(Malory)
By the time the photos are taken, my room light is back on, and I’m cleaning my face, and Kyle is sitting on my bed, staring at the pictures. I sit beside him. I study them.
“Yup,” I say, “You definitely look like you manhandled me, Davidson.”
The phone tightens in his grip. “Why did you agree to do this? I mean I know it’s to protect your mom but... you do realise this is…sad…extreme… and just… awful…” he says.
“My mom and myself isn’t the only ones I’m protecting,” I tell him. “I’m protecting you, too.”
He scoffs.
“You’re worth protecting, you know.” I assure him.
He looks at me sadly. “I don’t think so.”
“Well,” I say, rubbing his back, “You are.” I pat him on the shoulders before messing up his hair and scrunching my face. “Cheer up. I’m trying to be a heroine here.”
He scoffs and looks down at the images again. “It doesn’t look like you. It really doesn’t. Not at a first glance.”