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It happens, finally. A kiss after they solve a case they’ve been working on for the best part of a year. It’s rough and he tastes of cigarettes. Robin likes it. Likes that her mouth is kind of numb afterwards. He grins. Tells her he’s wanted to do that for a long time.
Me too, she says. For a really long time.
They don’t talk about what it means. She wants to be with him more than she’s ever wanted to be with anyone.
Strike’s waited a long time to see her. All of her. Her underwear is green - more leaf than emerald - and he remembers the dress. Is surprised, even now, that he ever bought it.
They have sex in his bed and she sleeps pressed up against his chest. Her hair tickles his nose and he’s too happy - outright giddy - to fall asleep.
His pillow smells of her perfume the next day.
Everyone at the agency finds out in time. Barclay swears, tells them it’s about fucking time. Nobody else says anything.
Nick and Ilsa invite them to dinner. Strike holds her hand as they walk from the tube station and Robin squeezes gently. She likes how rough his skin is. Enjoys it more when he’s palming the inside of her thighs.
They’re asked to be Godparents. He doesn’t hate the thought in the way he might’ve. Robin grins and hugs Ilsa. Tells her it would be her honour. He can’t say no, can he?
Robin buys the blue babygrow, folds it neatly in tissue paper and places it inside a gift bag. Signs both of their names. Love from Uncle Cormoran and Aunt Robin.
He feels strange. It’s not a bad feeling.
Just unexpected.
She puts a sausage casserole on the table and he tells her he loves her. She grins and hands him the serving spoon. Says I love you too , without any hesitation.
Later, he makes her come in the bed that she sleeps in more often than she doesn’t, and she tells him she loves him again right before he falls to sleep.
There’s a ring in the window of a jewelry shop that catches his eye. An emerald set in a thin gold band, a small diamond either side. He wants to put it on Robin’s finger.
They’re in Cornwall when he asks her if she’ll have him for the rest of their lives. The mouthful of fish and chips prevents her from answering straight away but she nods, tears in her eyes.
It’s just the two of them, Nick and Ilsa - and baby Toby - as their only witnesses, when they get married on the first day of autumn. The sun shines and her hair glows when they pose for the photograph that now resides in his wallet.
Strike doesn’t expect to feel any different. And yet he does. There’s a comfort, a warm weight, that accompanies that plain band on his left hand.
She falls pregnant by accident. It’s a shock. She cries at first. Apologises. Isn’t sure what to do, just knows that she can’t not have this baby.
She’s still on surveillance until she has the first scan. The heartbeat is strong. Rhythmic. Strike’s eyes water at the grainy image in spite of himself.
It’s real.
He’s protective in a way she’s never seen before. Makes her more cups of tea than she can possibly drink.
They shop, bewilderingly, for a pram and a cot. There’s an instant realisation that the flat above the office doesn’t have enough space. They’re laid in bed when Strike suggests they move to something bigger.
Robin finds a two-bedroom garden flat for rent in Camden Town. Shows him the photos on her phone. Says that even though the second bedroom is tiny, she thinks they can manage.
He tells her about the inheritance from Johnny Rokeby sitting in his bank account. Apologises for not saying anything sooner. Explains he hadn’t wanted to spend it; didn’t want anything to do with it.
But now things are different.
Out of all of the changes in his life in the past two years, it’s being approved for a mortgage that makes him fearful.
The sale goes through three weeks before Robin goes into labour. He’s conflicted, buying a house with Rokeby’s money. Would’ve rather done it without.
But he knows that’s foolish.
She thanks him, stretching on her tiptoes to kiss him in their kitchen, a celebratory mug of sparkling grape juice to toast a milestone neither of them had allowed themselves to imagine.
They christen their new bedroom. And the sitting room. And the shower, taking advantage that it’s almost double the size of the one in the flat. He’s good at finding new angles to accommodate a prosthesis and a large baby bump.
They return to the agency the next day. Earlier than usual. Proving a point after a day off to move what little items they own further east.
Robin gives birth to their daughter on a Sunday. Good timing, he jokes. Their day off.
She’s without a name for close to a week. Nothing seems to fit.
For the past nine months, they’d both imagined a son. And yet.
Joan is honoured in Matilda’s full name: Robin’s idea. Strike’s silent agreement is a nod, with a lump so big in his throat that he can barely breathe.
Her first word is dad. Second is dog. It takes four more words before Robin gets mama .