The bruises on my legs took time to fade.
For several days, I could still trace the darker marks where the metal bed frame had caught me.
One evening Ryan noticed me looking at them and reached toward the blanket.
Then he stopped.
“Do you want me to cover you?”
I looked at him for a moment.
“Yes.”
He pulled the blanket gently over my legs and left his hands on top of it, nowhere near me, until I moved mine over his.
That first morning, he had ripped the blanket away because he thought I was pretending.
Now he understood that seeing the truth was only the beginning.
Believing it had consequences.
And for the first time since becoming a Whitmore, I slept without needing a camera to prove I deserved to feel safe.
