Page 9 of Let Me In

EMMY

I don’t expect to see him out there. Not really.

But I pack two thermoses anyway. One with the tea I like—strong, sweet, steeped long enough to warm more than just my hands.

And one the way he likes it. Black. No sugar.

.. just in case. I don't know if he'll be there.

But if he is, I want to be the kind of person who brings something warm, something made with care.

Even if he never sees it, even if I end up drinking both myself, it feels like a promise I get to make quietly. A hope I don't have to say out loud.

I wrap the fudge in parchment and tuck it into a little tin. Homemade. Silly, maybe. But I have a sweet tooth, and I always make too much. Something about the act of creating something small and good just… calms me.

I don’t plan to give it to him.

But I bring it anyway.

The pack on my back shifts with every curve in the trail. The closer I get, the faster my heart starts to go.

Not fear.

Hope.

The cabin comes into view around the bend.

I pull up slow. The bike coasts to a stop on the gravel, and I don’t even pretend I’m not nervous.

My breath stutters—tight in my chest, like the moment tugged something deep and unseen. My stomach dips with the force of it, that strange fluttering ache that feels too close to hope.

He’s outside.

Not chopping wood. Not moving. Just… standing near the deck, one hand on the railing.

I almost forget I’m even driving. He has the kind of face you can’t help but notice, jawline like it was carved from stone, mouth made for softness but rarely used that way.

His dark hair’s tousled, wind-mussed, and his eyes—gray, sharp, and full of storms—make it hard to look anywhere else.

He’s handsome in the way that makes your throat catch, like he belongs more to stories than real life.

He lifts his head when he hears the bike. And when he sees me, something shifts in his face.

Not a full smile.

But it’s the closest I’ve seen.

I cut the engine and swing off the seat.

My hands are a little too careful as I pull my helmet off, unclip the chin strap, and perch it on one handlebar.

I crouch beside the pack, unzip it, and start to pull out the thermoses.

Then the tin. The fudge is still warm through the parchment, and somehow that detail embarrasses me a little.

I glance up, suddenly nervous, and then I see the small cooler resting beside him, and there are two mugs on top.

My eyes catch on that detail.

It hits something tender before I can stop it.

Of course he wouldn’t be waiting for me.

Of course someone like him would have company—someone planned, someone chosen.

That's how the pattern goes, isn't it? The script I've memorized without meaning to.

Where girls like me always come second, if we come at all.

Not a girl who rides up half-apologetic with a thermos and too much hope.

I nod toward them, trying to keep my voice light. “Got company?”

He looks at me for half a second longer than I expect. Like he heard more than the words. Like he saw through the tilt of my head, the forced smile. Like he knows I didn’t ask because I was curious—I asked because I didn’t think the second mug could be for me.

His answer is quiet. Immediate.

“No,” he says. “But I was hoping to.”

And there’s something in the way he says it.

Not teasing. Not casual.

Just true.

Like he’d been hoping.

Like the idea of me showing up was something he might have wanted but didn’t know how to ask for.

Like I could be the person he had in mind—but I don’t know how to believe that yet.

It nudges something open inside me, like a door I didn’t realize I’d closed.

He doesn’t say anything else.

But when he steps forward to take the thermos from me, he’s gentler than before. His fingers brush mine a little longer. His eyes don’t leave my face.

I know that he saw the crack in me.

And didn’t flinch.

“Looks like we had the same thought,” he says, nodding toward the mugs.

I let out a breath—almost a laugh—and raise the other thermos. “I brought tea. One for you, one for me.”

He lifts his brows. Quiet approval. “Black?”

“Of course.”

We meet near the edge of the porch.

And then he opens the cooler.

Sandwiches. Simple, clean. Wrapped tightly in wax paper.

I blink. “You made lunch?”

“I wasn’t sure if you’d be hungry.”

I smile—real, and maybe too wide. “I brought dessert.”

I pull out the tin. Set it between us.

“Fudge?” he asks.

“Too much sugar,” I admit. “But it’s good. I promise.”

He doesn’t answer right away.

Just picks up a piece. Takes a small bite.

And nods once. Slow. Like he’s considering more than just the taste.

“I don’t usually like sweet things,” he says, meeting my eyes.

But he takes another bite.

And I know exactly what he means.

We eat on the steps. Quiet. Side by side.

Two mugs. One cooler. One tin.

And two people who had the same thought.

Even if neither of us says it out loud.

We stay there longer than we need to.

The food is gone. The tea is cooling. The sun’s dipped just enough to cast the ridge in long, soft streaks of gold and dusk.

But neither of us moves.

The silence isn’t awkward. It feels… full. Like something just beginning, or breathing after holding it in too long.

My fingers twist in my lap before I stop them. I’m trying not to fidget. Trying not to shake. But my heart won’t stop racing.

Because I keep thinking about it.

We both hoped we’d show up.

At the same time. In the same way.

And I don’t know what to do with that.

Because my heart is soft, and I’ve never known softness like this, not without it being taken away. Not without something sharp waiting underneath.

He notices. I can feel it in the way he doesn’t speak right away. In how he lets the moment stretch.

“You always bake?” he asks eventually. His voice low. Easy.

I smile down at the tin. “When I’m overwhelmed. Or bored. Or sad.”

He doesn’t comment. Just lets the quiet answer sit.

“It’s something I can make that doesn’t… hurt,” I add, barely above a whisper.

He turns slightly. Not all the way toward me, just enough that I feel it.

“I like that,” he says. And I can tell he means it.

Then, after a beat: “Used to make meals like this. Out in the field. Quiet, simple. Fast.”

He doesn’t say the rest. He doesn’t have to.

But he’s not rushing now.

That matters.

When we both reach for the tin at the same time, our hands brush.

Neither of us pulls away.

We both feel it.

A shiver traces up my spine. His hand stays just a second longer than needed before he draws back.

He looks at me—just a glance—and then back out at the ridge.

“You don’t have to go yet,” he says quietly.

And something inside me settles.

Because he’s not asking anything from me.

Just offering.

Just staying.

The breeze shifts. I brush my hair back from my cheek and tuck it behind my ear. The sun lights the edge of the ridge like it’s blessing the moment.

We don’t talk more. We don’t need to.

I lean my shoulder a little closer to his—not quite touching. Not quite daring. But near enough that he would feel it if I leaned just a bit more.

And I think… maybe I will.

Just not yet.

I glance at him again and find him already watching me.

Not intensely.

Just… soft.

Like I’m something he might be learning by heart, if I let myself believe that could be true.

And this time, I don’t look away.

His eyes don’t shift either.

Then slowly—so slowly—I feel his hand brush against mine again. My heart stumbles, then kicks hard against my ribs.

Not with fear.

With feeling.

With the quiet thrill of being touched like I matter.

A light touch, not grasping, not insistent. Just… there.

And then it moves. Not to take. Not to hold.

But to trace.

His thumb passes over my pinkie. Pauses at the knuckle.

A faint scar. Barely visible unless the light hits just right. The fading sun catches it now, glinting across the old line of pale skin like it’s a map he’s memorizing.

I swallow. “Caught it in a car door when I was a kid. Always been a klutz.”

His thumb moves once more, slower this time. Like the scar is something worth understanding.

“Doesn’t look like clumsy to me,” he murmurs. “Just looks like you survived something."

The words slip beneath my skin before I can guard against them.

My breath catches—quiet but sharp—and something in my chest tightens, like the ache of being seen for the first time.

Not pitied. Not dismissed. Just… recognized.

I don’t even realize I’ve been holding myself tense until the warmth of his hand makes me soften, just slightly.

Cal doesn’t react to the shift in me with surprise or question.

He just stays exactly where he is, like he meant for this all along.

He doesn’t say anything else. Doesn’t ask.

He just shifts his hand.

Lets his fingers fold gently around mine.

Big. Strong. Callused.

And still—so achingly gentle.

Like he knows my hand is something that’s never been held just to be held.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t claim.

He just stays.

And my heart doesn’t race.

It settles.

Because for the first time in a long, long time—

I feel safe right where I am.

It’s the kind of safety I never knew I could have. Not silence made of fear, or stillness built on eggshells—but presence. Steady. Undemanding. Warm where the world has always felt cold.

But eventually, I know I have to go.

I move slowly. Gather the tin, the empty mugs. Brush the crumbs from my lap with hands that still remember the shape of his. My fingers are warm, but there’s a pull low in my chest—like leaving is something my body isn’t ready for.

Because part of me already misses being here.

I reach for my helmet, hook it over my arm. Adjust the strap with shaky fingers. Twilight’s falling, slower than I expected. I didn’t mean to stay this long.

Then I hear his voice.

Low. Steady.

“You ever gonna use it?”

I blink. Turn.

He’s looking at me, eyes unreadable but fixed. There’s a shadow in them—like he’s not sure what the answer will be.

“The number,” he adds, quieter. “You gonna call? Or text?”

I should lie. Say maybe. Say I’ve been meaning to.

But it slips out—softer than I meant. Like it got away from me before I could tuck it back where it’s safe.

“I thought maybe you didn’t mean it.”

The words feel small as they leave me, but they carry the weight of a lifetime.

Every moment I’ve been let down. Every time someone said something kind and didn’t follow through.

Every instance I believed I mattered—only to find out I was wrong.

I don’t just mean the number. I mean him.

His presence. His quiet steadiness. And somewhere deep down, I already knew the truth—I was afraid to believe he meant it because wanting it too much felt dangerous.

The silence that follows isn’t long, but it’s heavy. I flush. Immediately. Embarrassment floods hot across my chest, my neck. That small, awful feeling of being seen too clearly when I wasn’t ready to be.

His jaw ticks. Just once. A tight flick of muscle that tells me everything I need to know. Not irritation. Not frustration. Just… restraint. Like something hit him square in the chest and he’s holding the impact with quiet force.

It’s not just the words I said, it’s what they mean.

That it wasn’t doubt. It was something quieter, something deeper.

That I didn’t think I deserved it—his kindness, his presence, this steadiness he keeps offering without asking for anything back.

That I thought it must’ve been given lightly, not because he meant it, but because I was easy to overlook. Easy to forget.

And maybe that hurts him more than he expected.

“I meant it,” he says.

And his voice is different now. Rougher at the edges. Like the words had to push past something he’s used to keeping down.

“Still do.”

I watch him. I don’t know what to say.

He looks down, then back at me. Takes a breath like he’s weighing something.

“You don’t have to,” he says.

A pause.

“But if you do call—”

His gaze catches mine, steady and sure.

“I’d answer. Every time.”