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Prologue
“Is there somewhere you can go? A friend you and the kids can stay with?” Robin asked. She felt a sense of obligation, in situations like this, to make sure the client was taken care of, even after her job was done. “Don’t contact him. Let your lawyer do the talking.” The client nodded, wiping away tears and she pulled her into a tight hug. “It’ll be okay. It might not feel like it, but you’re strong. You’ll get through this.”
With a soft thud, the door closed behind her, leaving the two detectives alone in the darkening office.
“Well, that was fucking miserable. Again.” Cormoran’s deep voice bounced around the empty room. Robin didn’t even bother to look. She palmed at her tired eyes.
This,
she thought,
is the worst part of the job.
They’d spent the past 3 hours with this client, a sweet woman in her early forties, who Midge had christened Mrs Mascara, because she left every meeting with black smudges around her red, tear-stained eyes. Today, their final meeting, they had laid out all the evidence that they had collected to prove that her husband had indeed been cheating with not one but three different women and had recently fathered a child with a nineteen-year-old dancer.
“D’you think it’ll ever get easier?” She asked. “I feel like we ruin a dozen lives a month these days.”
“S’not us, though. Got to remember that. They brought this upon themselves. We’re just showing them the reality” He sat on his side of the desk, elbows propped up, holding his heavy head in his hands.
“I know.” Walking towards the window, she looked out onto the street, illuminated by the glow of the streetlights and shopfronts. She could just make out Mrs Mascara’s figure turning the corner onto Charing Cross Road. “She was so sweet, though. Hard to imagine someone not wanting to be with her. She seemed like such a devoted wife. And she loves those kids.”
“Well, the only two people who really know what happens inside a marriage are the people in it.”
She turned to look at him now, digging through his desk drawer, presumably searching for his cigarettes. She’d never heard him speak so philosophically about relationships. He was usually so practical, pragmatic.
“I mean,” he continued. “Look at you.”
Robin was startled. “Me?”
“Yeah. To the outside world, you and that twat looked like you had it all figured out.” He smiled at her, pleased that they had reached a level of intimacy where he could speak his mind about her awful ex.
She walked toward the desk, sitting heavily in her chair. “You knew I was miserable.” Her voice was soft, tired. Her eyes searched his, looking for clues about where this conversation might be heading.
“I mean, yeah. But I don’t think anyone else would have seen it. You’re a good actress.” He shrugged, appearing for all the world to be done talking.
They sat in silence, Robin picking at a hangnail on her left hand, Strike tapping the box of fags absentmindedly on the desktop.
“Drink?” The question startled Robin, causing her to jump slightly. She’d been so deep in her own thoughts, she didn’t know how long they’d been sitting there. She nodded.
“Going down for a smoke. I’ll bring some beers back. Or d’you want wine?”
“Beer’s good. Grab some crisps too?”
As she listened to his fading footsteps on the metal staircase, she allowed her mind to wander back to the night she’d found out about Matt’s infidelity. Now, with the distance provided by time and the clarity that her therapist had helped her to find, she was glad to have found out when she did.
The sound of Strike’s key in the office door alerted her to his return, and she stood, walking towards the outer office. His broad back was pressed into the door, hands full. She rushed forward, eager to make sure he didn’t drop anything.
“Fanks,” he muttered. There was an unlit cigarette hanging from his mouth.
“That was quick?”
“Yeah. Got down there and decided I didn’t want to actually smoke the damn thing!”
“Hey! That’s progress!” They shared a broad grin as she took a carrier bag of beer cans from his hand, crossing to the kitchenette to put four of them in the fridge. The remaining two she opened, handing one to Strike before carrying hers to the old sofa. She flopped heavily onto her preferred end, patting the cushion next to her invitingly.
“Yeah! Pretty proud of m’self. That’s only 5 so far this week.” He’d settled on the other end of the sofa, dropping two packets of crisps onto the coffee table in front of them. She reached over to gently squeeze his upper arm.
“Proud of you too.” The smile she gave him, he thought, was worth every craving in the world.
Comfortable silence fell over the pair as Strike leaned forward to tear open the crisps. They sat, munching away and sipping their beers, not feeling the need to fill the space with chatter. This was one of his favourite things about Robin; the ease of her company. It was almost like being alone, only better. There was no expectation, no pretension. They simply allowed each other to be.
When she spoke, her voice had an air of caution to it, as if she’d been rolling the words around in her mind, feeling the sound of them and had finally gathered the courage to speak them aloud.
“I was thinking about what you said, before. About the only people to know what happens in a marriage are the couple.”
“Yeah? And?”
“You’re right, of course.” She playfully nudged him in the upper arm. They were both tired from the week, and Robin could see the night unfolding in the same way most of their Fridays did. A few drinks. A kebab. Her, asleep on the office sofa, the soft red throw from Strike’s flat tucked around her.
“‘M not often wrong, Robin.” He grinned at her, returned the nudge and leaned forward to grab another handful of crisps.
“Just got me thinking, is all. About why all these marriages fail.” She rubbed her tired eyes and, reaching behind her head, removed the claw clip from her hair, letting it fall loosely around her shoulders. “About why my marriage failed.” These last words were almost whispered. They very rarely discussed their past relationships, and when they had, it had usually been with far more liquor inside them.
“Want to elaborate?” His voice was gentle and kind. It was an offer and a way out, at the same time.
“Hmm. Well, I guess it's different for everyone, but I’ve got a bit of a theory.”
“Oh yeah? Something from your psychology course?” His eyes searched her familiar face.
“No, not really. Something from Ilsa, actually.” At this, Strike raised his eyebrows. “Have you ever heard of the Five Languages of Love?”
Gifts
Cormoran looked blankly at Robin. This sounded suspiciously like one of those nutty self-help books that Ilsa was constantly trying to get him to take home whenever he visited her place.
“No. I haven’t.” His answer came cautiously, and he shovelled a few more crisps into his mouth before taking a deep pull on his beer.
“Okay, well, it's not as nutty as it sounds.” She too ate a crisp, rather more delicately than he had, before continuing. “I was sceptical at first, too. But last time I stayed at Ilas’s, I couldn’t get to sleep and it was lying on the table, so I started reading it.”
Silence fell again as they both sipped their beers, Robin staring down at her hands, at the place where her wedding ring used to sit.
“Well,” he began, “Want to tell me your theory? Promise I won’t make fun. Much.”
“Oh ha ha.” Her sarcastic tone always made him laugh, and he nudged her gently with his elbow.
“Come on, Ellacott. Enlighten me!”
“Right. Well, the basic premise is that there are five different ways people show love. Those are the love languages. So I think that when people aren’t feeling loved in a way they recognise, like their own love language, then they’ll go looking for that fulfilment in other places.”
“So you’re saying that people cheat because they aren’t speaking the same language?”
“I guess that’s a distilled view of it, yes. Although I don’t think that it’s always necessarily going to be cheating.” She shrugged. “You could go and fulfil the need in other ways.”
“Not sure I’m following any more.” He scratched his head. “Sounds a bit too new-age for me.”
Robin scratched her head and drained her beer. She held up the empty can in question. He nodded, and she retrieved two more beers from the fridge.
“Okay. Here’s an example that you might identify with. So one of the languages is gift giving. Ever known anyone who tried to show that they love you by giving you stuff?”
Strike paused. He could think of a few examples. Joan spent hours knitting soft, warm socks for him and Ted every Christmas. And Charlotte prided herself on giving the most extravagant, expensive gifts. Personally, he’d never really seen the point. He found gift giving pointless and stressful.
Robin continued. “So, Matt’s love language was very much gift giving. He never really made an effort to show love in any other way. It was always about what he had bought me. The biggest bouquet of flowers. Jewellery. Expensive holidays. And I never really appreciated it. I’ve talked about this a lot in therapy.” She gave a light, self-conscious laugh. More and more they were talking to each other about their therapy experiences, but Robin still felt awkward bringing it up when it related more to her personal life than to their shared work. “It always made him so mad! Like he was putting in all this effort and felt like I didn’t care about it or wasn’t reciprocating, or whatever.”
She looked at Strike. His body was turned in toward her and he was picking at a loose thread at the cuff of his shirt. He was focused intently on what she was saying.
“And he couldn’t see, I don’t think, that I was just speaking a different language. I was showing my love in other ways. So there’s this disparity there. I’m not saying that he went looking for someone who would appreciate his fancy gifts. Moreso, I guess, that the way we showed love and wanted to feel loved were incompatible.”
She raised her hands in a shrug, grabbing the last crisps from the bag, crunching loudly. “Thoughts?” she asked, her mouth still full of crisps.
Strike contemplated what she had said. It did make a lot of sense. His mind conjured up an image of an old client who they’d nicknamed Pockets because the first thing he’d done upon arriving in their office was pull a large wad of cash from his trouser pocket and wave it in Pat’s face, asking “Whaddya think of that, Old Girl?”
“Remember Pockets?”
“Oh my god, I’ll never forget Pockets. Remember how he tried to tell us he didn’t have enough money to pay the last invoice, right after showing us at least five hundred quid in his pocket?”
Their shared laughter drew them together and he placed a large hand on her knee. Touch like this was natural between them now, but never ceased to thrill him. He marvelled at the fact that he could touch her like this, that she seemed to welcome it. She pressed her leg closer towards him, bringing it into contact with his own thigh. Later, he thought, I might try and hold her hand again. It had been the newest development, the threading together of their fingers as they sat quietly side by side on this very sofa three nights ago. Robin had been curled up under his red blanket, head resting back, eyes closed, while he read aloud to her some notes from a police file they’d just received. He’d finished reading, set the file on the coffee table and leaned back next to her. He’d noticed her small, pale hand protruding from the blanket and had been overcome by the urge to touch her fingers. So he had, running the pad of his thumb gently across her knuckles. If she’d been surprised, she hadn’t shown it. He’d noticed her fingers flex slightly before she flipped her hand over, exposing her palm to him. He’d traced the length of her index finger with his before gently weaving his fingers between hers, marvelling in the difference between their hands, his so large and hairy, hers delicate and soft. She’d squeezed gently, never making eye contact, and let out a soft sigh.
“Cormoran? Corm?” Her voice brought him back to reality.
“Sorry. Just thinking.” He squeezed her knee before removing his hand to take another drink of his beer.
“About Pockets?”
“Yeah, Pockets. D’you think that had something to do with love languages? His girlfriend was having an affair with that old, super-rich guy. Pockets was way better looking than him. Maybe the other guy was giving better gifts?”
“I mean, maybe, yeah.” She stared at the darkening window. “But I have a feeling that he wasn’t actually spending the money, just flashing it about. And if gifts were the way she was expecting to receive love, then that would have been disappointing to her.” Her hand drifted toward his leg this time, and she softly traced her finger along the side seam of his trousers. It was the lightest touch, designed to remind him of her presence, of just how much they had come to mean to each other. “He was convinced that he was a good boyfriend. Remember him telling us about all the things he did for her, like taking care of her sick grandma and taking off work to be there when she had to have her cat put to sleep?”
“Hmmm.” Robin was unsure of whether the response was to her touch or her words. Eyes closed, his head was resting gently against the back of the sofa. He looked calm, relaxed. He looked beautiful.
“So I think yeah,” she laid her head back, next to his, the movement causing him to open his eyes. Smiling softly at him, she continued. “I think that there was that same mismatch there. He was showing love through acts of service, and she felt loved when she received gifts.”
Gentle silence drifted over them once again and they allowed it to settle soft and low. Her hand had settled on his thigh and his came to rest atop it. Neither of them moved, content as they were to be in one another’s presence, although Cormoran was sure that she would be able to hear the hammering of his heart in his chest. He looked at her long eyelashes, resting softly against her cheeks, saw her rosy pink lips gently parted and realised that she was drifting off to sleep. He squeezed her hand, toying lightly with the simple rose gold ring she wore, and she slowly opened her eyes.
“Hey.” He smiled his crinkly-eyed, just-for-her smile and was rewarded with a soft scrunch of her nose in return. “What do you think about us, then?” His voice sounded gravelly, low.
“Us?”
“You and I, yeah. I don’t think gift giving is my love language. Yours either. But, I’ll admit, you are better at it than me.” Her laughter was warm and bright, filling him with a tingling sense of hope.
“I mean, I enjoy taking the time to buy a thoughtful gift for someone I love.” She nodded her head in the direction of the wall where there hung the watercolour of St Mawes harbour that she’d given him last Christmas. “But you’re right. It’s not the way I tend to show love on a day-to-day basis.”
He studied her face. Had she just implied that she loved him? They’d never before used that word to describe their relationship.
“Tell me then,” He said, moving to stand and offering his hand to help her to her feet. He slipped an arm around her shoulders, pulling her into his side for a gentle hug. “What’re the other four languages? I reckon if you tell me, I’ll be able to guess which is yours.”
Acts of Service
They’d reached the point in the evening where events were unfolding without need for discussion. So well-worn was their routine that they knew what would come next. Dropping their empty cans into the bin, he helped her into her coat before pulling on his own. Her light footsteps followed his uneven ones down the metal staircase and into the street. He pulled his collar up against the wind, and offered Robin his arm before they began the walk toward the kebab shop.
“So, acts of service I mentioned before. Pockets was doing all these nice things for his girlfriend, but I don’t think she was seeing that as him showing love.”
“You mean like the way you always make sure there are plenty of Chocolate Hobnobs?” He looked down at her, eyes twinkling.
She snuggled as close as possible into his side, enjoying the warmth radiating from his body.
“Sometimes Pat buys the biscuits!” A blush crept onto her face, already flushed from the cold. Truth be told, there wasn’t a day that passed where she didn’t spend time thinking about little ways that she could make his life easier, little things she could do to draw a crinkly-eyed smile from him.
Her head was almost pressed into his shoulder, and he shook her hand loose from the crook of his arm before wrapping it around her and drawing her properly into his side.
“This okay? You seem kind of cold.”
“Yeah, you’re warm. It's nice.” His fingers dancing across her upper arm went unnoticed through the thick layer of her jacket. They were nearing the kebab shop now, and he could smell the enticing aroma of grilling meat.
“Or the other day when you had a cup of tea waiting when you knew I’d be back from that meeting and it was cold outside.”
“Yep.” Robin turned her head to look at him. He was rummaging through the pocket of his greatcoat, fingers clearly unable to catch whatever he was searching for.
“I was going to say-” He continued to dig around, slightly more agitated now. “Shit. I think I forgot my wallet!”
“You mean this?” Robin pulled the battered brown leather from her own pocket, waving it in front of him. “Noticed you’d left it on Pat’s desk, so I grabbed it on the way out.”
“Thanks, Rob’n.” He tucked it inside his coat. “Anyway, I reckon that’s yours. Acts of service.”
“Mmmhmm.” She made a non-committal noise as they arrived at the kebab shop and Strike took his customary seat on the plastic chair outside, pulling his cigarettes out of his pocket and handing his wallet to Robin. He watched as she entered the shop, mind focussed on all the little things that she did for him every day, all the way she gave him her time. He smiled to himself, tapping his cigarette carton on the sticky tabletop, images of Robin flashing through his mind: bringing him groceries without his asking for them when his knee was playing up; arranging a plumber to fix his shower after he complained that he’d had cold water for weeks; making sure she always returned his car full of petrol.
He cast his mind back through the events of the past few months, noticing a drastic increase in both the personal nature and frequency of these little delights. He knew that they were both feeling their way into the gentle deepening of their relationship, neither keen to rush towards something when the slow unfolding felt so perfectly, naturally, them. But now Robin had laid it out for him, he couldn’t help but see that she was showing her love for him in these little, everyday moments, in the giving of her time. He hoped desperately that she knew how much it was appreciated and vowed to return the gesture more frequently.
She plopped down in the chair next to him, two foil-wrapped kebabs in her hand. He reached out to grab one, but she pulled them back toward her, refusing to relinquish his dinner.
“I just want to say something before we eat.” She allowed him to take the kebab from her, but refrained from ripping into it, hungry as he was. “You know that you do stuff for me too, right? Acts of service.” He raised his eyebrows, questioning. “Yeah, you do. Like, when you call me every night to make sure I’m home safe. And the way you always make sure there’s a warm jumper in the office for when I come back from surveillance. And I don’t think I’ve ever really said how much I appreciate it.” She reached across the faded red plastic table to squeeze his hand. “I see you.”
Quality Time
Cormoran considered her words carefully. She was the most important person in his life, and he felt such a strong pull towards her. It was natural that he would want to do things for her. Their fingers brushed together as she drew her hand back toward herself, ripping the foil off her kebab and taking a large bite.
“Jus’ what I needed.” She mumbled, through the mouthful of food. “Didn’t realise how hungry I was until I got inside and smelled it.”
Watching her, he was struck anew by the fact that he’d never, in his life, felt the same draw to spend time with someone as he did with her. He’d always considered himself to be a somewhat solitary creature, but, at some point, on the evenings when she went home, he’d started counting the hours until she’d be back. He found silly little excuses to call her, and once they’d exhausted conversation on his planned topic, he’d try and find a way to keep her talking. Lately, it seemed, whatever time they had was never enough.
Unbeknownst to him, Robin was lost in similar thoughts as she munched her way through her chicken kebab. She knew that, lately, she’d been looking for reasons to stay late at the office, because staying late almost always ended in a night like this one. Cocooned in the company of her best friend, she felt safer and more at home than she did in her own small flat, comfortable as it was.
“There’s quality time.” The words, although spoken in Robin’s gentle, familiar Yorkshire lilt, almost shocked him. Had she been reading his mind?
“What’s that?”
“Quality time? Like spending meaningful time together.”
“I know what quality time means, Ellacott! You just said it out of the blue!”
“Oh! Sorry.” She smiled at him, and he grinned and gestured at the small piece of parsley stuck between her front teeth. “Thanks,” she replied as she picked it out. “I mean, that’s the next love language. Quality time.”
“Oh. Right!” He scrunched the now-empty foil into a small ball and tossed it neatly into the waiting bin. Robin, still eating, watched with fascination as he removed a cigarette from his pack and jammed it between his lips. Taking out his lighter, he flicked it open, watching the flame for a few seconds before releasing the button and letting it extinguish. He repeated this action twice more before returning the lighter to his pocket. The cigarette, though, remained unlit in his mouth. “Jus’ s’prised me, I fink.” He said, around the cigarette, before returning that too, to his pocket.
She stood, dropping the remains of her kebab into the bin and held out her hand to him. Pulling himself to his feet, he felt a slight twist of her wrist as she slid their palms together, allowing him to weave his fingers between hers. Simultaneously, they each gave a light squeeze and Robin laughed lightly at their synchronicity. Her heart was hammering in her chest. Each little touch from Cormoran felt like a whispered promise. When he’d first held her hand on Tuesday night, she’d felt like she was floating. Never before had such a simple touch made her feel so loved, so wanted. She knew, now, that it was inevitable, this thing between them. She knew that they had both given up the will to fight against the pull they felt toward each other. All that remained was to speak the words, to tell him just how much of her heart was his.
“Home?” The word rumbled from his chest as they began the short walk back to the office, hand in hand. Gently, he rubbed the soft pad of his thumb across the back of her hand, and she felt her heart skip in her chest.
“Why’d it surprise you, quality time, I mean?”
He laughed a rumbling, low laugh. “I was wondering if you could read my mind, if you must know.”
“Oh, I thought that it was obvious that I could.” Her response was quick, drawing from him another chuckle. “After all, I do always know when you need a biscuit!”
“That’s not mind reading, Ellacott.” Another gentle squeeze of her fingers. “S’not my fault that I’ve got a loud stomach!”
She leaned her head into the soft warmth of his upper arm. “Well, if, as you say, I can’t read your mind, care to let me in on the secret?”
“Not much of a secret, is it? That all I really want is to spend time with you.”
Words of Affirmation
They were standing in front of the glossy black door that led to their office now, and Robin stepped into him, wrapping her arms around his broad upper body, face pressed into his chest. She drew a deep breath, revelling in the strength of her favourite scent: lavender, sandalwood and a slight undertone of cigarette smoke. Strike’s arms found their way around her torso and they hugged tightly. Robin felt as though being in his arms was helping put her back together. Just as she loosened her hold, he pulled her back to him, squeezing tightly.
“The feeling’s mutual, you know.” She spoke into the soft fabric of his shirt.
“I know.” She felt his nose make contact with the top of her head and heard him inhale. The press of his lips to her temple took her by surprise, though. Casual kissing was a barrier that they’d not yet crossed. Warmth spread from the point of contact, washing over her like a wave and settling deep inside her chest. She allowed herself to wonder, briefly, what their first kiss would feel like. Would it happen tonight? Until this exact moment, she hadn’t felt a sense of urgency, so sure was she of the inevitability of it. But now? She squeezed him a little tighter before letting go.
“Coming up?” His key was in the lock and he pushed the door open for her, following her up the tightly winding metal staircase. He knew he needn’t have asked. They both knew what would happen now. They’d go back to the office. She’d open the whisky. He’d bring the blanket from his flat, the one she used when she stayed over on the sofa, the one he slept with whenever she wasn’t there. They’d drink. Talk. Although , he wondered, where might tonight’s conversation take them? They were far from familiar territory now.
The well-worn rhythm allowed them both the sense of calm and security that they craved. Settled on the sofa, blanket tucked around her, tumbler of whisky in hand, Robin felt safe, warm, loved.
“So, there’s still two more left.”
Robin looked down at her glass, swirling the rich amber liquid around.
“Well, there’s words of affirmation.” She toyed with the fine gold bracelet on her left wrist, slipping it back and forth. She did this, Strike knew, when she was thinking deeply, mulling something over. He reached out toward her, although his hand stopped short and he set to work untangling the fringe at the edge of the blanket, thick fingers moving clumsily through the fine yarn. He knew that she needed space and time to arrange her thoughts. “I think,” she continued, “that this is something that’s been missing for me, for a long time. I remember longing for Matt to say things and then clinging to any little word of praise or love or affection.” Her fingers met his where they had stalled at their task, and she took his hand again. It seemed wrong for her to say the next thing on her mind without some little point of contact between them. “That’s why it meant so much to me, when you said I was exceptional. And beautiful.” The last two words were whispered, almost as if she hardly dared herself to say them. She raised her head, looking into his eyes. Her expression was soft, almost shy, her lips upturned in the slightest smile.
Letting go of her hand, he gently stroked the inside of her wrist, feeling her pulse flutter lightly under his fingers. She shivered slightly, and he knew that it was from his touch.
“Robin, love.” She stilled at his use of the endearment. Even though she knew, in the abstract, that this is what they were to each other, hearing the word, in his voice, stirred something deep inside her. He sounded so sincere, voice heavy with emotion, “I’ve got so much more to say.” He turned his body into hers, knee pressing into her blanket-covered thigh. “You are exquisite. Everything about you is beautiful. There hasn’t been a day where I haven’t struggled to keep my eyes off you.” He lifted his hand toward her face, brushing back a lock of golden hair. His fingers skimmed the shell of her ear and he marvelled at the tiny, perfect details that he was now openly able to stare at. “I’ve always been afraid that you’d catch me looking.” She responded to his words with the most exquisite blush, joyous smile covering her face.
“It’s not just about how you look, though. You know that, right?” She nodded her head. If she was sure of one thing, it was that their bond had formed long before they’d looked at each other and really, truly seen. “It's your laugh, and the way you look at me, for just a second, after you tell a funny story, to make sure I’m going to laugh. It’s the way you think deeply about everything, and how you care so much for people you love.” He was caressing her shoulder now, and she revelled in the feeling of heat pouring off his warm hand, through the thin silk of her blouse. “There’s just so much, Robin.”
Joy flowed through her body. She couldn’t remember another moment where she had felt such certainty. In Cormoran she had found a partner in the true sense of the word. She knew, beyond a shadow of doubt, that she loved him. She’d known for some time, but hearing his words, feeling his eagerness to communicate with her, to affirm that she was desirable to him, sealed the fact in her mind.
She reached, tentatively, toward his face, fingertip barely touching the scar on his lip. “I love that you look nothing like Matthew, or the others.” Her finger travelled from the bridge of his nose to the tip as she began to learn the shape of his face. “I never thought I was attracted to masculine men. And then there you were.” Her palm was laid on his cheek now, her thumb rubbing gently across his stubbled jaw. “And you are just so incredibly sexy.” She blushed brightly and giggled, high and light. “Sorry. I don’t think I’ve ever used that word before!” He joined her laughter.
“Not sure I’d use it to describe myself!”
“Oh, hush. You had your turn.”
They stared openly at each other, freed from any constraints by their mutual admissions of attraction. Robin found that there was nothing she liked quite as much as seeing her smile reflected in his face.
“Cormoran,” she whispered, feeling her heart expanding like a balloon in her chest. “I’m in love with you.”
Physical Touch
He opened his arms to her, pulling her into his warm embrace.
“I know.” He kissed the top of her head, hair silky under his lips. He kissed her temple, warm, Robin-scented skin making his lips tingle. Pulling back, he regarded her beautiful face, blue eyes sparkling brightly at him. “You’ve been showing me in so many ways.” He kissed her round, rosy cheek and her eyes fluttered closed. “Hearing it, though, might be my favourite.” Gently, his finger traced the shape of her jaw, easing her chin upwards so their eyes met. Her smile was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen.
“Can I-” He cut her off.
“Shh, I’m not done yet.” His thumb traced the full outline of her lower lip. It was taking all his willpower not to kiss her, but he needed her to know, before he did, just how deep his feelings ran. “You know that I love you too, right?” She nodded, a tear glistening in her eye. “And it’s so big, this feeling, that sometimes I don’t know what the fuck to do with it.” His gravelly laugh sent tingles down her spine.
“Now can I?” Her voice was gentle, his hand on her cheek. He nodded slightly and she leaned in and kissed him, her hand tangling in his messy curls, lips soft on his. She sighed as she felt his lips curve upwards into a slight smile and she pulled away without deepening the kiss. Nothing had been rushed between them yet. She didn’t see the need to rush this.
Strike’s face was glowing with something Robin had never seen before. He looked younger, happier and more at ease than she’d ever witnessed.
“That was…” he leaned in to press his lips to hers a second time, revelling in the feeling of the way they fit together so perfectly. “That felt right.”
He held her to his chest, her head resting softly over his beating heart. “Yours is the last one, I think. Your love language, I mean.”
“Yeah?” His hand was carding through her hair, the silky strands slipping between his fingers. “What is it?”
“Physical touch.” She smiled as his fingers lightly scratched her scalp. “It’s how I knew, for sure.”
His hand was tracing her spine now. “‘M I that obvious?”
“Well, I think I remember the night it started. The touching. You put your hand on my knee in the pub, remember?”
“Course I do. I laid in bed for hours after you’d gone home, thinking about it.”
“And after that, it was just like the dam had broken. You couldn’t keep your hands to yourself any more.” She looked up at him, gently parted lips meeting his again. She let her tongue move slowly against the scar on his upper lip and he opened his mouth to her, tongue coming forward to meet hers and she sighed into his mouth. They kissed with tender passion, tongues stroking, hands finding purchase in each other's hair. When they finally broke apart, slightly breathless, he took her hand, gently kissing her wrist, palm, fingertips.
“Yeah, I think you’re right. S’also when I feel it most from you, too. When you touch me back.”
“Mmm. The little touches are what I love best, I think. Matt never understood that. Any time he touched me, it was just like, a step he had to take to get to sex. But for me, touch is about the little, everyday things. And you do that so well.” As she spoke, his finger traced the shape of her bare collarbone. “‘M not saying that sex and everything isn’t great.” She blushed. Truth be told, she hadn’t allowed herself to think of him in this way, and the prospect both excited and unsettled her. “But touch for touch’s sake is very underrated, I think.”
He untangled himself from her embrace and stood. The abruptness startled her and she quickly followed him to her feet.
“Everything okay?” He noted the slight edge in her voice.
“C’mon.” He grabbed the red blanket and wrapped it around her shoulders. “Don’t stay down here tonight?”
“Cormoran, I…”
“I just want to hold you. I’ve waited so long.” His eyes were bright and hopeful, and Robin felt a pull in her chest, drawing her towards him. She pressed a kiss to his waiting lips and allowed him to lead her from the office and up the stairs to the warmth and comfort of his bed.