UNBROKEN PROMISE

~86~ Sore Bottom

Logan’s hand moved in slow, comforting circles over Oma's bare bottom, the warmth of his palm trying to soothe the sting he'd just laid down. He bounced his knees gently trying to soothe her. She was draped limply over his lap, her drawers tangled around one ankle, her body trembling with sobs she couldn’t seem to rein in.

“There now,” he murmured, his voice low and gruff with emotion. “Breathe, sweetheart. Deep for me. In through your nose. Slow.”

But she couldn’t. Her breath hitched and caught, her sobs choking her as she tried to obey. Her fingers gripped the fabric of his trousers, knuckles white. Her face was hot with shame and sorrow, but mostly pain—raw and honest, inside and out.

Logan let out a strained sigh, pained to the core. He reached under her elbow and gently guided her upright. The moment her sore bottom touched his lap, she let out a high, broken whimper.

“Ow—!”

“shh, it's alright,” he whispered quickly, already shifting her to sit sideways so the pressure wouldn’t be too much. He kissed the crown of her head, holding her steady in his arms.

Her eyes were red and swollen, her cheeks streaked with tears. She turned her face into his chest without hesitation, her cries muffled against the warm fabric of his shirt. Her shoulders heaved. Her nose ran. She was a mess and she didn’t care. Neither did he.

Logan wrapped his arms around her, one large hand cradling her head, the other moving to rub her back. He lowered his chin to rest atop her head, and his own tears came then, silent and hot. He closed his eyes, letting them fall, one after another.

“It damn near broke me to do that,” he said, voice hoarse. “I don’t ever wanna have to give you a wallopin’ like that again,” he whispered into her hair, his voice ragged. “Please, baby. Don’t make me.”

She didn’t answer, just cried harder, soaking his shirt with tears and mucus. Her shoulders shook with every breath, and he rubbed her back slowly, his hand drifting up and down her spine.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered again, kissing her hair. “I hated every  second of it, baby. But I can’t—” his voice cracked, and he swallowed hard, “—I can’t go through that again. Thinkin’ I lost you. Thinkin’ you were gone…”

She clung tighter to him at those words, her fingers twisting into the fabric of his shirt. She wasn’t thinking like a grown woman anymore. In that moment, she didn’t feel like one at all. She felt like a little girl, small, frightened, and lost—just aching for comfort. And he felt like the only safe place in the world.

All her composure, her modesty, her pride, they’d vanished with the first sharp strike of his palm. What was left was just her, aching and weeping in his arms.

He pulled back slightly, just enough to see her face. She blinked at him through wet lashes. He brushed her tears away gently with the pad of his thumb and kissed each damp cheek.

“Did I rough ya up too much?” he asked softly.

She sniffled and gave the smallest shake of her head.

He nodded slowly, his jaw tight with held-back emotion. “Alright,” he said quietly, and pulled her close again.

She tucked her head under his chin and nuzzled into his chest, wiping her nose against his shirt once more. He said nothing, just held her, stroking her back, rubbing her bottom with a gentle hand as he whispered to her.

“You’re alright now, baby. I’ve got you. It’s over.”

The words came slow, low, meant only for her.