Page 56

The last swat isn’t soft. It’s decisive. It lands on skin already tender, and for a beat, there’s silence. Then something in me unknots all at once—my muscles giving, my tears unstoppable, the weight of everything I’ve been holding slipping free from where it was buried.

Each word lands with purpose, imprinting something low and lasting into me. My breath catches, skin prickling where his hand met flesh. In my memory, it blooms sharper still.

My cries soften into hiccuped exhales. The tension draining from my limbs. From my heart.

And by the time he lifts his hand one last time—just one more soft swat to my sit spot—I’m limp over his lap. Not braced. Not afraid.

Just held.

I whisper something then. Barely audible.

“I believe you.”

His hand stills.

But I feel the breath he lets out. The way his body softens, too.

I don’t know if I believe it forever. But I believe it now.

That I’m not too much.

That I’m not a burden.

That I’m his.

The last swat fades into warmth. Into breath.

And before he can even reach for me—I’m already reaching for him.

My arms stretch back, trembling and small, searching for something to anchor to—until my fingers find the soft cotton of his shirt, the solid line of his waist. I clutch hard, grounding myself in the warmth and weight of him.

Not because I’m unsure of where he is, but because I need to feel him. All of him.

It nearly breaks him.

I can feel it in the way his hands move—suddenly less measured. More desperate. Not because he’s rushed.

But because I think he needs it too.

He gathers me up in one clean motion, lifting me from his lap like I weigh nothing.

My legs fold against his chest, arms wrap around his neck, skin brushing skin, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath—solid, anchoring—beneath my cheek.

And I bury my face there, in that space beneath his jaw where I can hear his heart, steady and low.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds me.

One arm locked firm beneath my thighs. The other hand cradling the back of my head.

And then, finally—his voice. Rough with feeling.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “My good girl.”

A fresh wave of tears burns behind my eyes.

But they don’t fall. Not the same way.

They’re quieter now. Softer.

His thumb moves in circles along my side. Rocking us slightly.

“You’re mine, Emmy. You always were.”

I try to say something. Maybe thank you. Maybe I’m sorry. Maybe just I love you in a way that doesn’t use words.

But he hushes me.

“You don’t have to say anything,” he murmurs. “Just stay right here. That’s all I’ve ever wanted.”

His breath moves through my hair. Warm.

“Not your apologies. Not your bravery. Just your presence.”

I clutch his shirt tighter.

Cal shifts just enough to cradle me with both arms, then slowly lowers us back onto the couch.

He moves like he’s afraid I might break. Like he doesn’t want to jar the stillness now that I’ve finally settled.

He lays me gently on my side, one hand still at my back—warm and steady, the pressure of his palm a silent reassurance. My body instinctively leans into the heat of him, the safety he wraps around me without words.

And then, so carefully it makes my throat ache, he pulls my underwear and sleep pants back up. Not rushed. Not clinical. Just quiet care.

Like tucking something back into place that was never meant to be exposed to the cold for too long.

He strokes his hand over my hip once more before letting go.

The couch cushions shift as he sits beside me, back resting against the leather. I curl into him instinctively, my head on his thigh. One arm draped across his lap. The rhythmic thump of his heartbeat grounds me there, quiet and small and safe—his warmth wrapping around me like breath, like home.

A moment later, I hear the soft click of claws on floorboards.

Luca.

Then Cleo.

They approach slow, their bodies low and cautious, like they can feel the calm that’s settled over the room.

Luca presses close to the couch and rests his chin on the cushion near my feet. Cleo hops up gently and curls beside my legs, warm and watchful.

Cal doesn’t say anything for a long time.

He just strokes my hair. Over and over again.

His touch never drifts.

And then I feel it—something small pressed into my palm.

The compass. His way of guiding me, even when he’s not beside me. Proof that I am claimed. Protected. Home.

I lift my head just enough to see his face.

He’s already watching me. Already speaking without words.

But then he gives them anyway. Quiet. Intentional.

“This may always point north,” he says, his voice barely louder than the wind outside. “But if you ever feel lost…”

He closes my fingers around the compass.

“You know where to go.”

My chest tightens.

His hand returns to my hair. “To me.”

And that’s what breaks me.

Not the spanking. Not the compass. Not even the memory of what my father tried to do.

But this.

The way Cal says it—like it’s not a metaphor. Like it’s not a sweet thing people say when they mean I’ll try.

He says it like a vow.

Like wherever you are, whatever happens, however lost you become—I will be the place you come back to.

I stare at the compass in my hand. It’s heavier than it looks. Cold at first, but warming quickly from my skin. From the tears I didn’t know were still there.

And it hits me all at once.

This is what I’ve been searching for.

Not a place. Not a house. Not even freedom.

Him.

This man who sees the mess and the softness and the ruin in me—and doesn’t turn away.

Who makes room for every part of me, even the ones I’d rather keep hidden.

I draw in a shaky breath, press the compass to my chest. The cool metal shocks against my skin at first, its weight grounding. The edges press lightly, a reminder that it's real. It warms slowly, steadily—heat blooming beneath my fingers like a promise.

And whisper, “I didn’t know that could exist.”

His fingers still in my hair.

“What?”

“A person,” I say, the words trembling. “Being home.”

I blink up at him, and this time I don’t look away.

“You are.”

Cal doesn’t speak.

Not right away.

But his eyes say it all. That quiet reverence. That ruinous ache.

He leans down, kisses my forehead. Slow and warm, his lips linger like they’re imprinting something beneath my skin. A breath shivers out of me at the contact, every nerve humming with the tenderness of it.

Then lower—my cheek. My temple. The bridge of my nose.

And finally, he whispers, soft and wrecked:

“I’m yours,” he whispers.

The words land between us like a promise.

Like breath.

And then his hand drifts up to my cheek again, trembling just barely. Like he’s holding something that might shatter. Like I’m that thing.

His thumb sweeps away a tear that never fell.

And he says it.

Not loud. Not rushed.

Just real.

“I love you.”

The world stops.

He doesn’t flinch after. Doesn’t pull away or soften the edges of it like he thinks it’ll scare me. He just says it again, like it’s the only truth that’s ever mattered.

“I love you, Emmy.”

My lips part. But no sound comes.

Because he means it.

With everything in him.

With every quiet act that led us here.

He’s not trying to convince me. Or calm me. Or win me.

He’s just telling me.

Because it’s been there all along.

The compass still presses warm to my chest.

And I know—I know—that this is the safest I’ve ever been.

The tears that come now aren’t sharp. They don’t burn.

They fall like rain after a long drought. The words linger between us like the morning light.

I reach for him again, fingers curling at his collar.

And finally—finally—I whisper back:

“I love you too.”

I feel him go still.

Not tense. Just—wrecked.

His hand cups my face again, thumb traces the curve of my cheek like he’s trying to memorize it. Like if he holds me gently enough, he might never have to let go.

Then he leans in.

And kisses me.

My fingers slide into his hair, brushing through the tousled strands at the nape of his neck, grounding myself in the heat and closeness of him, anchoring there like I’ve done it a thousand times in dreams. I sigh into his mouth, the breath catching, tangling with his.

Everything else falls away—just his lips and mine, warm and unhurried, meeting in a kiss that feels like a promise made flesh.

It’s slow. Mouth to mouth, breath to breath. Like a promise fulfilled. Like he’s tasting the truth on my lips now that it’s finally out loud.

I melt into it. Every part of me soft. Open.

And somewhere in the middle of it—between one breath and the next—I whisper it again.

Right against his mouth.

“I love you.”

He groans softly, the sound low and raw, and pulls me closer.

His hand slips into my hair. His other arm wraps around my back, steady and sure.

And when we finally break apart, just enough to breathe, he presses his forehead to mine.

Eyes closed. Voice wrecked.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs. “You have no idea what that does to me.”

Outside, the wind shifts. The trees rustle. Cleo stirs at my feet.

And inside, everything is quiet.

Not empty.

Just full.

Cal doesn’t move. He just keeps holding me, like he’s never going to stop.

And I let him.

Because I love him.

Because he loves me.

Because this—this is the shift toward permanence. The weight of his arms around me. The echo of his words still blooming against my skin. The warmth of his body pressed to mine like something long awaited finally arriving. This is what staying feels like.