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When Lizzie wakes she’s immediately aware that she is not alone in her bed.
She’s wearing a shirt that’s far too baggy on her.
But her eyes snap open even though she remembers. Blurry with sleep, her gaze roams across the carpeted floor. Oh, god, she thinks. Articles of clothing are scattered everywhere. They were messy and frantic and is that a wine stain on her carpet? She had it professionally cleaned just a month ago, and she should really get up and put some stain remover on it. She doesn’t have time for that though, or she just doesn’t want to get out of the bed. Not while he’s still here.
The clothes on the floor surprise her because she’s never, never ever been so eager to remove someone’s clothes before. It's like he was on fire or something. She’s usually more careful, a slower sort of lover. Unbutton the top with a slow, deliberate suspense. Last night was entirely different. Perhaps it’s because he has so many clothes. So many layers. There was just no time for them all.
He’s inches away from her. She can smell him and his soap and his shaving cream. Unless it’s the shirt she’s wearing. It's soft against her skin, warm and expensive. A button is missing, and one is loose with just the finest bit of thread holding it together. She'd be embarrassed with her fierce actions last night if he wasn't exactly the same.
'This, this, off, Lizzie, now.'
'Oh my god, help me.'
She wonders why he’s still here. Why is he not out having coffee? Or just gone. Gone back to his place. The rooms light; the suns sneaking through the gaps in the blinds, and he was never still in bed at this time when they were on the run. It must be around nine, she thinks, and then, after a long second or two of contemplating, she thinks that it’s a far better outcome to wake with him here than not here. Surely it must mean that he wants to be here when she wakes. She’s not sure how she feels about that because she’s so nervous now. She’s trying to remain still and pretend to be a sleep for just a little longer, but her heart is already racing.
Lizzie doesn’t want to turn. She is afraid to turn. The concierge of crime is laying just there, so close. Is he on his back? On his front? Facing her? Is he awake? The bane of her existence, the man she loves to hate and hates to love and… maybe hates too strong of a word nowadays.
She did things with him from one to four in the morning and ohh no, she’s not sure what she said in those hours. She said ‘Red’, maybe more than said, perhaps she drew it out a little more. She emphasised the long vowel. She said his name a couple of dozen times, perhaps more. At least she didn’t get too carried away and told him how she felt.
No, wait, Lizzie shifts her legs and does the smallest of squirms she can manage without moving the mattress too much. She did tell him. The whites of her eyes grow, and she’s not sure if she’s sick from her own bravery, or sick because she actually said it.
‘I think I’m falling in love with you’
She said that, she thinks. She definitely said that.
Was that before or after?
During. Her cheeks go hot with the thought and does it have to be Summer? She needs to push these sheets off, but she’s naked from the waist down and sure, Red may have seen everything four hours ago, but in the light of day when they don’t have the excuse to fall asleep for hours and hide, she’s not sure she can let him see her.
She wants him to leave.
But not really.
She’s so glad they’re at her place. She imagines if Dembe were here. If he would knock on the door to call Red for breakfast. She does wonder if he’d be surprised. That her and his boss after years of a continuous roller coaster ride, finally wake up in bed together. Did he see it coming? Did Red see it coming? She’s not even sure if she saw it coming.
Then, right when she’s building up some courage to have a peek over her shoulder, just so she can plan her next move, Red clears his throat.
Shit, she thinks. No, no. She doesn’t want to turn. She wants to pull the covers over her head and hide. It feels like they’ve had a drunken fling, except with very little alcohol and with all the feelings. It wasn’t a fling at all, she thinks.
She does turn though because it’s now or… or when Red decides to turn her himself. At least her lower body is hidden under the sheet. She can’t remember putting his shirt on. She does remember being limp and light and very hot. Did he put it on for her?
'What are you looking for?' He mumbled, stroking her lower back.
'My top.'
'Let me help.'
'Oh, never mind. I've found yours.'
Red’s staring at her when she turns, and he really knows how to make things awkward because he just stares, nothing else. Gives her nothing else. You're in my bed, she wants to remind him. She should be the one staring at him.
“Hi…” She greets.
Red says nothing.
It looks as if he’s been awake for hours. It looks as if he wants to say so much. It softens her. A silent Red usually infuriates. He looks sleepy, and Lizzie feels an ache of warmth toward him. That’s when she spots her lipstick smeared on his cheek.
'I'm marking you with my lipstick, sorry.'
'Don't care.'
Her eyes drift from his face to the pillow his elbow is resting on. She can see the hair under his arm pit and the hair on his chest. She touched him everywhere last night. Patted him there, raked her nails along there, and gripped him there. She didn’t miss a single spot on his body.
'You hide under far too many clothes.'
'If I knew you were going to do this... Lizzie..."
'I do like your undershirts though.'
'I'll only ever wear undershirts again... Just, Lizzie... Okay.'
Her hand creeps out from the covers to remove a piece of hair hanging over her eyes. She needs a clear view. Red follows the movement. His swallows are thick and loud in the silence of the morning. But his silence does something wonderful to her confidence because maybe he’s even more worried than her. Red’s assured her so many times before though, tried his hardest to keep her comfortable, safe, and she feels she owes it to him to do the same.
“So,” She says quietly. “I think this is the part where you’re meant to say, ‘Good morning, Lizzie, last night was amazing.' ”
She watches the corners of his mouth rise, his green eyes lighten. It’s as if she’s just told him the most mesmerising story because his eyes blink slowly, and he looks so lazy and lethargic and a little enamoured.
“Good morning, Lizzie,” He says and she thinks that his morning voice is so much more appealing than hers must be. “Last night was amazing.”
“You think?”
He ignores her question, and instead asks, “How do you feel about it?”
She looks at him shyly. There goes her confidence. Sure, she said stuff last night and that was easy, that slipped out of her mouth like her morning coffee order. But now, now when it’s just them two in her room in the morning she can’t think of what to say. There's something about night time, and Red at night time, that makes her want to tell him everything she's feeling.
She was the first to kiss him last night.
'Lizzie.' He warned.
'I want this. I do.'
'Do you want me?' He asked, keeping her at arms length. 'Or just tonight.'
'What?'
'There's a difference, Lizzie. '
'Every night.'
She loves that he's an easy man to convince... on occasion.
“I feel good.” She says, then corrects herself. “Like, I feel …”
He waits so patiently for her to continue, watches her with a deep curiosity, that she just wants to press her face into his chest and make him hold her. Put her together and let her skip all the words for once.
“Good is a fine answer,” he responds after a long moment. “I can deal with good, Lizzie.”
She then thinks that it's not just at night when she wants to tell him everything.
“I think last night was the best decision I’ve ever made.” She smiles, dimples forming on her flushed cheeks. “You’re the best decision I’ve ever made.”
He looks so pleased with her answer, maybe even a little proud of her.
“I love you,” he says.
“I know.”
And she grins because after last night, after the amount of times he told her, she would be foolish to not believe him.
“And then you say …” He begins, his tone teasing, and he moves his bare arm between them and brushes his thumb across her lips. “What you said last night.”
She kisses the pad of his thumb, feels her smiles grow as he touches her cheek.
“What part?” She asks.
“The part that you’re not allowed to say unless you really mean it.”
She felt something so different with him, she thinks. She feels something so different.
“I think I’m falling in love with you?” She asks.
Red hums in delight, a warm, deep sound. His eyelids close and he shuffles closer, kisses her briefly on the lips.
“That’s the one.”
And then because he's so close, and her eyes begin to lose focus because she wants him more than she's wanted anything, ever, she kisses him. Making him hum with happiness is intoxicating. The sound of their kisses is intoxicating. Her nose squashing against his, his palms sliding under his shirt she's wearing. She touches his chest and traces his scarred back with her fingertips. She wants to be sure, she thinks, won't say anything she doesn't really mean.
"Lizzie." He says between kisses that begin to turn messy and misplaced. "You're thinking."
"Red," She stops, then forgets that idea and begins to kiss him again. “I'm thinking."
"Thinking what?"
"That I’ve finished with the falling part.”