Page 134 of Let Me In

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.

---