Page 64 of Let Me In

EMMY

I don’t sleep.

I try—once.

Around two.

I lay down with the dogs, turned off the lamp, curled up with one of Cal’s pillows held tight to my chest. But the second I closed my eyes, it felt like something inside me flinched. Like my body couldn’t afford the vulnerability of rest.

So I stayed up.

Drank tea I didn’t finish.

Paced the hall.

Held Cleo in my lap and stared at the same spot on the wall until the shadows began to lift.

It’s just past five now. Still dark enough that the windows reflect my face back at me—pale and pinched and hollow-eyed.

The phone sits next to the mug on the counter.

I haven’t let it leave my sight since he left.

I check it again. Not because I heard it, but because maybe this time—

The screen lights up.

One new message.

It hits me like a wave.

I blink, just once. My hand hovers above the screen, too scared to touch it—too scared it’ll vanish.

Then I press.

It’s done.

I’m safe.

Coming home.

That’s it.

Three short lines.

And they undo me completely.

I don’t cry. Not right away. I just… breathe.

Deep. Shaky. A sound that pulls from the base of my spine, like my body is only now remembering how to be alive again.

I clutch the phone to my chest. Press it into the hollow between my collarbones, its cool surface slowly warming against my skin, steadying the frantic thrum just beneath. Let it warm me from the inside out.

He’s okay.

He’s safe.

He’s coming home.

The dogs stir at my feet. Luca lifts his head. Cleo yawns, her tiny paws pressing against my thigh.

I reach for the phone again. My fingers tremble as I type.

I’m here.

I love you. So much.

I stare at the last line. Re-read it. Almost delete it.

But I don’t.

I hit send.

And then I press my face into my hands.

And let myself feel.

The morning stretches thin and quiet.

I move through the cabin like I’m walking inside a dream, too aware of every creak in the floorboards, every whisper of the wind against the windows. I keep glancing toward the windows. Listening.

Once, I swear I hear the truck.

I freeze, heart leaping, but it’s only wind.

Another time, I think I see headlights—but it’s just the sun breaking through the trees, scattering light like broken glass.

My palms are sweaty. My mouth tastes like sleep and tea and too many unsaid things.

But ten minutes before I think he might arrive—

I move to the kitchen.

I take out the eggs. Slice bread. Butter the pan.

Not because I’m hungry.

Because he will be.

Because food means you’re safe now. You can rest.

I put the kettle on, too. His favorite tea. The one he always makes for me when my hands won’t stop shaking.

The smell fills the kitchen, gentle and comforting.

My sleeves keep falling over my wrists, but I don’t roll them back.

It’s his shirt. The dark grey one that fits me like a nightdress. I’ve been wearing it since he left.

I don’t know how I’ll be when I see him.

I don’t know if I’ll cry, or freeze, or fall apart.

And I don’t know how he’ll be.

If his eyes will look the same.

If his hands will still be steady when they touch me.

If the weight of what he’s done will follow him through the door and sink into the floorboards, never to leave again.

Maybe it will.

Maybe we’ll both carry the echo of it forever.

But at least—

At least there will be breakfast.

And tea.

And me, waiting.

The kettle clicks off.

Steam curls around the edges of the stovetop.

I pour the tea with both hands, steadying the cup so it won’t rattle against the porcelain.

And then I hear it.

Low.

Rumbling.

The unmistakable sound of tires on gravel.

My heart lurches so fast it stumbles. I set the mug down with a shaky breath and take a single step toward the window.

Please.

I press my palm to the glass.

And there, through the trees: headlights.

The dark shape of his truck cresting the rise, the way it always does. Familiar. Earthbound. Him. I imagine his hands on the wheel, jaw set, eyes scanning the porch for me like they always do—steady, unwavering, mine.

A sound slips from my lips. Not quite a cry.

Relief.

Sharp. Beautiful. Immediate.

My legs nearly give out.

He’s here.

He’s home.

I don’t step outside.

Even though every part of me wants to.

Even though I could meet him at the truck, throw myself into his arms and bury my face in his neck before he’s even closed the door behind him.

I don’t.

Because I’m still holding yesterday.

Because I told him I would follow the rules.

And I didn’t.

Not when it counted.

So I open the door instead.

Stand in the frame.

One hand braced against the wood, knuckles white. The other pressed just above my heart.

The air is warmer than I expected. Soft with pine and the faint, lingering smell of tea.

The dogs shift behind me, sensing something more than just sound.

The truck pulls into view.

Gravel crunching beneath its tires, slow and sure.

He parks. Cuts the engine.

And then—

There he is.

Stepping down from the cab, tall and quiet and whole.

No blood. No limp. Just that stillness that lives in the center of him.

Our eyes lock across the distance.

Something inside me breaks open. And the world stops moving.

The trees hush. The breeze stills. Even the dogs fall quiet behind me.

All I see is him.

His eyes are tired—shadowed with something that didn’t exist when he left—but they soften the instant they land on me. Like he’s seeing the one thing that makes the rest of it bearable.

His shoulders ease.

His mouth almost twitches—like he’s caught between a smile and a prayer.

He lifts his arms.

Opens them wide.

No command. No words.

Just offering.

An invitation.

A home.

My feet move before I know it.

Down the step. Across the porch. Bare soles hitting gravel.

And then I’m running.

Hard and fast and breathless, until I crash into him, all arms and heartbeat and relief.

He catches me like he knew I would come.

Like he was waiting for this.

For me.

I bury my face in his neck the moment I reach him.

His flannel smells like salt and smoke and the cedar soap he keeps in the shower, comforting and achingly familiar.

The scent hits me like a memory and a promise, and I feel myself unravel just a little more, breathing it in like I need it to stay whole.

It’s damp in places—cool against my cheek—but none of that matters.

His arms come around me like a tidal wave.

One locking firm around my waist, the other sliding up to cradle the back of my head.

He holds me like he’s trying to memorize the shape of me, arms cinched tight around my ribs, the solid weight of his chest pressing into mine like an oath he’s not letting go of. Like he needs the proof of my body in his arms to finally let go of the ghost he just put to rest.

I don’t speak.

I can’t.

My throat aches with everything I want to say, but it’s all knotted in my chest.

So I just hold him tighter.

Curl my fingers into the fabric at his shoulder, gripping it like a lifeline.

Anchor myself to the thrum of his heartbeat against mine.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs, breath warm at my temple. “I’ve got you, little one. I’m home.”

The word hits me harder than I expect.

Not I’m here.

Not I made it.

I’m home.

And for the first time in two days, my breath doesn’t tremble on the way out.

His grip shifts—deliberate, commanding—and then he lifts me.

Not just into his arms.

Onto him.

I wrap around him without thinking—legs around his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, face still tucked under his jaw. His breath stutters for half a second, and his grip tightens like instinct, like he’s claiming me all over again. Holding me not just close, but safe.

His hands find the backs of my thighs, holding me close, strong and steady, his thumbs drawing slow circles into my skin like he’s grounding us both—anchoring me in the safest place I’ve ever known.

He exhales. Rough. Like the weight of me in his arms is the first thing that’s felt real in days.

“I’ve got you,” he says again, voice a low, ragged whisper that vibrates through my bones. One hand shifts slightly, thumb brushing up and down my spine like he’s memorizing every vertebrae, sealing the promise into my skin. “Not letting you go.”

My cheek presses against the soft flannel stretched over his chest, the same shirt he once draped over my shoulders when I couldn’t stop shaking.

That memory rises like a tide, pulling me deeper into him, into now, into this—my place, always.

I can hear his heart, slow and deep and steady.

It thuds like it’s calling me back from wherever I’ve been drifting.

One of his hands lifts and cups the back of my head, fingers sliding into my hair. I go still at the touch, breath catching, and lean into it like it’s the only thing tethering me to this moment.

“You’re okay,” he breathes, his breath brushing my cheek, warm and steady. “We’re okay now.”

He turns, starts walking toward the house with me still wrapped around him. Like he doesn’t even notice the weight. Like this is where I’m meant to be.

Like this is what he fought for.

The dogs pad ahead of us, leading the way.

And Cal—he carries me inside.

Back home.

The door clicks shut behind us.

Soft. Final.

It muffles the outside world—the wind, the trees, the last hum of the truck cooling in the drive.

Inside, everything feels warmer.

Dim, familiar, faintly sweet with the scent of tea and butter still hanging in the air.

He stops just inside the threshold.

Doesn’t put me down.

Just stands there for a moment, holding me against him like he needs to be sure. That it’s real. That I’m not going to slip away the second he loosens his grip.

His arms tighten slightly, like if he holds me hard enough, nothing can slip through the seams.

I feel his breath at the crown of my head. Hear it stutter as he exhales again, slower this time. Like his lungs are learning how to fill properly with me in his arms.

He leans forward, just slightly, and presses his forehead to mine.

His eyes close. So do mine.