Chapter Text
Like a man who had endured hangovers of all kinds, Cormoran Strike recognized, even with his eyes closed, that he was about to face a particularly brutal one. His body knew before his mind: the throbbing pain in his temples, the unpleasant metallic taste in his mouth, the languor weighing down his muscles. The sweet scent of Narcissus mingled with the stuffy air of the room, and the heat radiating from a nearby body made him fully aware of where and with whom he had woken.
He opened his eyes abruptly, immediately regretting it when a stab of pain shot through his skull. He didn't need to turn his head to confirm what he already knew. Robin Ellacott lay naked beside him. Her hair, usually impeccable, was now loose on the pillow, disheveled, in a very intimate way. One of her hands, light and unconscious, rested on his chest, right over his heart. Had she been awake, she wouldn't have missed the quickening rhythm beneath her palm.
Strike closed his eyes again, not because he wanted to sleep, but to escape, for a moment, the question hammering away in his throbbing head: what the hell had they done to end up in this situation?
Flashback
The private room Nick and Ilsa had chosen for the celebration exuded the understated sophistication they both appreciated. Deep reds in the upholstery, subtle golds in the details, candles casting a soft light over the three bottles of wine already opened in the center of the table. The ambiance suggested lightness, but Strike felt the weight of every second.
There were familiar faces, but none that mattered. Some of Ilsa's friends, outgoing lawyers, had tried to flirt with him; advances he'd rebuffed with the ease of someone uninterested in anything but the presence of a single woman. And she, sitting a few seats away, hadn't spared him a glance in two hours.
Robin seemed lost in the wine and Nick and Ilsa's funny stories, her laughter growing more free-flowing, her cheeks tinged with red. Strike watched in silence, a nagging longing tightening his chest. It had been weeks since he'd seen that genuine, light smile. In the office, everything had become a minefield: conversations reduced to the strictly professional, heavy silences that had never existed between them before.
Since the night he'd confessed his feelings and watched her close the door behind her, something irreparable had settled between them. The rejection hadn't been blatant, but it had hurt more than many of his physical setbacks. Not even the absence of a ring on Robin's finger the following Monday had brought him any real relief. Yes, he admitted to himself that there had been hope in that detail. But Robin hadn't given any sign that her decision meant anything more than the end of Murphy. And faced with her silence, Strike had backed away. If all she wanted was a professional partnership, then that was what he would give her.
Still, sitting there, watching her laugh, he couldn't convince himself that he could reduce Robin Ellacott to something so simple.
It was then that one of Ilsa's friends, already buzzed by the alcohol, tapped her glass with a knife and proposed a toast:
"Here's to Nick and Ilsa, who are living proof that, ultimately, marriages only work if they're between best friends."
The comment made the table laugh with happiness for the couple, but it fell on Strike and Robin like a stone in a pond. Her smile faded for a second, her gaze drifted to her glass, and Strike felt the weight of a very recent memory: the stairs, the confession, the slammed door.
I don't want to be your fucking friend.
I want to be with you permanently.
Marry me.
The internal silence was so uncomfortable that he shifted in his chair. Minutes later, when the conversation had already moved on, Strike muttered some excuse and stood up. He reached for his e-cigarette with the automatic movement of someone searching for an exit.
Outside, the cool night air felt welcome. His heart burned for Robin's presence. The love he felt for his partner grew stronger every day.
Each drag of his cigarette brought a fleeting relief, unable to dispel the knot forming inside him. He thought about Robin's look, her silent refusal, the inability to take back what he'd said and the cruel fact that, even free of Murphy, she might still want nothing from him.
The icy night wind seemed to tear at his lungs more than the e-cigarette smoke. Strike leaned against the iron railing, his shoulders hunched under the weight of thoughts that had been haunting him for months. He tried to convince himself that he needed to accept the limits Robin imposed, but the emptiness that opened inside him every time he saw her smile at someone else or turn away from him made any resignation impossible.
The sound of the door opening behind him was so discreet it might have gone unnoticed, were it not for the keen instinct of someone who has learned to notice every detail. He didn't turn around. He knew, without looking, who it was.
"Do you always run away like this?" Robin's voice, just drunk enough to allow herself a rare courage, broke the silence of the night.
"I'm not the one who likes to run away," he replied, harsher than he intended. The wine was getting to him too.
Robin paused to absorb what he'd said. She hadn't expected such a blunt, accusatory answer.
"Do you think I ran away from you?" she asked, still standing behind him. Strike was watching the cars passing by on the busy street.
"Your little dash to the front door gave me that impression," he said. Both of them had the image of that Friday in their minds.
Robin leaned against the railing beside him, also looking out at the street.
"You didn't give me a choice," she said fiercely, the wine giving her the courage to finally say it all, "shouting like that that you loved me and wanted to marry me. What did you want me to do? Throw myself into your arms while my boyfriend waited for me with a ring in his pocket?"
Strike glanced at her sideways.
"Not exactly. I just wanted..." he swallowed and looked away, "I didn't want you to make the same mistake twice without knowing the truth about how I feel."
They were silent for a few seconds, lost in their own thoughts. The shapes of the cars on the street were the only movement around them.
"I didn't." she revealed, still without looking at him, "I break up with Ryan that night."
"Why?" he asked, but before she could answer, he asked something else: "Why tell me this now?"
She turned to look at him. The wine loosened her tongue.
"I don't know," she admitted. "I think the alcohol is giving me the courage to say what I feel."
Strike finally turned to her. The lights of passing cars illuminated her face. The blush was still there.
"What are you feeling, Robin?" he asked. His voice no longer held the desperation of that day, nor much hope... just weariness.
"I've had plenty of time to organize my thoughts and, consequently, my feelings," she leaned back against the railing. "Therapy has helped me, but I've spent the last few days thinking about how I'm going to express all of this to you."
Strike remained silent, not daring to interrupt her. If he were completely honest with himself, he might admit that a twinge of hope was growing in his heart again.
"A lot has changed in my life in the last few years. People have come and gone, I've had good times and bad times," she wiped a tear before it could run down her face, "but one thing has remained constant." She raised her eyes to meet his. "You've always been there."
Strike nodded slightly. Where else would he be? He would walk beside her to the ends of the earth if he had to.
"Everyday life has resulted in the inevitable feeling of... love."
She finally said, but not in so many words. He needed to know. He needed to know if her love was the same as his.
"What kind of love?" He gripped the railing tighter and held his breath. This was the moment that would define the rest of his love life.
"I love you like I've never loved any man," she admitted finally.
If there was any doubt left in Strike's face, it was dispelled by Robin's swift movement to reach him.
She cupped his face in her hands and kissed him. The precise moment their lips met made something good explode inside them. It was the fulfillment of years of waiting. They could finally do something about what they'd spent seven long years ignoring.
Strike wasted no time, wrapping his right arm around her waist and cradling her head with his left hand. She lay between the railing and him, nearly crushed by an incredible sensation invading her body.
Present time
A sudden movement from Robin pulled him from his thoughts. She had removed her hand from his chest and was now rubbing her eyes, clearly waking up.
"Hmm, good morning," she said in a hoarse voice, still drunk on sleep. Her still-glazed gaze revealed that she hadn't fully woken up. A slight smile touched her lips when she saw him, but realization soon dawned.
Robin clutched the sheet around her breasts and sat up in one swift movement.
"Cormoran?" She said in surprise. "What..."
A quick glance around her dispelled the doubt that had been etched on her beautiful face. They were both naked in Strike's bed, their clothes scattered across the floor, the clock showing 10 a.m. on a Sunday.
"Do you remember anything?" he asked cautiously. Memories were slowly returning to him.
She glanced at the corner of the room and seemed lost in thought for a moment.
"I... we were outside," she began, trying to access her memories. "We talked and..." She swallowed, her cheeks flushing, "we kissed."
Strike bit back a "you kissed me." He didn't want to make the situation any more awkward than it already was.
Robin ran her left hand over her face as if trying to access more of her memories, but she couldn't. Something caught Strike's attention immediately.
"Robin…" He grabbed her hand in one swift movement, catching them both by surprise.
The detective couple looked at their joined hands resting on Strike's leg. The difference was huge: Robin's hand was small and delicate compared to Strike's large, hairy one, but there was something in common. Something completely unexpected. They were wearing wedding rings.
"Oh my God!" her eyes widened. Memories came flooding back.
Flashback
They remained lost in each other for long minutes, as if nothing but that touch existed. The world could crumble around them, and neither of them would notice. Each kiss was an unspoken promise, each touch of their hands a confession they had stifled for years. The heat of their bodies, the eagerness of their lips, the urgency of their breaths... everything pulled them into a dizzying frenzy where only the two of them mattered.
It was a disorderly, frenetic, yet also inevitable dance: mouths pressed together, fingers sliding in desperate trajectories, hearts racing in a cadence that touched the very depths of their souls.
When they finally pulled away, panting, it was less out of desire than necessity. The air felt thin, as if even breathing had become a painful concession.
Robin pressed her forehead to his, still trembling. The taste of wine mixed with his lingered on her lips. She couldn't tell if it was the alcohol, her newfound courage, or the weight of years of silence, but the words escaped before she could stop them.
"Strike?"
"Hmm?" He replied hoarsely, lacking the confidence in his own tongue to formulate anything other than another kiss.
She closed her eyes and whispered,
"Marry me."
For a moment, he thought he'd misheard, so intoxicated was he by her touch. The proposal seemed to float between them, impossible, absurd, and yet the most natural thing in the world.
"What?" he asked, confused, searching her eyes to see if it wasn't just delirium.
"Marry me." Now, more firmly, her gaze fixed, defiant, vulnerable.
He let out a nervous laugh, incredulous, but feeling euphoria rise in his chest. "Now?"
"Did you mean that when you asked me to marry you?" She persisted, her face flushed, but without flinching.
Strike held her gaze. "Every word."
Robin smiled, a small smile, but full of resolve. "Then let's not waste time. Let's go to the chapel at the casino on Canal Street."
A memory flared between them: a few weeks earlier, during a case, they had followed a rebellious teenager to this very place. The Las Vegas-style chapel offered last-minute weddings at ridiculous prices, and Strike had grumbled about the farce of it all. Now, in front of the woman who was the center of his life, the idea sounded like the most real thing they could ever do.
Robin took his hand, her eyes shining, torn between laughter and tears.
"If you still want to…" she said, her voice trembling but firm in purpose.
Strike squeezed her fingers, an unexpected warmth rising in his chest.
"Robin… you have no idea how much I want this."