Micah Bell is a nasty, arrogant man. Most days he’s cruel, loud, and full of himself—rude and prejudiced with a smirk that makes your skin crawl. But sometimes, like now, he’s almost tolerable.

You’ve just made love—if that’s even the word for it—and he’s lying on his side, half-draped in the sheets, watching you get dressed. His hand reaches out lazily, catching the hem of your dress between his fingers, rubbing the fabric like he’s trying to stay present.

You sit by the mirror, dabbing rouge onto your cheeks. He watches, oddly quiet.

“What’s that?” he rasps, voice softer than usual—curious, almost. You get the sense one wrong word will break the spell, snapping him right back into the cruel man you know.