Alex woke up at dawn.
The light filtering through the curtains wasn't enough to chase away the shadows of the night. She sat up and looked at Michael, still asleep in her bed.
She got up and approached him. With a gentle hand, she touched his forehead to check if the fever had returned. But his skin felt cool, and his breathing was steady. He barely moved in his sleep.
It felt strange to have a man sleeping in her house. She had never allowed anyone to do that before. The new situation made her uneasy, but the man intrigued her.
She went to the bathroom and waited for the water to warm before stepping into the shower. Once dressed, she returned to the living room. Michael was still asleep.
She sat on the sofa and tried to read, but her mind wouldn't focus. After wandering around the flat for a while, she decided to go to the gym—only after stopping by the shop downstairs to buy breakfast and leaving it by Michael's bedside, along with the first-aid kit and some painkillers.
---
When Michael woke up,
he immediately realised Alex wasn't home. Next to the bed, she had left some muffins and a juice box.
He sat up and glanced around the room. The white walls, along with a few blue and orange objects, made it look bright and welcoming.
He took one of the muffins and devoured it in a few bites. Then he swung his legs over the edge of the bed and stood up slowly. His wounds still hurt, but the pain was now bearable. After a brief moment of dizziness, the room stopped spinning.
He grabbed another muffin and walked around. There were no photos or decorations—only weapons hung on the wall: a sword, a katana, and two daggers, one short and one long.
He reached for the sword. The hilt was wrapped in dark leather, just like the scabbard, and smelled faintly of oil. He drew the blade, and the steel glinted in the daylight. The weapon was simple, but beautiful. It felt well-balanced in his hand, and the edge was sharp.
Carefully, he sheathed it again and hung it back on the wall. He examined the others: all were sharpened and in perfect condition.
He wondered what Alex was doing with those weapons. Maybe she was a collector. But collectors didn't usually keep their blades sharp.
His eyes wandered back to the room. A thin layer of dust covered the furniture. He smiled. Alex was clearly not a homemaker. Not that she had seemed like one.
She looked young—probably not even thirty—but her eyes were hardened, like someone who had lived a very long life.
---
He looked out the window.
Lennon Street stretched out like a grey ribbon. He wondered if his car was still on Cleric Street or if they had already stripped it for parts. But he couldn't go check.
Perhaps it was time to call the rental agency and report it. Then he'd order a taxi and leave. Even if the car was still there and usable, it wasn't worth the risk. They could have been watching it.
Fatigue swept over him, and he sat back on the bed. He closed his eyes.
Then something resurfaced—something that hadn't seemed important at first but now struck him as odd.
Sandy had tried to stun him. If she had wanted to kill him—though for what reason?—she could have stabbed or shot him the moment she got out of the car, or when he left the pub.
What if killing him wasn't their intention at all?
What had they really wanted from him? He hadn't been back in this town for eight years!
---
He began to consider his options.
He couldn't walk far, let alone defend himself. He couldn't return to his flat in Oldgrove, and he didn't want to go to Barclay House—not yet. He wasn't ready to face his mother.
If only Andy had been in town! But his friend wouldn't return for a few days.
He looked around again. Maybe he could wait here until Alex came back. It was unlikely anyone would think to look for him here—the rain had probably washed away any traces.
His head throbbed again, and he collapsed onto the pillows, eyes closed, waiting for the pain to fade. Soon after, he fell asleep.
---
Alex returned home late in the morning
and found Michael still asleep. The sunlight filtering through the clouds lit up his bare chest. The shadows highlighted the sculpted muscles of his torso and abdomen where the bandages didn't reach.
She gently set her gym bag on the floor and went to the kitchen to heat up some pizzas. Then she returned to the living room and covered him.
From a shelf, she grabbed The Lord of the Rings and sat on the sofa to read.
---
Hours passed.
Darkness began to fall, and she turned on the lamp next to the couch. Before diving back into her book, she looked at Michael, who was still asleep.
At the club, he had said he was taking a few days off.
---
When Michael finally woke up,
it was already night outside, but a soft light lit up the room.
He turned and saw Alex on the couch in front of him, holding a thick book. Her hair was tied in a low ponytail, with a few loose strands softly framing her face.
"Welcome back," she said. "What time is it?"
"Seven."
"I slept a lot."
"Did you have plans?" she asked, smiling.
Her question reminded him of work. He closed his eyes. "Yes." Then looked around. "Did you happen to find my phone?"
"No. You didn't have much on you that night..." she recalled the image of Michael lying naked on the asphalt. "But you can use mine."
She handed him the phone resting on the table.
"Thanks. Just a heads-up—I'll be making a work call… Roger, it's me, Michael. No, this isn't my number, I… sorry I didn't get back to you, I lost my phone… Problems at the Anchor offices? No, I haven't checked emails. Listen, Roger, you need to send someone to Oldgrove to cover me, I can't handle it right now. Family issues. Bring in Tom—he knows the project. Sorry I didn't warn you earlier… It's okay, I'll be in touch. Talk soon."
He handed the phone back. "Thanks."
"What do you do?"
"I'm an architect. In London. I'm here to supervise work on a department store."
"How long have you been in town?"
"A few days. Do you work?"
She nodded. "Bartender. Bouncer."
"Bouncer?"
"Yeah."
"It must be humiliating for a man to be thrown out by a woman," Michael said with a smile. Then frowned slightly, struck by a memory. "Of course! You work at the Blackout!"
He recalled the night he'd gone to the club with Andy, and the bouncer who'd thrown out the troublemaker.
"You're good," he said.
"Thanks. What will you do about work now?"
"A colleague of mine from London will come. He'll take over."
She nodded. "Hungry?"
"Actually, yes."
Alex reheated the pizzas. When the oven chimed, she plated them, brought them over, then fetched water, glasses, and a tray for Michael so he could eat in bed.
"Thank you," he said as she got closer. His hand brushed hers on the tray.
"You're welcome," Alex replied. She pulled up an armchair and a chair for her plate, then took a bite of pizza.
"Tell me about the last job you did before coming here," she said.
Michael told her about a loft he had designed for a single, forty-year-old banker. He described the large, pristine spaces where partitions defined perspectives and rooms. The few dark-toned furnishings stood out like sculptures against the white walls and floors.
"It sounds cold."
Michael laughed. "It matched the client's personality."
"You really love your job."
She had noticed how his eyes lit up when he talked about it, the way his cheeks coloured and his gaze drifted to the imagined space.
"I do. It's always different. No project is ever the same. Each client has their own needs, their own personality. My job is to reflect that in the place where they live, the space that represents them in front of others."
"It's like a life philosophy."
"In a way, yes."
"When I get my own place, I'll call you."
"You seem more like a tent person to me."
"A tent?"
"You look like a nomad."
"What makes you say that?"
"You don't have much stuff around—for a woman."
"I travel a lot," Alex replied, stiffening slightly.
Michael watched her. "Sorry, I didn't mean to pry. It's just… occupational hazard—I tend to observe houses."
Alex relaxed and nodded.
---
The phone rang.
She checked the number—didn't recognise it. "Hello?"
"Hi, this is Roger Wayle. Sorry, I'm looking for Michael Barclay. He called from this number earlier."
"Yes, one moment." She handed the phone to Michael, who gave her a puzzled look.
"Roger Wayle," she whispered.
"Roger!" Michael greeted him. "Don't call me on this number…"
Alex gathered the dishes and glasses and took them to the kitchen.
When she returned, Michael had just hung up.
"Sorry," he said. "Work issues. But I told him not to call this number again."
"No problem. Do you want to watch a movie?"
"Why not!"
They watched The Dark Knight.