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It starts when they wake up with a warm kiss pressed to her shoulder. Eyes mostly closed, breaths easy and shallow, legs barely touching.
“I love you,” he breathes into her skin.
“Is this because you want me to make the tea?” she mumbles, half conscious, half in her dream.
“No. I just love you.” He kisses her again, this time further down her lithe arm. His whiskers tickle, and she stirs the slightest bit.
“I love you too.” She stretches out like a cat before turning into him, resting her head on his broad chest, leg hitching over his torso. Every point of contact is a warm buzz, a hum beneath the skin that reaffirms to Robin that even after eight months, this is right.
He holds her like this, slotted against him, inhaling the slight coconut smell of her red gold hair. She giggles, fully aware of what he’s doing. It’s become a joke between them–his fascination with her hair. “You are welcome to make the tea, though,” he rasps. “You’ve got more legs than me. ‘S only fair.”
“Cormoran Strike, you used that excuse yesterday,” she laughs, raising herself off his chest enough to peer into his dark green eyes. She interlaces her fingers with his, giving his hand a tender squeeze. There can never be too much of this, the quiet, unremarkable intimacy between them. Because it is remarkable–that after six years of friendship, a divorce, a suicide, and half a dozen partners between them, they could find their way together. That being together was, in fact, easier, endlessly easier than being apart.
___
Everyone notices at first, and then they notice that they don’t notice. The couple that everyone was invested in (much to the annoyance of the individuals) seemed unchanged by the shift in their relationship status.
Because when you get down to it, what’s changed anyway? Robin is his best friend, the person in the world he was most committed to even before she laid down on his bedsheets. Her name was already on the door next to his, a commitment as meaningful, as permanent as any marriage. The affection he’d long held for her, guarded as a secret that everyone knew, was laid bare. Moments of tenderness, which were once kept, treasured, poured over in moments of solitude, became everyday occurrences. Yet, paradoxically, they felt no less special.
They decided no announcement to the contractors was needed. A hand reaches for another beneath the table, and with a squeeze of agreement, they place their intertwined hands on the table. His thumb mindlessly strokes the back of her hand as she reviews the week’s rota with the team. Barclay cracks a joke, and Pat tries to pry, but they pay it no mind. It’s easier this way, but it remains theirs.
____
She brings him his tea before getting in the shower, smiling softly to herself at the shampoo and conditioner she keeps at his place. One morning she walked in and it was there–two in one shampoo and conditioner, but clearly meant for her as the label promised ‘vibrant shine for redheads.’ They’d discussed their commitment to each other, had decided to make a proper go of it. But seeing the mundane details of their life together become a reality reaffirmed to her that he meant it.
Warm water cascades down her back, and she indulges in singing to herself. If Strike knows she does this, he never mentions it. ‘When I am with you there’s no place I’d rather be.’ Her singing voice is sweet, a bit fragile and out of practice, and she blushes when he opens the bathroom door. That she is naked before his gaze is of no concern, but she realises from his face that he must have heard her singing over the sound of the water.
She moves over slightly, allowing him room beside her beneath the stream, but he shakes his head, offering her a towel. Wrapping it around her, he pulls her against his chest, kissing the top of her damp head.
“I love you.”
_____
They pass each other in between the bedroom and bathroom of his cosy flat. Hands casually brush, seeking contact. Conversation about their current cases is called over shoulders as they move in practiced synchronicity to start their day. Finally, they stand shoulder to shoulder at the sink, brushing their teeth before the mirror.
Strike remembers the first time they did this, the way his shirt from the night before was buttoned haphazardly around her torso. Meeting her eyes in the mirror, he realised in that moment that he could build a life with her–that, in fact, he already had built a life with her, and that the more that he shared with her, the more he felt at home in his own life.
She catches him, caught in his own thoughts, and nudges him with her hip. He can’t resist the laugh that escapes his lips. Before he can speak, she reads his thoughts: “No, I love you more. Such a softy. I know what you’re thinking about.”
They’d had many nights of secrets pressed into bare skin, of bedsheets kicked off the bed. He’d realised that while he’d had great sex before (and sex with Robin went beyond great), what he didn’t have was this: secrets in the shadows, confidences shared in the spaces between waking and sleep. After so many years of holding back, it felt revelatory to tell her all of the little moments he saw her and knew what he felt was love. He’d told her about the moment at the bathroom sink, another banal moment that meant as much to him as their night at the Ritz. Even more, surely, since he finally knew what it was to have her and allow himself to be hers.
_____
The office is a well-rehearsed dance of poured tea, passed files, and loaded glances. Pat comes and goes, bringing them messages from clients. They behave exactly as before. When she passes Strike his second tea of the day, she allows her fingers a quick squeeze of his, meeting his eyes fleetingly.
It is second nature for both of them to lose themself in the work. She’s surprised to realise that hours have passed and that they’re nearing lunch time.
“My shout. Turkey club panini?” he asks as he rises from his chair, rubbing her shoulder as he crosses to get his coat.
“Cheers.”
There is a second before he leaves their office, a moment loaded with meaning. She knows he can hear her as she thinks I love you.
_____
He misses her on surveillance, crammed in a small cafe off near Seven Sisters. After eight months, he no longer counts down the minutes until he sees her. He does not wish away his life, hasn’t lost the love he has for the job. She is, and always was, the best part of his day. But the early weeks of being mentally absent from work, of reliving the tentative touches and unearthed confessions have passed.
This is a different kind of love. It’s a quiet thing.
He removes his camera glasses from his face, adjusting on the table to remain focused on the mark. Clicking his phone to attention he feels a pang of warmth in his gut seeing her face on his homescreen. It’s black and white, a rare selfie he allowed himself. Ilsa is to thank for most of their pictures together, but he took this one on a day when the gray London skies poured rain down on the city from dawn to dusk. It was only a few weeks into their relationship, but it was assumed that they’d spend the day together. Strike remembered fondly the endless cups of tea in bed (some which grew cold), and the pile of toast he brought her in bed. Crumbs scattered the sheets, and she giggled when he uncharacteristically brushed them onto the floor to be dealt with later.
There was something about her rosy cheeks, the tousle of her unbrushed hair, and his white shirt with the sleeves rolled up, that made him reach for the camera. The rough November wind blew through the half-open window (which they’d opened when things had gotten too warm), and she snuggled against him. He pulled on his discarded grey t-shirt from the floor and pulled her closer to his chest.
She raised an eyebrow at him when he held the camera in front of him, knowing he was hardly the picture type.
“I just want to remember this,” he explained, pushing her hair back off her face to kiss the apple of her cheek.
“I will anyway,” she whispered, nuzzling deeper into him. Her eyes were closed when he took the picture, and he looked away as he kissed the side of her head.
He decided black and white better hid her nipples beneath his shirt, which she appreciated. Nick had taken the piss when he’d first seen it, but Strike found he didn’t give a toss how it made him look.
Opening the phone, he saw three messages from her.
The first was a link to a clip of a youth choir singing hip hop songs, which made him chuckle in spite of himself.
The second asked him what he fancied for dinner, with the third following half an hour behind it telling him decisively to pick up some chicken breasts and rocket while he was out.
He loved this about her–her willingness to take charge and handle things. He’d be home to her in four hours, deciding to spend the next few nights at Blackhorse Road. They’d discussed moving a few times, but what they had was working for them. They barely spent a night apart.
After a moment’s consideration, he typed out a message.
S: Do you get tired of hearing how much I love you?
R: Course not. Do you get tired of saying it?
S: Don’t be silly, Ellacott.
S: Am I allowed to bring you flowers, yet? Or is that still off the table
R: I’ll allow it.
_____
They say it to each other a million different ways that night as they make love: When he gathers her in his arms, hands caressing her urgently; the tenderness of her kiss, warm and wet on his neck; the give and take of her body rocking into his.
“I love you so much,” she gasps, the words escaping from her lips.
“I love you more,” he smirks, panting above her. Close is never close enough. They work together to fill the gaps between them.
A bead of sweat runs down the muscles of his back, and it is this small detail of reality that fills her with more longing. She’d dreamt about sex with Cormoran even before she’d allowed herself to admit to it. But it was these uninteresting details, the logistics of two human bodies coming together, that reminded her that this was real. The laugh as they changed position, her yelp when her leg cramped, even the unsexy aftermath. These were the bits that she never imagined. This was the life she built with Strike, with ‘I love yous’ said and unsaid in the millions of little moments in between the events of a lifetime.
This was how they said it today. Tomorrow they’d find new ways.