And she asked herself how in the world a quiet night grading papers and watching murder mysteries had ended with a big, dangerous, wounded man on her couch.

Nothing so exciting had ever happened to Tala. She was beginning to think that excitement was overrated.

She tossed and turned the entire night and was grateful that the following morning was a Saturday and she didn’t have to worry about school. When she got up, she half expected to find the man gone. Half expected to find that he had been a hallucination, some product of her fevered imagination brought about by watching too much sensationalized television.

She should read more. But then, she would just read sensationalized novels. She didn’t see the point of anything that wasn’t slightly sensational. She had spent her life relegated to mundane texts, with no TV and no movies. So now she liked everything to be full of action and sex. And if her life still wasn’t full of those things, it didn’t much matter. She could think about them anyway.

She got dressed, putting on a pair of jeans—something that was forbidden when she was growing up—and a sweatshirt. Then she crept out of her bedroom, down the hall. He was on the couch. On his back. And for one moment, she was terrified. Terrified that he had died in the night, and now she had a dead outlaw on her hands. She crossed the room quickly and sent up a prayer of thanks when she saw his chest rising and falling. He was alive. He was alive. It was okay.

She went into the kitchen and opened up the fridge, taking out a dozen eggs, and some bacon. Then she started the coffee and began to cook.

A few minutes later, she heard him stirring.

“You’re cooking?”

“Yeah. I thought you might be hungry. Especially since you weren’t able to eat anything last night. How are you feeling?”

“I don’t know yet,” he said.

He tried to move. “Like shit.”

“Sorry,” she said.

She didn’t know why she was sorry. She didn’t know why she cared.

With the pale morning light streaming through the window, he didn’t look any less dangerous than he had in the dead of night. And he was... He was beautiful. Shockingly so. The stubble on his face was nearly black, his jaw square.

His nose was blade straight, his lips sensuously curved. He was absolutely the beautiful villain from any number of British TV dramas, and she couldn’t help but stare. He had a scar on his face, noticeable because it ran through his beard and created a white line where there ought to be whiskers. He had another one on his lip, the only thing marring the perfection of his mouth.

Those things prevented him from being simply beautiful. They made him look roguish. Dangerous.

“Do you like eggs and bacon?”

The corner of his mouth lifted. “What if I told you I was a vegetarian?”

“I wouldn’t believe you.”