Chapter 6
The next morning, Quinn wakes to the dim light of the sun creeping around the edges of the blackout curtains. The bed next to him is empty.
Shit.
He blinks at the clock on the nightstand — 8:13. He's late. Saul, Dar, and Carrie are probably already at the office, trying to figure out who's responsible for the S-Bahn explosion. No doubt Hassan's cell is behind it. Hassan wasn't the kind of man who took risks lightly, and the fact that Quinn had gotten away would've sent them into a tailspin. The thought of it makes Quinn's stomach twist.
He groans, sitting up, then running a hand through his hair. He's naked. And Lily is gone. Of course she is. He lets himself linger on the memories of last night — the way she had felt under his hands, the sounds she made, the intimacy. But he can't afford to get distracted. He has a job to do.
Quickly, he gets out of bed, heading to the bathroom. He glances at his reflection as he passes the bathroom mirror — scruffy hair, bright blue eyes (maybe a little less bright this morning), 5 o'clock shadow outlining a strong jawline, and a well-earned six-pack (an ER nurse he used to fuck swore it was an eight-pack) — he's hardly a man who should be second-guessing himself. But even as his eyes linger on his reflection, something tightens in his chest. He's not a Harvard-educated lawyer, not the polished, smooth-talking type. Maybe that's what Lily wants. Maybe that's why she's gone.
He shakes his head, trying to ward off the thoughts. He's not a lovesick teenager. He doesn't need this. He doesn't need her.
After a quick splash of water on his face, he uses her toothpaste to brush his teeth with his finger, wincing at the makeshift job. He tells himself a shower will help clear his head, but as the hot water pounds against his skin, it only heightens his anxiety. He's already late, and the terror cell he failed to neutralize is likely responsible for the attack. The clock is ticking.
When he steps out of the bathroom, towel around his waist, ready to rush through the rest of the morning, he's caught off guard by the sight of Lily sitting at the small table near the window, looking like something out of a dream. There are takeaway coffees, muffins, and fruit cups spread out in front of her, and she's dressed in yoga gear, her hair pulled back.
"Good morning," she says softly, her gaze flicking over him as she tries to hide the trace of a smile.
"Morning," Quinn replies, surprised at the rush of warmth that floods through him. He's not sure why he's so relieved to see her.
She glances at him again, her eyes dropping to his bare chest, and for a moment, neither of them speaks.
"I wasn't sure how you take your coffee," she says, a little awkwardly. "It's black, but I brought sugar and cream, just in case."
Quinn smiles, his anxiety ebbing away. "Black is good. Thanks."
She nods, looking down at the table. "I wasn't sure if you had time for breakfast, but I thought—"
"I don't," he cuts her off, but he's smiling. "But the coffee … that's great."
She blushes, and the sight of it makes something inside him settle. "Okay. Well, I—" She trails off, clearly unsure of what to say next.
"Still on for dinner tonight?" Quinn asks, looking down at her.
Lily looks up at him, her smile tentative. "Yeah. I mean, if you're up for it."
"I am," he assures her, stepping closer. "Pizza? There's a place down the street. We passed by it … last night."
"That sounds perfect," she says, looking relieved.
He leans closer, his face inches from hers. "It's a date," he murmurs, brushing his nose lightly against hers. She nods, a small, almost imperceptible movement.
The moment lingers. He can feel his heart beating too fast, the pull of something he can't quite name. Then, impulsively, he kisses her. It's soft, tentative, but it says everything he can't. When he pulls back, she swallows, looking up at him with a look he can't decipher.
"You should… go," she murmurs, almost reluctantly.
"Yeah," he says with a sigh, knowing she's right. But he doesn't move.
"You're probably running late," she says quietly, but there's no conviction in her voice.
"Yeah," he replies, not quite able to tear himself away.
She says it again, softly: "Yeah."
He kisses her again, slow and deep this time. When he pulls away, she's still looking at him, eyes dark with something unreadable.
"If you don't go now," she whispers, "It's going to be… well…"
She doesn't finish her sentence, but neither of them need to. The towel can't hold up anymore, and neither can he. He doesn't show up to the Berlin station until 10:48.