Page 251 of Let Me 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.”

The last swat isn’t soft. It’s decisive. It lands on skin already tender, and for a beat, there’s silence. Then something in me unknots all at once—my muscles giving, my tears unstoppable, the weight of everything I’ve been holding slipping free from where it was buried.

Each word lands with purpose, imprinting something low and lasting into me. My breath catches, skin prickling where his hand met flesh. In my memory, it blooms sharper still.

My cries soften into hiccuped exhales. The tension draining from my limbs. From my heart.

And by the time he lifts his hand one last time—just one more soft swat to my sit spot—I’m limp over his lap. Not braced. Not afraid.

Just held.

I whisper something then. Barely audible.

“I believe you.”

His hand stills.

But I feel the breath he lets out. The way his body softens, too.

I don’t know if I believe it forever. But I believe it now.

That I’m not too much.

That I’m not a burden.

That I’m his.

The last swat fades into warmth. Into breath.

And before he can even reach for me—I’m already reaching for him.

My arms stretch back, trembling and small, searching for something to anchor to—until my fingers find the soft cotton of his shirt, the solid line of his waist. I clutch hard, grounding myself in the warmth and weight of him. Not because I’m unsure of where he is, but because I need to feel him. All of him.

It nearly breaks him.

I can feel it in the way his hands move—suddenly less measured. More desperate. Not because he’s rushed.

But because I think he needs it too.

He gathers me up in one clean motion, lifting me from his lap like I weigh nothing. My legs fold against his chest, arms wrap around his neck, skin brushing skin, and I feel the steady rise and fall of his breath—solid, anchoring—beneath my cheek. And I bury my face there, in that space beneath his jaw where I can hear his heart, steady and low.

He doesn’t speak right away. Just holds me.

One arm locked firm beneath my thighs. The other hand cradling the back of my head.

And then, finally—his voice. Rough with feeling.

“Good girl,” he whispers. “My good girl.”

A fresh wave of tears burns behind my eyes.

But they don’t fall. Not the same way.

They’re quieter now. Softer.

His thumb moves in circles along my side. Rocking us slightly.

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