Page 302 of Let Me In

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.

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