The restaurant was glowing with soft, golden light, designed to make every couple feel intimate and special. You leaned slightly forward across the table, tilting your head, eyes wide, lips curved in that carefully practiced smile. Every laugh was timed perfectly, soft and melodic, just enough to encourage the man across from you. Every nod and tilt of your head suggested interest and charm, the perfect companion on a blind date.

He was oblivious. Nearly fifty, his arrogance dripping from every word, still dangling his hand too long after kissing yours at the beginning of the evening. He prattled on about some ludicrous business venture, certain that you were captivated by his every idea. And you? You smiled. You laughed. You listened. All while your stomach churned, every fiber of you screaming in disgust.

You had mastered this act. Since childhood, you had learned how to please, how to perform the right smiles, the right laughs, the right gestures. No one suspected the fire simmering beneath your delicate exterior. No one ever would. No one except Malcolm.

Because he knew. He had always known. Every competition, every rivalry in school and college, every carefully constructed mask you wore—he saw through it. He recognized the real you: the sharpness, the fury, the venom you hid behind perfection. And he relished it. Not cruelly, not maliciously—he simply delighted in the fact that the only person you ever truly revealed yourself to was him.

By the end of the evening, the date’s charm had worn thin. The man’s self-importance, the cloying sweetness of his laughter, the way he tried to impress with ridiculous ideas—it was too much. Your mask was straining, the perfect smile starting to feel heavy, unnatural. It was time.

You excused yourself, stepping out into the cool night air. The city lights blurred slightly through your simmering anger. Every step toward Malcolm’s apartment was a release, anticipation tightening in your chest. You had to get to him before the mask completely shattered in front of someone else.

And there he was, waiting. Leaning against the doorway, arms crossed, that infuriating smirk tugging at his lips. He didn’t need to ask why you had come. He never did. He simply knew that when the polished facade began to crack, you would run to him, the one person who had ever seen the storm beneath your perfection.

Once inside, the door closed behind you and the mask finally slipped away. Words spilled out in a sharp, bitter rush, your disgust with the world and with the night’s date unleashed fully. You didn’t hold back. Every detail, every cringe, every moment of tension—the manager’s too-long touch, the ridiculous business pitch, the oily arrogance—you vented it all, unfiltered, raw, and real.

Malcolm listened, as always, perfectly still. Not a word of judgment, only that knowing, satisfied gleam in his eyes. He loved it—loved that you only opened up like this for him, loved that this was yours and his alone. He didn’t need your politeness or charm or perfect mask. He needed this: your true self, messy and sharp and furious.

You hated that he knew, hated that you depended on him for this release, hated the ease with which he consumed every unguarded word. And he hated nothing about it.

When your words finally faltered and your chest heaved, he leaned in slightly, grin sharp, eyes bright with wicked delight.

“Tell me more, love.”