The smell of fried eggs woke her up. She blinked and rolled off the sofa, grabbed a hair tie, and pulled her hair back. As she reached the kitchen door, she saw Michael focused on scrambling eggs.
"Good morning!" he greeted her cheerfully.
"Wait... you can cook?"
"Well, if by 'cook' you mean 'fry eggs,' then yes, I suppose I can!"
His smile was contagious, and Alex smiled back. She watched him move around the stove. He was wearing the grey-blue trousers and T-shirt she had given him. The rolled-up sleeves revealed the muscles in his forearms, and he was barefoot. The dark circles under his eyes were gone, and his face looked relaxed—he even seemed younger.
"The eggs are ready!"
Alex grabbed two placemats and cutlery and carried them into the living room. He followed with the plates and slices of toast.
"Sorry—no bacon."
"I didn't even know there were eggs in the house!"
Alex helped him change the bandages. "They're healing quickly," he said.
Michael watched her as she tended to the wound on his chest. Her scent reached him—intense. The desire to run his fingers through her hair and caress her skin overtook him, and he had to look away.
"Then I can stop worrying about it," he said, though even as he spoke, he realized that wasn't really what he wanted.
Alex raised her eyes to meet his. "No problem," he answered, and it was true—he was getting used to having her around.
Michael got lost in her stormy sea-colored eyes. For the first time, she noticed his: green, with a golden-brown ring near the iris. She felt the electricity between them growing, her heartbeat speeding up. She lowered her gaze and finished dressing his wound, then turned away.
"I have to go to the gym," Alex said.
---
At the gym, she unleashed her energy on the punching bag. She kicked and punched, trying to drive thoughts of Michael out of her head. She had to focus on the fight that night—her opponent was Snake. Fast and agile, she had already seen him fight. Knocking him out wouldn't be easy. Once she was done with the bag, she got in the ring and trained with a stick alongside one of the instructors.
---
Left alone, Michael couldn't stop thinking about her. Her eyes, her face, her lips. The desire to touch her hadn't faded. He couldn't just sit still, so he got up. He found Alex's weights and did a few exercises with his good arm—but he immediately felt the stitches pull at his chest and stopped. He wandered around the apartment, eventually stopping by the window. He felt trapped. The urge to go outside and walk down the street surged through him like a river bursting its banks.
He put on his shirt and was about to head out when the door opened.
Alex entered the apartment. Her face was focused, her mind clearly elsewhere—until she saw his look.
"Don't even think about it," she said. "You were just about to walk out, weren't you?"
He looked at her, puzzled.
"You had the look of a caged animal who sees the door open—only for its captor to return," she replied to his unspoken question.
He was struck by her powers of observation. "I don't see you as my captor. You're the one I owe my life to."
"No need to exaggerate." She dropped her bag on the floor and approached him. "You need to be patient. If the stitches break, you'll have to start all over again. That won't make you heal any faster."
He nodded and sat down. "How can you read my mind so easily?"
"It's not always easy. But you weren't hiding your thoughts, and I've developed the habit of observing people who stay in my house," she added with a lighter tone.
"You're a woman of many layers, Alex. What's your last name?"
"Ryan."
"Mine's Barclay."
She nodded. A colleague had told her that—reminded her of the time he'd shown up at the Blackout and she'd let him in.
"Well, Mr. Barclay, I got us some sandwiches."
"Pickles?"
"No."
"Thank God. I hate them!"
"Me too."
"Okay," Alex said after dinner. "Let me check your wounds." She gestured toward the bed.
He took off his shirt, and Alex couldn't help but notice how his muscles flexed with each movement. She sat beside him and slowly peeled away the bandages. The wound was almost completely healed. She gently ran a finger along the line of the cut.
"You're almost healed," she said, though she couldn't explain the speed of his recovery.
Michael felt a soft warmth radiating from where she touched him. His heart sped up, and his breathing grew faster. Before he could stop himself, he reached out and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear.
When Alex looked at him with a questioning gaze, he said mischievously, "It was tickling me."
She nodded but pulled her hands away and quickly reapplied the bandage.
"All right," she said, standing up and disappearing into the bathroom.
Michael stayed still until his heart finally slowed back to normal.
When she came out of the bathroom, Alex was dressed in black, her hair up in a high ponytail.
"I'm going," she said.
"Work?"
She hesitated for a second, then nodded. "Yeah."
In truth, it was still early—but she needed to get out of the house. When Michael had brushed her hair back, a shiver had run