Page 66 of Let Me In

EMMY

The cabin is quiet in that full, golden way it only gets in early afternoon.

The fire’s still going. Luca is snoring softly under the table, his paws twitching in sleep.

Cleo’s curled like a comma at the edge of the couch, her tiny breaths syncing with the quiet warmth of the room, her little chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.

I’m warm. Clean. Held in the hush of everything being okay.

But there’s a knot in my stomach that won’t quite loosen.

Not fear.

Not exactly.

Just… knowing.

Cal hasn’t said anything yet. He made tea for both of us, kissed the top of my head when he passed me mine. He refilled the dogs’ water bowl. Checked the stove. Moved around the cabin like it was any other day.

But I can feel it.

The shift. In the way the light catches on the set of his shoulders. In the faint creak of the floorboards beneath his steps—slower, heavier. Like the cabin is bracing for something it already knows is coming.

He carries it in his shoulders. In the set of his jaw. In the way his eyes linger just a beat too long when they meet mine, quiet and unreadable and full of something I don’t know how to name.

I think—maybe if I don’t speak, he won’t.

Maybe if I stay small—good and still, curled into the quiet like something delicate—he’ll let it go. Maybe the heat in his gaze will soften into something gentle. Maybe we’ll wrap the silence around us like a blanket and pretend it never happened. Just another evening. Just another hush between us.

But I know better.

I broke a rule.

Not just any rule. A safety rule.

And Cal—he’s not the kind of man who lets that slide.

Not out of anger.

Not because he wants control for the sake of it.

But because he loves me. Because his love holds shape and form. Because he builds safety with boundaries and makes his expectations clear.

Because structure matters—because I matter.

Still, even knowing all of that, I flinch a little when I hear it.

“Come here, baby.”

His voice is low. Steady. Gentle in that way that cuts deeper than anything sharp.

I look up from my tea. My fingers curl tighter around the mug.

He’s sitting in the recliner now. One leg stretched out, the other pulled close. His arms resting on the wide arms of the chair, palms open. He’s so still it feels deliberate—like he’s anchoring the whole room with his body, offering the kind of calm that draws everything in.

Waiting.

I set the mug down with careful hands, fingers brushing the edge like it might break.

My legs feel unsteady as I cross the room, the floor cool beneath my bare feet. The space between us feels longer than it is—like every step carries weight I can’t quite shake.

When I reach him, I don’t kneel.

Not yet.

I stop between his knees and look up at him. The room seems to hold its breath with me.

Cal studies me for a long moment, his gaze slow and steady. The kind that sees.

Then he lifts his hand and touches the side of my face, his thumb grazing my cheekbone with reverent care.

“You know what this is for.”

I nod. My throat’s too tight for words. I swallow hard, the sound loud in my ears.

His thumb brushes under my eye, and the gesture is so gentle it almost undoes me.

“This is punishment, little one, but it’s not about anger.”

I nod again. Slower.

“This is because I love you,” he says. “Because you’re mine. You’re my girl. And when you run into the dark, without shoes, without thinking—when you put yourself in danger like that—I feel it.”

That undoes me a little.

I look down, shoulders curling in.

“I’m sorry,” I whisper.

“I know,” he says gently. “But this isn’t about guilt. It’s about grounding.”

He pauses.

"It's consequence, baby. Say it for me."

I lift my eyes.

"It's consequence."

He nods once.

“For breaking a rule. A safety rule. That’s all this is, baby. A consequence. And when it’s done, it’s done.”

He opens his arms.

“Over my lap.”

I don’t try to talk my way out of it.

Not this time.

I don’t tell him I’m too much. Or that it won’t help. Or that it’s only more trouble.

Because I know what this is.

Because I need what this is.

Even if I try to take it as quietly as I can.

I shift forward, lowering myself over his lap, breath catching as I settle. My body hesitates for a half second—like it always does—caught between the instinct to flinch and the choice to surrender.

I choose him.

Even now.

The fabric of his pants is warm under my belly. His thighs solid beneath me. That warmth settles into my skin, slows my breathing, eases something tight behind my ribs. My hands tremble as I brace them on the quilted arm of the chair, fingers curling into the stitching like it might hold me steady.

He adjusts me without a word.

One hand firm at my waist, the other smoothing down the back of my thighs, grounding me in touch before movement.

Then—

He shifts his leg over mine.

Hooks it across both of mine with that calm certainty that tells me I’m not supposed to go anywhere.

It’s not force.

It’s containment.

It’s safety, wrapped around my limbs like a vow. My muscles begin to soften, breath slipping into something slow and steady, like my body is answering without needing permission.

I let out a small, broken sound. Not protest. Not even fear.

Just—

“Daddy…”

Barely more than a breath. Cracked and quiet and searching.

And he hears it.

Of course he does.

His palm stills over the small of my back, fingers splayed wide, warm. I melt into the pressure instinctively, pressing just slightly into his touch, drawn to the steadiness he offers without even thinking.

“I know, baby,” he murmurs. “I know.”

His voice—low, unshakable—slides down my spine like balm. It settles somewhere deep in my chest, where all the shame and trembling live. I close my eyes.

Then he shifts me higher.

His free leg rises slightly, tilting my hips forward—exposing the tender curve of my bottom, the crease of my thighs. Making me open.

Vulnerable.

Accessible.

His touch lingers, a slow glide over the backs of my legs.

Then stills.

And when he begins—it’s with intention.

The first swat is not light.

Not sharp.

But firm.

And the next, and the next.

Rhythmic.

Measured.

Not a flurry, but a declaration. Each one is spaced. Certain. A line drawn not in anger, but in care.

My fingers curl tighter around the quilt.

I breathe through it. Try to stay still.

Try to be good.

But I know—I know—he’s watching for the moment I start to hide inside myself again.

And when he speaks, it’s with that quiet knowing that always finds me.

“Stop holding it in, little one.”

I bite my lip.

His voice doesn’t change. But something in it drops. Like a weight added to an anchor.

And then the swats shift lower.

To the backs of my thighs.

To the place where I feel.

Where he got through to me last time.

Each strike lands with that heavy, deliberate sound. The kind that echoes in the stillness.

And this time, he speaks between them.

Soft.

Unhurried.

“This isn’t about pain.”

His hand lands with purpose—solid, deliberate.

“It’s not about guilt.”

Another, firmer now, echoing through the hush.

“It’s about reminding you.”

The next strike draws a tremor from my legs.

“That you’re safe.”

His hand lingers, heat blooming where it lands.

“That you’re mine.”

The next comes slower, a beat of ownership, of grounding.

“That I will come home.”

And this one—this one carries the weight of a promise. The quiet certainty that he means every word.

My body shudders. My breath catches.

And the tears come.

Quiet and steady.

Like rain that had been building in the air all morning and finally found the sky too heavy to hold.

I don’t sob. I just… let go.

Not of him—but of everything else. The guilt. The shame. The constant fear that I’m too much, too messy, too hard to love.

Because he won’t let me disappear.

Not under him.

Not ever.

The air shifts around us. Cal hasn’t stopped, but I feel something shift. The rhythm of him, quiet and sure. A hush that anchors instead of silences.

The first half was him reaching me. Pulling me out of the place where I vanish.

Now… now he’s holding me there.

In the light.

In the open.

So I stay. Held. Known.

His hand steadies on the curve of my backside—warm, firm, unmoving for a long moment, like he’s waiting for me to feel how sure he is.

And then—he begins again. Not faster. Not harder.

But with a deliberateness that makes my breath shiver.

These aren’t swats meant to startle. They’re deliberate. Deep. Made to stay. Meant to linger in the muscle and memory of me.

Each one reminds me—his love holds firm, steady as the hand that guides me. The structure he offers isn’t fleeting—it’s a promise made real.

That I am his.

Each one lands in the same place, with unhurried force. Thighs. Sit spots. The heat already building, blooming low and deep until it pulses through me—something I’ll feel long after, a reminder not just on my skin, but threaded through every breath and heartbeat.

I whimper once. Not from the pain—but from the weight of it. The truth in it.

“Good girl,” he murmurs.

Just warm. Anchored. The kind of praise that sinks into my skin, deep and meant only for me.

Like a rope tightening around my center, pulling me home.

“Taking it so well for me.”

Another swat.

Another pause.

“You don’t hide anymore, do you?”

I can’t answer. My throat is too tight.

But I shake my head. Small. Honest.

“That’s it,” he breathes. “That’s my brave girl. You let me in.”

And something in me just—gives.

The tears aren’t sharp now.

They’re soft. Continuous. Like a river worn into the earth.

And I don’t fight them.

I let them fall. Let them clean me out.

Because I’m not trying to be strong anymore.

Not here.

Not with him.

Not when he already knows.

It happens all at once.

Not the pain.

Not even the heat.

But something inside me just… gives.

Like a thread pulled too tight finally slipping free.

I don’t even know when it starts—just that suddenly, I’m not trying to hold it together anymore.

I’m crying.