Page 33 of Let Me In

The silence wraps around us. Thick with everything unsaid.

I feel it pressing at the edges of me, inside the fragile space between fear and trust. My fingers twitch against his chest.

He’s so solid beneath them.

So warm. So sure. But my body won’t move.

It’s like the air has turned to molasses—each breath a slow drag, my limbs too heavy, my will too uncertain.

I don’t pull away.

But I don’t lean in, either.

I just stand there.

Frozen.

Like last night, when he came to get me. When he said he was coming and all I could do was hold my breath and not say no.

Because sometimes I don’t know how to say yes.

I need him to decide.

To lead.

To be steady when I can’t be.

His hands are still holding mine. And I know—I know—he feels the tremble running through me.

But he doesn’t name it. Doesn’t ask me to explain. He just waits.

Lets the pause settle.

Then, without a word, he shifts.

His grip changes.

One hand slips from mine and comes to my waist, the other to the curve of my back.

And I know what he’s doing.

He’s going to guide me.

Because I can’t take that first step on my own.

Not yet. And he knows it.

His hands are steady. One at my waist, one at the small of my back.

And I know what’s coming.

I know what it means when he draws me close, when his knees part a little wider, when his grip shifts just enough to guide me forward.

Still—I try.

“Cal,” I breathe. “Please—”

I don’t even know what I’m asking for. Mercy, maybe. Reassurance. Or just for him to hear the ache in my voice, the plea behind the word that I can’t bring myself to say.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t speak.

Just eases me down, slow and sure, until the world tilts and I’m draped across his lap.

His thighs are solid beneath me.

Too real.

Too grounding.

I press my hands into the couch cushions, my chest tightening.

“I don’t—I promise I won’t do it again,” I say, voice trembling. “I mean it. I’ll be careful. I’ll follow every rule. You don’t have to—Cal, please—”

His hand settles firmly at the small of my back.

Not forcing. Just holding. Like an anchor.

It’s nothing like the books. The ones I read with flushed cheeks and trembling hands, hoping the words might fill some hollow space in me.

This isn’t fantasy.

This is real. Raw. Earned.

Earned, because he saw all of me. My fear, my silence, my hesitation, and still chose to stay. Because he didn’t demand my surrender; he waited for it. Because this isn’t about power—it’s about care, and that makes it so much more.

My breath grows quick, uneven. Not panic—but something electric, something raw. It hums low in my belly, threads through every nerve, tuned only to him.

This is what it feels like to submit—not because I’m being asked to give something up, but because I’m being shown how to be safe in someone else’s hands.

“You didn’t say the word,” he murmurs.

“I—I know. I just—”

“You’re scared.”

My eyes burn.

“But you’re still here,” he adds softly.

I go still.

And then—

His fingers hook into my waistband.

Slow.

Sure.

He begins to draw my pants down. Inch by inch. Careful. Reverent.

A tremor runs through me, breath thinning to something shallow and unsure.

And still, he doesn’t stop.

He brings them just far enough to expose me. Then my underwear follows, taken down with the same quiet steadiness.

I flush. Entirely.

The cool air hits my skin like a second set of hands.

And still—I don’t say the word.

I could. I would, if I needed to.

But I don’t. I won’t.

Because something in me—deep and scared and soft—wants this.

Wants him. And he knows.

His hand returns to the curve of my spine, the heat of it spreading low and deep. It steadies me—presses me into the moment, into the awareness of him. My breath shudders out, caught between ache and safety, between the sting on my skin and the certainty in his touch.

“You’re not too much,” he says quietly. “You never will be.”

Then his palm lifts. The air seems to charge as I anticipate what’s coming, but nothing could truly prepare me for it.

The first one lands. His hand, flat, solid. Like a plank. Like something carved from stone.

When it lands again, it stings. Not just from skin to skin. But from the sheer presence of it.

“Cal—please, I’ll do better—”

It’s a scramble, not just for forgiveness, but for space. A desperate lunge at the belief that if I’m good enough, careful enough, maybe I won’t need to be this exposed. Maybe I won’t need to be seen. Because what if he sees too much?

Another swat.

I writhe, or try to, but his free hand stays firm at my back.

Holding me.

“Feels like if I let this hand go,” he murmurs, low and steady, “you’d spring right up, wouldn’t you?”

I don’t answer, because it’s true.

He leans just a little closer. His palm spreads wider across my spine. His breath is warm where it brushes the shell of my ear, and the scent of him—something clean, something grounding—wraps around me like a second blanket. The quiet weight of his body near mine speaks louder than any words.

“I’ve got you, baby.”

That… that phrase, coupled with each firm strike of his hand, knocks the breath out of me—not with pain, but with what it means.

Another follows.

Then another.

A steady rhythm, slow and measured.

He’s not rushing. Not punishing.

He’s teaching.

Each swat lands with precision, the sound sharp in the quiet room. It echoes in my chest, a low thud that makes my spine tighten with every strike. I flinch with each one, but I don’t cry out.

I don’t speak. I try not to make a sound. Not even a whimper.

If I can just stay quiet—just take it—maybe I’ll prove something. Maybe I’ll be strong enough, obedient enough, good enough.

The swats keep coming. Measured. Firm. It doesn’t relent. He peppers me in a rhythm that leaves no room for doubt.

Every strike is a reminder.

Not of shame. Not of punishment.

Of consequence.

Because I walked toward danger. Because I broke the rule meant to keep me safe.

And my safety…

That’s everything to him.

It goes on.

Not for seconds, but for minutes.

He is not cruel. He is not angry.

But he is unrelenting.

Each one lands with a heat that sinks deep into the flesh of my backside, but I keep my face buried in the cushion. Keep my hands balled tight beneath me.

I don’t cry, I don’t speak. Still.

Even when the swats start to fall faster.

Even when my skin begins to burn.

Even when my body tenses so tightly I think I might shake apart.

Because somewhere inside me, there’s a voice that still says: you don’t get to fall apart. Not really. Not out loud.

But Cal sees it.

I can feel him reading me. Every shift. Every clench. Every breath I hold too long. His palm comes to rest at the small of my back—warm and grounding.

“Don’t you hide from me, little one.”

The words wrap around me like heat—stern, grounding. My stomach draws tight, nerves flaring low as heat prickles along my skin. It’s not fear. It’s being seen. Known.

My whole body goes still. I feel his hand pause against my back—just for a second, just enough to catch his breath like it’s caught in his throat. There’s a faint tremor there, like this is costing him, too.

“I know what you’re doing,” he says. “Trying to take it all without a sound. Like you think you’ve gotta earn safety, little one—when it's already yours to keep.”

The words hit harder than any swat.

“You don’t.”

And then his hand rises again.

The next strike lands lower. Harder.

I gasp. Just once.

And somehow… I don’t disappear.

And then, I feel it. My waistband is drawn lower. Just enough.

Just enough for him to reach the tenderest place.

My upper thighs.

The first smack there has me gasping. Not from sound, but from sting.

It lights something up. Raw and deep. I jolt, try to shift away. But he’s already there, hand firm at my back.

My fingers dig deeper into the cushion, but I’m still trying to be quiet. Still trying to stay small.

“You heard me on the phone,” he says, each word deliberate, voice darker now. “You heard me tell you not to approach that car.”

Another swat. Sharp.

“You heard me say stay back.”

I bite down on my lip.

“But you didn’t.”

His voice isn’t angry. It’s wrecked—a rough edge to it, like it caught in his throat before it could make it out. The breath he draws is slow and heavy, as if he's wrestling it all back down.

Like this hurt him, too. His jaw was tight when I turned my head just enough to see him—eyes darker, rimmed with something fierce and shining. Like he’d swallowed every sharp word he wanted to say and left only the ache behind.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he murmurs. “Before I ever really got to keep you.”

And that…

God.

That’s what starts to undo me.

He shifts lower again, striking the backs of my thighs. My hips twist, my breath stutters.

I want to run. I want to stay.

I want to crack.

“I’m not doing this to scare you,” he says. “I’m doing it so you remember.”

Another swat. I sob—but quietly. Into the cushion.

“So next time—if there is a next time—you stop and think about this.”

Another.

“About me.”

I can’t breathe.

“I won’t lose you, Emmy.”

That last swat—

It’s what opens me. Not because it hurt more, but because of what he said.

I won’t lose you.

Before I ever really got to keep you.

God.

The truth of it slips in like a blade between ribs. Gentle, but final.

And it undoes me.

My body slumps.

Not entirely. Not yet. But my arms stop fighting the cushions. My fingers uncurl just enough to shake. And my breath—it hitches. Shudders.

The first sound breaks free.

Small. Wounded.

A little whimper that I try to swallow down—but it’s already out, trembling in the air between us.

And he hears it. Of course he does.

He doesn’t stop.

His hand rises again. Falls harder now, punishing my sit spots, my upper thighs.

The sting is unbearable. But it’s earned.

It’s right.

And when the next one lands, and the one after that—

I finally cry.

Not loud. Not dramatic.

But deep.

A choked sob from somewhere I’ve kept locked for years.