He studies me for what feels like forever and then he suddenly slides me to the side of the bed, takes my hand, and pulls me to my feet with this intense look on his face. Releasing my hand, he grabs the bottom of my shirt and tugs it over my head, moving carefully to avoid ruining the curls and braids or knocking out any of the black flowers. He discards my shirt on the floor, and then unties the drawstring of my pajamas, his eyes locked on me as he slips them down my legs. I refuse to look away from him and the longer I focus on him, the calmer I get inside, the violent rainstorm settling into a light drizzle. When the pants reach my feet, I step out of them. He makes his way to the closet and gets my wedding dress. It’s a beautiful dress, a shimmering black silk top, a red ribbon securing the back, and an elegant flowing white bottom bunched together in places by red and black roses.

Micha slips the plastic straps off the hanger as he returns to me and then lowers the dress to the floor so I can step into it. Once I get my legs through, he guides the fabric up my body until the top covers my breasts. Then I hold the front up with one hand and he walks behind me and grazes his fingers down my spine.

“Feeling any better?” he asks, his breath hot on my neck and I shiver.

I nod, freeing a trapped breath. “A lot better actually.”

“Good, because I want you to feel better. I want you to feel good about this—about marrying me, Ella May.” He slowly zips up the dress and the fabric constricts against my body, pushing my breast up the slightest bit. Once he gets it zipped, he steps back in front of me, nudging the flowing bottom out of the way with his boot. “Are you sure you want this—want me forever?” He has this guarded look in his eyes, like he’s trying to pretend that he can handle whatever, but I can tell that if I say no—that I don’t want this—it’ll crush him.

“Micha, I want this more than I’ve ever wanted anything,” I say honestly as I run my fingers along the bottom of my eyes and cheeks. “Just let me fix my makeup and we can go. I’m sure I look hideous.”

“You look beautiful,” he says without missing a beat. “You always do.”

“Hideously beautiful I think you mean,” I joke, and he cracks a smile, his fingers seeking my cheek.

“No, you look beautiful,” he promises. “But if you want to fix your makeup you can. I don’t think I can do that for you.”