Page 55 of Let Me In

His breath is at my temple, warm and steady against my skin, each exhale a quiet anchor. “That’s the bare minimum, baby. You know that, right?”

I shake my head before I can stop myself. Not in defiance. Just truth.

“Then we’ve got to fix that,” he says. Gently. But with weight.

His hand comes up to the back of my head. “You don’t need to earn that kind of love. You never did.”

I try to believe it. Try to absorb the warmth of his chest, the quiet of the cabin, the thrum of his heart through his shirt.

But something in me is still trembling.

Still braced.

And he feels it.

He pulls back just enough to look at me. Eyes searching.

“You’re still holding it,” he murmurs, his thumb smoothing gently over my brow as he speaks. One arm curls tighter around my waist, anchoring me to him—solid, steady, and warm.

I blink at him.

“The weight,” he says. “Of yesterday. Of before. Of everything.”

He cups my face, warm and sure. “And I think it’s time we help that little heart of yours remember where she is.”

My breath hitches, shallow and quick.

He smooths his thumb across my cheek. “Not because you’re in trouble. Not because I’m angry.”

His voice lowers, so soft it curls around me like a blanket.

“But you’re everything to me. And I can feel you drifting.”

I try to speak. Try to explain that I’m okay. That I don’t need this.

But the truth is—I do.

The truth is, I’m exhausted from trying to hold it all alone.

And when he says, “Let Daddy take care of you now,” I nod.

Not because I understand. Not yet, anyway.

But because I trust him.

He shifts, rising to his feet in that effortless way that always makes me feel smaller, lighter. The air shifts with the motion—like even the room knows he’s standing. Carried. I expect him to move toward the bedroom, but he doesn’t. Not this time.

Instead, he sits back on the old leather couch. Legs parted, body solid, grounding.

And he reaches for me. His hand extends slowly, warm and steady, fingertips brushing my wrist with the kind of gentleness that feels like an invitation more than a command.

I hesitate.

My fingers curl tighter around the book, eyes catching on the photograph still resting near the trunk. The flannel. The compass.

It’s too much. I don’t know how to hold this kind of care. This kind of belonging.

“I don’t…” My throat tightens. “Cal, I don’t think I need it. I’m okay.”

He tilts his head. “Are you?”

I don’t answer. Not really. Just twist my hands and look down.

“I think I’m just tired,” I try. “And overthinking. It’s nothing. Just… noise.”

He nods, slowly. Like he’s giving me space to walk it back.

But I keep going, because I’m scared of what it means if I don’t.

“And I know this isn’t for punishment, I do. But I don’t want to turn into someone who needs this all the time. Who needs you to fix me all the time.”

His jaw twitches. Barely.

“I’m a lot, Cal. You know that. You don’t have to—”

“Stop.”

His voice is soft. But it stops me cold.

“You are not trouble.”

The words hit like a stone thrown into still water. Sharp. Unmoving.

His eyes don’t waver.

“You’ve had people in your life who made you believe that needing support meant you were too much. That being held, being cared for, was something you had to justify.”

He leans forward, elbows on his knees, hands open.

“But you don’t have to earn this, Emmy. You don’t have to be easy to love to be worthy of it.”

Tears pool hot in my eyes.

“You’re my girl,” he says. “And when your shoulders are too heavy, that weight becomes mine. That’s not a burden.”

His voice deepens. Quiet. Steady.

“That’s a promise.”

I’m already crying by the time he says, “Come here, little one.”

And this time, I go.

My knees shake as I step between his legs. He sets the book aside, then pulls me close, guiding me over his lap with a gentleness that undoes me completely. I feel the firm support of his thigh beneath me, the warmth of his body wrapping around mine as I settle, held like I’ve never been before.

He arranges me carefully, like I’m something precious.

Like I’ve never been too much. Not even once.

His hand rests at the small of my back. Solid. Grounding. The weight of it presses into me with a quiet strength, and my spine instinctively softens beneath it.

I feel the shift in my breathing—shallow, fluttery. A nervous ache rising behind my ribs.

He slides my sleep pants down first, slow and steady. Then his fingers hook into the waistband of my underwear.

And I panic.

“Cal—wait, I—maybe we don’t have to—”

My voice is thin, high with nerves. I try to push up, to catch his eye, to escape the vulnerability of it. “It’s not that bad. I’m just… I think I’m just tired. You don’t have to—”

His hand stills.

Then—

“Emmy.”

That voice.

My breath stutters. My spine pulls straight on instinct, every nerve attuned to the gravity in that single word.

Low. Unshakable.

Not angry. Never angry. But laced with something deeper. Something that reaches past the part of me that wants to run.

“I said come here. And you did. That means you want help. And now I’m going to give it.”

I stop moving.

“You don’t get to squirm out of being taken care of just because it feels unfamiliar,” he murmurs, his hand smoothing slowly over the curve of my back. “You do need this. I know you do.”

A soft sound escapes me. Not a sob. Not a word.

Just surrender.

And he hears it.

My underwear slips down. The air hits my skin. I bury my face in my arms, breath hitching.

But Cal is right there. One hand wrapped around my hip. The other brushing down my spine in long, calming strokes.

“Just like this, baby girl,” he murmurs. “Let Daddy settle you.”

His hand lifts.

The first swat lands firm and slow. Not punishing. Not sharp. Measured—enough to settle, not to sting.

I gasp.

But it’s not pain.

It’s release.

The next swat comes a breath later. Then another. A steady rhythm. Each one met with the same voice—low, warm, so sure it makes my heart tremble.

“Not too much.”

“Not trouble.”

“Mine to take care of.”

And over and over again:

“Safe.”

His hand lifts. Falls again.

Measured and unhurried. Sure.

He’s not trying to make it hurt. He’s not trying to make a point.

He’s grounding me to the moment with every measured swat.

“Safe and held,” he whispers. “My good girl.”

I press my face deeper into my arms. My eyes blur. But still—I try to hold it in.

I always do.

Tears brim, but I won’t let them fall. My jaw clenches. My fingers dig into the couch cushion beneath me. I breathe through the sting, the ache, the way it lights up something deep and trembling.

I want to cry. I do.

But there’s still something inside me that says I don’t deserve to. That this isn’t enough to warrant the sob caught in my throat.

Cal’s rhythm never falters.

But after a while, he speaks again. Low. Certain.

“I can feel you trying to be brave.”

I don’t answer.

“Sweet girl…”

He shifts.

One arm tightens around my waist. Then—slowly—he hooks one strong leg over both of mine.

The weight of it settles warm and sure, locking me gently in place.

There’s no force—just presence. Just the quiet promise that I won’t be allowed to drift.

That I’m kept, exactly where I need to be. Holding me steady.

His other leg shifts upward beneath me, lifting my hips slightly, giving him better access to where it really settles. The place where he got through to me before.

The softest, deepest parts of me.

He runs his hand along my lower back.

“I’m not spanking you because you’re in trouble, Emmy. I’m spanking you because you’re holding it all in again.”

I suck in a breath.

“And I’m not going to let you.”

The next swat lands low—where the sting blooms deeper. Where it lingers. My breath catches, hips twitching in response, and something inside me clenches before melting at the steady ache. It’s not just sensation—it’s surrender.

My breath stutters.

Another swat. And another. Firm. Warm. Sure.

I whimper. My legs twitch beneath his.

“Let go, baby girl,” he says softly.

I shake my head. Just once. Desperate. Shamed.

Another swat. Right where it reaches me.

My fingers tremble, fisting into the fabric beneath me.

“Emmy,” he says again—voice like a tether. “You don’t have to be strong right now.”

The next swat breaks me.

The sob comes like a faultline cracking open.

And Cal doesn’t flinch.

Doesn’t soothe it away too fast.

He lets me cry.

Lets it pour out of me, messy and hot, as his hand strokes my back in slow, rhythmic lines—soothing as a lullaby. Each pass is grounding, familiar, reminding me I’m safe to fall apart here.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” he whispers. “There she is.”

Another swat lands, slow and low. Not sharp—just there. Just steady.

Then another.

And another.

Each one coaxing, not correcting. Grounding me to the present. To him.

The tears fall freely now. I don’t try to stop them.

But still—he doesn’t stop either.

Because he knows me. Knows how I bury it. Knows how I’ll try to pretend I’m fine as soon as the tears dry.

So he shifts again. His hand trailing to the backs of my thighs.

And then his voice comes, low and clear. Measured by his rhythm—steady, unrelenting.

“Don’t.”

The swat lands sharp, with purpose. Like a match striking against soaked kindling, sparking something I’ve fought too long to bury. My breath leaves me in a shudder, thin and reedy, like something splitting open from the inside.

“Hold.”

Lower now. Slower. The ache curls hot and deep, a shiver skating down my spine as my thighs press together.

“It.”

Another hit. This one is harder. Focused. Like he’s pushing the panic out of me—chasing it down with control and care. My stomach flips. My eyes sting.

“In.”

The word cuts deeper than his palm, digging into something raw and hidden. I gasp, breath catching high in my chest, everything inside me fracturing and folding in on itself.

“Anymore.”