She wakes in warmth, wrapped in blankets, and limp as a rag. She stretches like a cat, long-limbed and loose, the sheer pleasure of it delighting her. She blinks her eyes open, smiling, wondering if he's still sleeping, or is awake beside her.
But she's alone, alone in the bed, alone in the room, bathroom dark and empty, and her heart skips, smile falters and dies. She sits up, is truly alone, and wants to weep, or better yet, find her anger again. Instead, her eyes close, her hands cover her face in defeat. She flops back down to the bed, sadness creeping over her skin. She buries her face in the pillows, wallowing, only to be assaulted by the scents of Red (warm spice, scotch, a lingering hint of cigar smoke) and sex.
She bolts upright, eyes wide, can't take it, it's all too much. Then her eyes fall on the armchair in the corner, and the relief is so overwhelming it's like a shot of adrenalin. His vest, jacket, tie, are still folded neatly on the seat, topped jauntily by the oh-so-familiar fedora.
If nothing else, she thinks wryly, trying for composure, he wouldn't leave the hat behind.
Her tension draining, she debates a shower idly. It's Saturday, so she's on-call but not obligated to go in to the office with the current case wrapped (had it only been yesterday?). She thinks staying in bed a while longer has more merit… but at least a brief trip to the bathroom is needed.
He slips in the door as quietly as he can, hoping to catch her still asleep. But the bed is empty and water's running behind the closed bathroom door — ah, well. He puts the cardboard tray of coffee cups down on the tiny motel table, the bag of warm, fresh bagels beside it.
He kicks off his shoes and reclines on the bed with the front section of the paper, feeling vaguely domestic, and pleased about it. He's quickly drawn in to an article about the previous day's capture — approved media release only, of course — absorbed enough that he misses the quiet click of the bathroom door.
She pauses in the doorway, one hand on the frame. What a picture that is, she thinks, the Concierge himself, all rolled-up shirtsleeves and wrinkled slacks and sock feet, relaxed in my bed. For some reason she can't name, she finds the sock feet adorable; it makes her feel silly and sweet.
"Is that coffee I smell?" she says, brightly, "Kind of you to go out for it, thanks."
He looks up with a smile, about to reply, but doesn't — just looks at her, lips parted, eyes darkening slightly.
It's honestly not until that empty moment that she remembers she's still naked.
A flush starts to crawl over her, and she takes a few steps back into the bathroom. He gives himself a mental shake as she eases out of view.
"Oh no, Lizzie," he says darkly, "Don't hide from me now. I can't think of anything I'd rather see than you, sweetheart."
Bolstering herself, she walks out into the room, sits down beside him on the edge of the bed. Feeling daring — and a little ridiculous, considering — she leans in to kiss him good morning.
He's surprised and pleased enough to let her sit right back; her smile seems easy now, and her eyes are clear and happy.
"Good morning, Ray," she says. "Sleep well?"
"Better than I have in years," he replies, wonderingly. "I haven't felt this good in ages."
She laughs freely. "I was thinking the same thing, when I first woke up," she admits. "We must be good for one another."
His face softens. "I'm very glad to hear you say that, Lizzie," he says earnestly. "I have to admit to worrying that you might have some regrets."
Liz takes a closer look at him, then, and sees to her surprise that, behind his warm smile, his eyes are wary and unsure. She sees that this man, who brims with self-assured aplomb and suave confidence, who wears his unapologetic sensuality with the same ease as he does his tailored suit, is off center with her. That, in all the months of back and forth between them, her struggle to find her footing in the wreckage, of saying she cares and then banishing him, all her flailing struggles and anger and frustration have reduced him. That even now, together in the bed they shared, part of him is waiting for another rejection.
And she's been quiet for too long, she realizes, because his smile is fading away, eyes going cloudy. To anchor herself as much to reassure him, she reaches out and takes his hand.
"I can't say I don't have concerns," she says, trying for complete honesty. "Things have changed between us, and there are ramifications we'll have to face."
He nods, sighing; drops his gaze to their joined hands.
"But, Ray?" and she gives his hand a little squeeze to make him look at her again. "Even if I could go back, could change what happened, I wouldn't."
And this time, it's the joy on his face that makes her heart trip, and fall the rest of the way into love.