. As if she was never in danger, and I wasn’t the one who broke every rule just to get her back.

The cabin door is still open, just barely.

Luca stands in the frame, tether clipped but slack, his ears forward.

He watches me the whole way back. Doesn’t move until I cross the threshold.

Then he follows me in.

I close the door.

Lock it.

Slide the bolt.

Then sink to the floor, knees buckling beneath me.

Hard. The boards knock against my bones. Cleo shifts with a soft huff, her warm body anchoring mine as my breath stutters in and out.

Still holding her.

My hands are shaking... it feels like my chest is, too.

I don’t cry. But the edges of me feel sharp. Overheated. Wrong. Like I’ve wrecked something sacred—something he trusted me to hold.

I don’t even know how long I sit there. I just know I feel sick.

Not because of what the Watcher said.

But because of what he didn’t.

Cleo is quiet now. Tucked beneath my chin, breathing slow and even. Like none of it mattered.

But it did, it does. I broke his rule. One of the only ones he gave me.

And even though it was instinct, even though I’d do it again—

I feel it like failure.

The silence grows thick.

Too thick.

The fire snaps once and I flinch, stupidly.

My feet are stinging. My knee is still bleeding. My hands feel dirty, like guilt lives in my palms.

What if he knows?

What if the Watcher already told him?

What if he’s disappointed?

That one curls into my stomach like sickness.

Because it’s worse than anger.

Worse than anything.

I don’t check my phone.

I can’t.

Not yet.

Not until it buzzes, just one soft sound. One vibration against the floorboards near my hip.

I reach for it like I’m touching something hot.

And there it is.

His name.

A new message.

Hey, baby. You okay?

My breath catches. Four words. Four chances for my heart to break.

He doesn’t sound angry. But he’s asking. And that means maybe… maybe he does know. Maybe the Watcher said something.

Or maybe—maybe it’s just Cal. Being Cal. Always noticing. Always seeing through me, not around me.

My thumb hovers over the screen. I could tell him. Say it right now. Explain.

That I was careful. That it wasn’t on purpose. That I followed the rules until I didn’t—until Cleo was gone and the fear swallowed me and everything else went quiet except the word go.

But I don’t. Because he’s out there, doing something impossible. Something heavy and dangerous and far away from me.

And the last thing I want to do is make it worse.

So I don’t say anything. Not about the woods. Not about the Watcher. Not about the way my legs are still trembling.

I just type:

Sorry. Lost track of time.

I’m okay. Dogs are okay.

Then wait.

His reply is fast.

Faster than I expect. And so, so much more than I thought possible.

Okay, baby. The Watcher told me about Cleo. I’m not upset. Just need to know if you’re okay.

A rule broken doesn’t change how I love you. You’re still mine. You always will be. There might be a consequence when I get home. But that’s all it is.

A consequence. Not a punishment. Not a withdrawal of love.

I’ll be back by this time tomorrow.

I love you, little one. You’re still my good girl.

I read it twice. Three times. Like maybe the shape of it will hold me together.

The last line breaks me—not loudly, just… quietly. Like something that’s been cracked for too long finally gives in.

My hand flies to my mouth as a single sob escapes before I can stop it. Not from shame. Not even from guilt. Just relief.

He still wants me. Still sees me.

The phone is warm in my hand, but it’s my chest that finally unclenches. He knows. And he’s still coming back. He loves me. Even now. Even after.

My fingers shake a little as I type. Not from fear, but from everything else. The ache of being seen. The relief of still being his.

I’m sorry. I didn’t want to worry you. I didn’t mean to.

I just ran before I could think. I’m okay now… we all are.

I stare at it for a long time.

Then add:

I love you too, Daddy.

I hit send.

Then curl back into the couch, Cleo tucked under my arm, Luca at my feet.

I hold the phone against my chest like it could carry the warmth of his hand.

And I wait for morning.