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As Robin climbed the stairs, the sound of the rain outside faded, replaced by the rhythmic echo of her boots against the wood. The familiar smell of coffee and tea hung in the air, mingling with the muffled murmur of voices from the office.
“If you had the experience I had with my ex-husbands, you wouldn’t do this,” Pat said, settling into her chair with a heavy sigh.
“Good afternoon,” Robin greeted as she entered.
Pat and Midge interrupted their conversation to greet her, and Pat gestured to the kettle in the pantry.
“Barclay says he’s on his way, dear. Get a hot drink to warm you up. You’re freezing.”
“Thanks, Pat.”
The last-minute meeting had been arranged after Barclay had discovered a new lead in the industrial espionage case they were investigating. They needed to sort through the pieces of the investigation and try to see the bigger picture.
"Like I was saying, I can't believe she's putting me through this," Midge blurted, turning back to Pat. The detective sighed, leaning her head against the back of the couch, her eyes fixed on the ceiling as if she could find answers there. She looked exhausted.
Pat, noticing Robin's questioning look, decided to explain: "Her girlfriend decided they didn't know each other well enough and should go back to the friendship stage before taking the next step."
Robin settled down next to her friend, her expression sympathetic.
"What did you tell her?"
"That it was a stupid idea," Midge grumbled, throwing her hands up impatiently. "We've been together for months, long enough to know each other. We don't need to pretend we're just friends. We barely had that. I was assigned to protect her and two days later we were making out on the couch."
Robin glanced cautiously at the door to the inner office, making sure Strike wasn’t listening. He and Midge had discussed this before. The door remained closed.
“That’s what I said,” Pat said, not looking up from her computer screen. “The beginning of a relationship is about chemistry. Friendships are built over the years.”
Robin tilted her head thoughtfully.
“I don’t know, Pat.” She shrugged. “Both of my relationships were based on chemistry, and look where I am now.”
Midge squeezed her arm in a gesture of solidarity.
“What do you suggest?”
Robin hesitated for a moment before answering.
“Well…” She took a deep breath. "It seems to me that the best relationships, the ones that last, are often the ones that are rooted in friendship. You know, one day you look at the person and you see something more than you did the night before, like a switch has been flicked somewhere, and the person who was just a friend is suddenly the only person you can ever imagine yourself with."
She realized too late what she had said. The words came naturally, as if they had always been there, waiting to be said. Because that was how it had been with Strike.
The silence that followed was thick, almost palpable. Robin looked up to find Midge staring at something behind her.
She didn't need to turn around to know.
Strike.
The air in the room seemed to change. Robin felt the weight of a gaze on her even before she turned slowly, her heart beating too fast. Strike was standing in the doorway of the office, his broad shoulders blocking some of the light that was coming from inside. His face was a mask of neutrality, but his eyes—those eyes she knew so well—said something else.
Robin licked her lips, feeling her face heat up.
"Strike..."
He blinked, as if coming out of a trance, and cleared his throat.
"Is Barclay here yet?"
Robin almost laughed. Of course he would pretend he hadn't heard.
"Not yet." Her voice was firmer than she had expected.
"Good," he said, running a hand over the back of his neck. "Do you have a minute? We need to talk."
Robin felt a chill in her stomach.
"Now?"
Strike shrugged, but there was something in the way he looked at her—a kind of hesitation that wasn't his.
"Yes."
She held her breath for a second and nodded.
Pat and Midge exchanged quick glances, but neither of them said anything.
Robin followed Strike into the office, her heart pounding.
"Cormoran, I don't think now is the best time for us to talk," Robin said in a rush, like the coward she felt.
"Lucy called me," he said cautiously, pausing for a moment to let Robin absorb the information, "I need to go to Cornwall at the end of the week to sort out the sale of the house."
"Oh..." Robin felt her cheeks heat up. That was it.
"Robin..." Strike sighed. He didn't like the idea of making her uncomfortable.
"I don't want you to feel pressured about..." he paused and looked into her eyes, "about what I said that day."
Robin was silent for a moment, watching Strike. He seemed genuinely concerned about overstepping a line she herself could not yet define. As much as her heart had already chosen, her mind was still treading tentative paths.
“I’m not under pressure, Strike,” she said, her voice softer than she intended. “What you said… your feelings… they are welcome.”
Strike did not move, but something in his face relaxed, as if an invisible tension had slowly dissolved. Robin could see how much he had been holding back, afraid to go beyond what she could bear at the moment.
She took a deep breath before continuing. “But I need time. I’ve just come out of a relationship and I honestly don’t want this to be an escape or something hasty. I need to understand where I am before I take a step in any direction.”
Strike nodded, his eyes intent on her every word. “I understand.”
Robin smiled slightly, realizing how much more there was in this exchange than any direct statement. They were already, in a way, on a path from which they could no longer deviate.
“And then there’s the agency,” she added, looking around as if the space they shared every day were suddenly a complicating factor. “If we go ahead with this… with us… it changes everything. And the last thing I want to do is jeopardize what we’ve built together.”
Strike studied her for a long moment, then, with a half-smile, said: “Robin, if there’s one thing I’ve learned from working with you, it’s that we can’t always foresee every outcome. But I’ve also learned that some risks are worth taking.”
She felt a warm glow in her chest.
“I just don’t want to ruin it,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.
Strike inclined his head slightly, his gaze steady. “You won’t ruin anything.”
Robin was silent for a moment, letting his words reverberate in the space between them. Strike was looking at her in a way that made her heart race—watchful, patient, but without giving up the intensity that had always been there.
She wanted to believe him. She wanted to believe that no matter what happened, they would find a way to carry on, that what they had was strong enough to withstand change. But Robin also knew that the fear of losing Strike, of losing everything they had built, still weighed heavily on her.
Strike seemed to sense her hesitation, because he took a step forward—not enough to invade her space, but just enough for her to feel his presence as an anchor.
“Robin,” he said, his voice lower now, closer. “You can take as long as you need. I just wanted you to know that I’m not going anywhere.”
Robin blinked a few times, feeling a lump in her throat that she hadn’t expected. Part of her wanted to thank him, but the other knew that words wouldn’t be enough.
Then, without much thought, she reached out and touched his forearm—a simple, almost imperceptible gesture, but it made Strike catch his breath.
He didn’t pull away. For a few seconds they stood like that, locked in a moment that felt both fragile and solid at the same time. Finally, Robin forced a faint smile and withdrew her hand.
“Go to Cornwall, take care of what you need to do. We’ll continue this conversation when you get back.”
Strike nodded, his dark eyes holding a silent promise. “Deal.”