Page 138 of Let Me In

Held in the fire of his care.

I’m crying too hard to see. The tears are hot and endless, sliding down my cheeks and into the cushion beneath me. My throat aches. My chest heaves.

It’s not just the spanking.

It’s not just the sting or the shame or the ache blooming low and deep where his hand met skin.

It’s what came loose. It’s how it didn’t destroy me. Because part of me always believed that falling apart would be the end of me—that if I ever let go, I’d shatter beyond repair. But instead, I landed here. In him.

He touches my back. Soft. Reassuring. His hand lingers there, just a moment longer than necessary, warm and grounding. He breathes in, slow and quiet, like he’s memorizing the shape of me in his arms. There’s a stillness to him, not hesitation, but reverence. As if holding me like this is something sacred.

His hand trails low, pulling my clothes back up, slow and careful, his touch steady even as I shake.

He doesn’t speak.

He doesn’t rush.

He just dresses me.

Like I’m something delicate. Worthy.

Like I’m his.

And then he gathers me. Lifts me from his lap in one fluid, certain motion. The shift makes something in me unfurl—a rush of safety flooding through my chest, a surrender so deep it feels like gravity pulling me home. My arms go around his neck instantly. My legs around his waist.

Instinct.

Need.

My face presses into his chest, wet with tears, breath hitching like I’m drowning in the middle of being saved.

And he holds me so close. So tight. One hand on my back, one under my thighs.

No space between us. No doubt.

Just heat, strength, home.

“I’ve got you, little one,” he murmurs into my hair, his breath warm against my scalp, the low rumble of his voice settling deep into my bones like a lullaby only my body understands. “You’re alright now. It’s over. I’ve got you.”

And I believe him.

Even with my heart cracked open, even with my body aching…

I believe him.

Because I’m in his arms. And he’s not letting go.

I can’t stop shaking. Even wrapped around him like this—legs cinched at his waist, arms looped tight around his neck, face buried in the warmth of his chest—I still can’t catch my breath.

It comes in bursts. Shallow. Hitched.

“I’m s-sorry,” I whisper, broken and breathless.

It tumbles out of me between sobs. Barely a sound. Just shape and ache and guilt tangled into one. “I’m sorry—I didn’t mean to—I was trying—”

“Shh.”

His voice rumbles low, right against my ear.

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