It was late at night, and Alex was sleeping on the sofa, wrapped in a plaid blanket.
Michael moved silently. With great effort, he sat up, biting his lip against the pain. He breathed heavily for a few seconds and glanced in the direction of his host, but she seemed not to have heard anything—she was still asleep.
With infinite slowness—so as not to make a sound or worsen the pain—he got up, took the clothes Alex had left on the chair beside the bed, and headed to the bathroom.
He closed the door behind him, switched on the light, and looked at himself in the mirror. Dark circles shadowed his eyes. But no other visible trace of the previous night's fight remained on his face.
He wondered if Alex had truly believed his bruises weren't serious, but the still-unhealed wound had most likely dispelled her doubts.
He was flushing the toilet when his head began to spin. Slowly, he sat down on the toilet seat. He felt the blood rush to his head, making it throb.
Closing his eyes, he waited for the room to stop swaying around him. He took deep breaths, and gradually his pulse steadied.
He picked up his trousers and began to put them on. By the time he finished, he was completely exhausted.
The stitches in his chest pulled and burned. Michael braced his good arm against the tiled wall, then slumped against it, gasping.
When the pain in his chest finally eased, he slowly staggered out of the bathroom.
Alex approached him and, in silence, supported him as she helped him back to the bed.
He collapsed onto it, drained.
"Thank you," he said in a hoarse voice.
She nodded and covered him. Then she took some tablets from a box and handed them to him with a glass of water.
"These should help with the pain." As she spoke, she lifted his head to help him swallow them.
"Thank you..."
"Try to get some sleep. If you need anything, just call."
He nodded silently, eyes already closed.
As he waited for the pain to ease, he could feel Alex's gaze on him. Then, slowly, his consciousness faded, and Michael slipped into sleep.