As he chewed now, Strike thought that he would never again be able to taste the tart-spicy-sweet sticking to the roof of his mouth without seeing Robin as she was now, her hair a tangled mess around her face, golden and shining where it was hit by the sparse light filtering through his tiny bedroom window; legs long and bare and freckled and folded underneath her, her toast balancing precariously on her knee and mug clutched tightly in her hands for warmth – her fingers were often cold in the early morning, he knew. And without intending it, without conscious thought, the words bubbled up and out – thickly, through a mouthful of toast and marmalade.
