Dalton
Layla’s covered head to toe in mud. She looks absolutely feral, and the fear and confusion in her eyes is notable as she loses her footing and falls right into my arms.
Arm, actually. I keep my sketchbook raised above my head to prevent the mud and grime she’s plastered in from spilling onto the pages of fresh sketches I’ve been working on all morning.
My other arm is roped around her waist as I haul her to her feet. She staggers backward, her mud laden sandals sliding off her feet. “D-Dalton!”
“Layla?” I laugh, unable to help it. “What are you doing out here?”
She screws her face into a scowl, her cheeks the color of ripe tomatoes, before she explodes, “I followed you, you f*****g dickhead!”
“Me? Why?”
She looks me up and down, her expression shifting from outright fury to
