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"Ellacott, will you snap out of it?"
Robin jumped. She realised she'd been staring at a spot on Strike's shirt, right at the edge of his shoulder, where the crisp cotton held itself away from Strike's skin by a fraction. She blinked guiltily and looked up at his face. She worried that he'd be laughing at her, or worse: that he'd know exactly what she'd been thinking. But he seemed concerned. His brow furrowed softly as he frowned at her, and the crinkles beside his eyes deepened. Robin ignored the butterflies in her stomach.
"Sorry," she said cheerfully. She gave a brief smile and drank her wine. Strike didn't appear convinced.
"Are you ok?"
"Yes."
Strike looked at her, long and hard, and knew she wasn't about to explain. At least, not yet. He felt a slight pang of guilt as he decided to grease the wheels of conversation with more alcohol. Robin was unusually reticent, and he wanted to know what was bothering her. He needed to know.
"Fine. Another wine? Or d'you fancy a whisky?"
*
"You definitely have something on your mind, Robin."
Several whiskies in, Strike and Robin were both relaxed and expansive, leaning back in their chairs and then forwards to speak, the conversation lurching between topics like a seesaw. Strike couldn't help himself veering right back to the issue that had been eating at him for days.
"I'm just… it's been a long week."
"They're always long weeks," said Strike. "But I've never seen you like this. Not even when -"
"When what?"
"Nothing."
He drank some whisky with a nonchalant air, but his face hadn't lifted from its frown.
"Please will you tell me?" he asked quietly. "You're worrying me."
Robin felt tingling warmth creep deliciously down the back of her neck. It wasn't helping. She sipped her whisky, frightened of her thoughts, which kept running back to what she'd seen a few days earlier. She had no handle on them; she'd tried to distract herself, to talk herself out of them, to convince herself that what she'd seen was no big deal and therefore not worth her rumination. But her thoughts were wild and untameable, and she'd found herself inadvertently wishing that the moment had lasted much longer and that she'd seen much, much more.
She wondered what she could tell him. What would be an adequate explanation for the fire in her cheeks every time she saw him? What would suffice to justify the self-conscious fluster she seemed to find herself in every time he said her name? She tried to tell herself that she was being ridiculous, and that it was just the whisky talking. But despite her fierce admonitions, she knew in her heart that she was enjoying the feeling that moment had kindled in her. It was want, instinctive and pure, and it pulsed in her now, with Strike's crinkled eyes on her again.
"If someone knew something… well, not knew something," Robin faltered. Her thoughts seemed jumbled. She tried again. "If something had happened, and you didn't know, would you want to?"
Strike felt wariness rise up inside him. He'd been dealing with Robin's odd mood all week, and he'd resigned himself to hearing something he didn't want to hear. He had weighed up the likely options in his mind: a reconciliation with Matthew, or a new dating prospect, or even a job interview… But surely, that wouldn't happen. She wouldn't, after everything they'd been through together. He took a drink, and suddenly it tasted bitter; he needed her to tell him what was going on even if it caused a hammer blow to his heart.
"Has something happened to you?"
Robin simply looked at him. Strike recalled the question.
"Yes, I'd want to know, if you wanted to tell me."
"Well, what about if it happened to you, not me?"
Strike was confused. "Something happened to me? And I don't know about it?"
A pink flush spread across Robin's face, and Strike was suddenly sure that Robin's awkwardness was not a result of something he didn't want to hear. He couldn't have explained how he knew it, but he felt relieved as his intrigue grew.
"Just spit it out," he said.
"Ok, fine. On Monday, after you…" Robin gestured vaguely out of the window, and Strike somehow understood. He'd been in Cornwall for the weekend, out on the boat with his Uncle Ted, and he'd returned on the sleeper on Sunday night.
"Yeah. I arrived late in the office. Did I miss something in the morning?"
"No," Robin replied. She sipped her whisky and seemed to gather her courage. "When you got back, you…" She faltered again. She paused and took a deep breath. "I saw you."
Strike was bewildered. He watched Robin's hair fall like a curtain over her face as she turned away, looking over his shoulder into the middle distance. Her blush was adorable but confusing. Strike racked his brains.
He'd arrived in Denmark Street in a state of general dishevelment, his knee smarting, his clothes crumpled and sweaty. The train had been too hot and he had slept badly; he was in dire need of a hot cup of tea and a hot shower, but given that the agency was overrun with open cases, the former was all that was forthcoming. He had disappeared into the inner office, dragged clean clothes from his kitbag, and -
"Oh," he said.
"Yeah," said Robin.
Robin sipped her drink, trying to avoid Strike's gaze. But he leaned forward, looking into her eyes, a playful smirk on his face. She couldn't help it; he drew the smile from her like he'd lassoed it, and she felt the same inexorable pull towards him that she'd felt on Monday, as she'd covertly watched him undress.
"I'm sorry, I didn't mean to see, but the door was slightly open and -"
"Ok. So you saw me getting changed. I'm sorry. I should have closed the door properly. But is it the end of the world?"
"No," said Robin.
But she didn't know how to say that the feeling within her had seemed world-altering. She had watched him reach behind his head with both arms and tug his t-shirt over his head, his triceps flexing, his torso revealed inch by inch. She had been stunned by a gut punch of wild, reckless desire; she hadn't known attraction like it, and it made her head spin. She knew she should look away, but she had found herself pinned, her feet stuck to the floor, while his trousers came off. Her eyes had caught on his thighs and she knew she should feel guilty, but all she could feel was the pounding throb of her new craving.
She licked her dry lips and attempted to meet his gaze.
"I'm sorry. I don't know why I'm feeling so awkward about it," she lied.
"Really?" asked Strike quietly. Robin glanced up at him, and his expression was soft. She grinned again, unable to keep nervous amusement at bay.
"No," she admitted. "I do know."
"Can you tell me?"
Strike's eyes were warm toffee; she sank into them as he looked at her. She wanted to run her hand down his chest, feel his heart beating, touch the surprisingly taut body that had been off limits to her.
"You'll laugh at me."
"I promise I won't."
Strike was enthralled. Robin's voice was husky, her breathing shallow. Her eyes roamed over his body, his arms, his neck; he felt her gaze like a laser on his skin. He held perfectly still, as though she were an animal he was wary of frightening. He didn't want to lose the moment.
"I felt… funny."
Strike fought the urge to laugh.
"You felt funny?"
"Yes. I knew you would laugh at me!"
"I'm not laughing."
"No, but I can see it in your eyes."
Strike grinned. Robin was nothing if not perceptive. Still, she was smiling, and he felt a rush of warmth for her, on top of the other feelings that were raising their hopeful heads. Strike felt bold. He reached out and took her hand.
Robin gave a small start but said nothing as Strike's hand clasped hers. She closed her eyes briefly as passion and warmth spread through her veins. There was no way of returning this train to its station; the only thing left to her was complete honesty.
"I wanted…"
Strike brought his other hand forward. Robin thought he was going to join it to the first, to use both his hands to envelop hers, but she was wrong; he leaned closer and trailed his hand across her forearm, his fingers dancing lightly over her skin.
"What did you want, Robin?"
"I wanted to touch you," she whispered. Tingles were cascading through her body as his fingertips caressed her.
"Robin," said Strike. "Why is that funny?"
"I don't know. It just feels strange to - to think of you that way."
"Is that -" Strike hesitated. "Was that the first time?"
"No," Robin admitted. "But it felt - stronger."
Strike closed his eyes briefly, savouring her words. He felt he ought to repay her candour, but he couldn't think of anything to say. His heart was pounding. A dreamlike sensation clouded his brain.
"Robin," he murmured. His fingers trailed higher up her arm, feeling the goosebumps raising under his touch. He looked into her eyes, and she made a tiny sound under her breath.
Robin couldn't form a single coherent thought; she didn't know why she hadn't just burst into the room and grabbed him. But then, if she had, this might not have happened. He might not be gently pulling her towards him, now, by her elbow; he might not be stroking the side of her face with his feather-light fingertips.
"Tell me how this feels," he said, and he kissed her.