Micah shaved his face for the first time in the six-months he’s been in the gang.

You didn’t realise that Micah was decent-looking underneath the handlebar moustache and itchy scruff, they’d just made him resemble a wet, old hound. But Jesus, he’s fine.

He’s sat by the campfire, itching his jaw as he sips at his whiskey flask. He can feel you staring.

“Y’know, the Devil ain’t fond of those who stares,” he snickers, looking up at you.