Author's Note: So this basically came about from me saying: "Notting Hill AU, yay/nay?" to (somewhereapart)'s response: "Oh my God yes please yes!" - and so we have a Notting Hill AU where Regina is the most famous actress in the world and Robin is a lowly bookstore owner who babbles when he's nervous and falls head over heels in love, at first sight.
It was coming right to the end of winter, the streets were drying up and to Robin's comfort, it hadn't snowed in weeks. Finally, he was feeling like he could go without the scarves and tucking his hands deep in his pockets every time he stepped out the door - because why would he wear his gloves? That would be just too clever. But there wasn't much that could keep him indoors, down the colourful end of Notting Hill that he called home.
The market that lined Portobello Road had always been a major draw for him, with it's fruits and vegetables and honey roasted nuts, wafting down the street in the cooler months, the smell of citrus and wildflowers, spilling from overstuffed carts, heady and delicious in the spring,
It had always been his favourite place, even when he was a boy and his family would travel into London on a Saturday so that his mother could peruse the antiques that spilled from Alice's Antique Shop. He remembered being given five pound - a lot he realised, looking back at his parents less than ample means - every second Saturday and being warned to spend it on what he wished, but take great care, the treasures to be found on the Portobello Road could be well hidden and easily overlooked if one were to dash too quickly through.
His favourite purchase had come when he was nine; a small wind-up monkey that played the cymbals as it walked. He'd been proud of himself, haggling the seller down from seven pound - he didn't have to go back and beg his father for another two pound - and he'd felt himself to be a halfway decent entrepreneur that day. He supposed that was half the drive he'd had to open up shop, just down the other end of the road.
He ambled his way down the street, never tiring of the colourful terraces and the smell of fresh fruits and flowers. His collar was pulled up high, tucked behind his ears - because even though the snow was gone, that wind could still be icy if it hit just at the right angle. But the sun was warm and he found himself following it, ducking between carts to stay out of the shadows as he made his way to the store.
Sherwood Rare Books; he'd opened it nearly ten years ago with his friend Will, the store named for the serendipitous nature of his and Will's own names. Robin Locksley and Will Scarlett, friends from childhood - what were the odds?
The bell above the door chimed as he made his way in, shucking off his coat as he was hit with the warmth of the store. Will was cold-blooded, Robin was sure, always keeping the entire shop at a heat level that had him roasting through his button-down, most days. Every morning, when he'd arrive a good two hours after his friend, he'd have to make a dash for the radiator to turn the blasted thing down before Will warmed them out of their next electricity bill.
The shop was barely breaking even as it was, with foot-traffic down on previous years. They made a bit on the rarest finds, with collectors travelling in from as far as Aberdeen - one guy had flown in from Dubrovnik, because he'd heard that Robin had one of those incredibly rare, single-print, hand-stitched volumes that took a collectors breath away. Thankfully, they'd developed a bit of a reputation for procuring the unprocurable as far as leather-bound first-editions went, but their day-to-day takings were next to abysmal. Still, he loved the little shop, with it's shelves packed so high they were bursting. Piles of books were stacked up next to overflowing shelves, the categories running onto the floor when they ran out of space. There was a staircase that ran behind the counter, stacked high and turned into a makeshift shelving unit. He'd even installed shelves that ran over the top of the doorways to the back of the shop, fully enclosing the space in a heady, warm blanket of book-dust and old leather that warmed Robin's heart, just breathing it in.
As much as he wanted to make a better living, to be bringing in more cash to pay for the finer things he nearly never had, he loved the books more. In that store, there were worlds unlimited to explore, characters and stories to enliven and enrapture, to take you away from the world and embark on a new adventure, each and every day. The warmth he felt, sitting at the counter, surrounded by his books; he was happy, he had everything he needed. He was content.
"Mornin' Bossman," Will grinned, making his way from the back of the shop with a small stack of books he looked set to organise into their rightful places.
Robin nodded, throwing him a long-suffering smirk as he reached for the dial on the radiator, turning it down.
"Just gettin' it toasty for ya." Will smirked, turning his back and counting across a shelf before stuffing a thick, leather-bound Austen on a shelf just above his eye line.
"Yeah, well, watch it with the toasting, our bill was almost more than the bill on the house last month."
Will turned to him then, wincing slightly before narrowing his eyes at Robin with laughter in them. "Well, oi, you can't blame me for that one, I'm out the door well before you and most of my weekends are spent at Ana's."
"Yes, well, there must be respite somewhere." Robin smirked, his eyes dancing at his friend who - checking the books in his hands - tossed a significantly un-valuable copy of Shakespeare's sonnets at him, knowing Robin would catch it. And catch it he did, against his chest, glaring at the man for tossing it, regardless that it wasn't even nearly an antique like the books in the old section, but a pre-loved paperback Will had obviously snaffled up from the book-swapping station out front.
"Screw you, mate." Will grinned, disappearing back around the corner to the back of the store with laughter in his comment and Robin took a seat behind the computer, almost wincing at the idea of looking at the accounts. He had a collector coming in a week to look at a collection of first Editions which he knew would break them even for at least another few months, but he needed to shift some numbers around if he was going to get that upsize on his latte, that he was bound to need for the process, when coffee hour came around.
The bell above the door chimed and for a moment, Robin was stunned at the idea of anyone braving their quaint little store at the end of Portobello Road before eleven in the morning, especially on a Tuesday. But there was a real, flesh and blood person squeezing through the glass door and taking Robin's breath away.
She was slight; petite was likely the best word to describe it, wearing tight - very tight - dark-wash skinny jeans and a black, leather jacket. Her hair was dark, straight and bobbed, and offset against the jet-black of her panama hat sitting on the crown of her head.
"Good Morning." Robin offered her a greeting and she answered with a small, gentle quirk of her lips before burying her face in a shelf. She was stunning, he noticed, in an incredibly effortless way. Her eyes were hidden behind a thick pair of Clubmaster Ray Bans that surprisingly, she didn't remove but simply tipped down the bridge of her nose to peek rich chocolate, dark-rimmed eyes over the top to read the titles. The shirt beneath that leather jacket was of a soft-looking, off-white silk and she wore a long-chain necklace with a geometric brass pendant.
He found himself watching her, mesmerised by her as she scanned her eyes across the shelves, apparently looking for something, though he was loathe to push her into telling him just what that was. She looked familiar, he realised and for the life of him, he couldn't pull his eyes away from her port-wine lips as she chewed the inside of her cheek and he tried to place her.
Just then, Will made his way back through the book archway and into the front of the shop with a new stack and a quip ready on his tongue, when he came face to face with the woman in the Clubmaster shades.
"Fuck me!" Will blurted, staring at her gobsmacked as his books went flying into the air and he desperately tried not to drop them on the floor, fumbling to catch them, his East-Midlands accent making the outburst almost comical. He stared at her, open mouthed and it was in that moment, as she stood there stunned in the middle of his shop, face to face with his idiot of a best friend, it clicked. Robin knew who she was. The realisation seemed to startle her as much as both men, as Will suddenly spun on his heel and dashed from the room again, awkwardly dragging his haphazard pile of books and disappearing out of sight and letting the store fall into an awkward, pregnant silence.
"Sorry," Robin cleared his throat, breaking her from her stunned stupor. "He's an idiot." He gestured towards where Will had disappeared as she turned to look at him. One perfectly sculpted eyebrow rose over the rim of her glasses and Robin coughed, uncomfortably. "You know," He winced. "Maybe it's tourettes, I haven't really had him tested but definitely, you shouldn't worry about him in the slightest, I'll smother him later." He blinked as she stared at him, flinching under her scrutiny. "Can I help you find something specific?" He tucked his hands in his pockets, desperate to dig his way out of the awkwardness.
For a moment, he thought he may have seen the smallest hint of a smile on her lips, but she gave nothing away as her eyes drifted around the store for a moment, once again. "I was looking for something with some English folk-lore," Those dark eyes looked over her glasses again, her accent confirming his suspicions with a sort of finality that sent butterflies flitting around in his stomach. "Maybe some fairytales?"
Robin blinked, surprised but didn't question as he stepped out from around the counter and brushed past her in the tight space - she smelled of cinnamon apples - to guide her toward his favourite section in the whole shop. "We've got some great stuff here," he waved his hand across the shelf, resting beside, but not touching, his favourite leather-bound volume that was so beautiful his hands had often itched to pull it down from the shelf and keep it for himself and by extension, his son, who loved falling asleep to the sound of his voice, telling stories of knights and princesses and grand adventures. But it was a first-edition, an indefinable edition, that had priceless written all over it, and with his finances, he couldn't afford to not have it up there, in prime position and aching to be snaffled up.
"What's this one?" She questioned and Robin felt something in his stomach flutter as her perfectly manicured, burgundy painted nail tapped on the spine - of course, naturally, she spotted that book.
"Ah, great choice," He pulled it down, feeling something inside of him twist as he rested it against the palm of his hand and held it out to her, caressing the gold-embossed lettering on the cover. "A lot of the classics as well as some lesser-known, but beautiful fairy-tales. This volume is one of a kind, you won't find another like it."
"I'll take it."
Robin blinked. "Okay," He rasped, stepping around her as she turned slowly, and headed back to the counter to ring it up. "You know, we've got a whole other few sections out the back, if you want to keep looking, I mean, it's not to say this one isn't great, but we've got an extensive range here, wouldn't want you to go home with the wrong book," He winced, he was babbling, but he couldn't stop. "Not that this is the wrong book, I mean, it's a great book, really good stories, and not the Disney versions but the ones that are just a little bit twisted,"
She scrunched her nose and he regretted his comment, watching her.
"Not to say that they're weird or anything, just original, you know." He took a deep breath, letting it out in a puff as he forced his mouth to just stop as she handed over her credit card and Robin had to consciously bite down on his bottom lip to silence himself long enough to process the sale.
He handed back her card, his breath coming out in an awkward shudder as her finger touched his over her American Express and he had to swallow to stop his heart jumping out of his throat. God, she was beautiful close up, that kind of flawless skin-tone and makeup that garnered disbelief. "Here," He grabbed a thin, hardback volume of the tales of Robin Hood that they kept in little stacks of green leather on the counter and tossed it into her brown paper bag with the large book he'd wrapped in white tissue paper. "Have this one for free, it's an english classic, and the shop is sort of named after it so we can call it a souvenir."
She nodded slowly, her eyes still locked on his face as she took the bag from him, offering him the smallest, indulgent smile. "Thank you."
"My pleasure, milady." He blinked rapidly, watching her as she turned and made her way back toward the door. The little bell rang once more, the glass door banged closed and he was drowned in silence once again as he watched her walk along the front of the store window and disappear down the street.
"Bloody hell, mate, do you have a single sodding clue who that was?!" Will's voice startled Robin and he jumped, just a little, dragging his eyes from where she'd disappeared and turning to his friend, blinking. Robin ran a hand through his hair, letting out his breath in a long puff that had his chest rising higher and falling deeper than it needed to. He needed air, real air.
"You want a tea?" He questioned his still flabbergasted friend, doing his level best not to acknowledge what had just happened in favour of trying his damnedest to over-analyse it in his head.
"Tea!" Will blustered. "You're going to get a fucking tea when Regina fucking Mills just-" Robin cut him off with a look, squeezing between his friend and the counter as he headed for the door.
"I'm going to get some tea." He said quietly, close to his friend's face with teeth pressed together, before he dropped his hand to the doorknob and pulled it open, the sound of that bell bringing back flashes of her port-wine lips, her tight jeans and the curve of her - he stopped himself. It was one thing to fantasize about her when she was an abstract concept, a forty-foot tall dream in technicolour. It was different when she was a living, breathing, cinnamon smelling woman who walked into his shop, mid-morning on a Tuesday.
"Milk, two sugars," Will shouted after him. "And don't for the fucking life of ya, think this is over with!"
The little cafe around the corner from Sherwood Rare Books had likely the worst tea in London, Robin was sure. They played dreadful, new-age music and all their chairs were made from cushions tied to old milk crates, sat on by lanky hipsters with man-buns sipping Chai. He'd never been to a cafe in London that dedicated so little focus to it's ability to steep a good cup of tea but the one positive was it was cheap, the cheapest in the street and right now, Robin needed the walk more than he needed quality so he found his way into the little shop, handing over a few pounds for two teas and a couple of cookies before heading back out.
The street was abuzz with activity. Robin could hear the sound of a strumming guitar and a strong, amateur voice playing out from one of the other - better - cafes, fruit and vegetable vendors were shouting their specials over the sound of the traffic on the parallel streets. There was a puppet show going on outside the old toy shop and Robin made a mental note to come back and check it out later, mesmerised as he was by the marionettes dancing behind their little crimson curtain.
So unfocused, was he, stepping off the footpath with his teas balanced precariously in one hand and a cookie halfway to his mouth, Robin didn't realise until it was too late, that he should have been watching where he was going as he rounded the corner. It was then, as though the world had slowed to an agonising crawl that he saw her face, startled and confused, as her slight frame collided with his solid chest; lukewarm tea spilling a muted brown stain across the soft, off-white silk of her shirt.
Her little squeak as she jumped back turned his insides to jelly, but it didn't quell the overwhelming flood of guilt that filled his senses.
"Oh my god, I'm so sorry," He fumbled for the napkin he had wrapped around his cookies, tossing the spent tea-cups in the nearest bin before turning back to her, trying to help her dab at the stain. In his fumbling, without thinking, he pressed the napkin to her breast and she jumped back, glaring at him.
"Excuse you!"
He looked to her with wide, stunned eyes and felt the heat rush to his cheeks. "I'm so sorry, I didn't," He licked his lips, guilt overwhelming him but not hiding the fact that he'd caught a glimpse at cleavage down her soft blouse. "Please," He placated with hands up in surrender. "Please let me help you, my house is just over there, I have a bathroom and towels and a place for you to change." He wasn't sure what had compelled him to offer his home, but he knew that he desperately didn't want her to walk away with a memory of him as the guy that spilled tea down her blouse in Notting Hill. "Please, I feel terrible." What would she tell the world of British hospitality?
She looked at him over the rim of her glasses, her eyes practically murderous but for the smallest, near-imperceptible look of amusement; like somehow he'd doused her in tea but she didn't hate him. She seemed to mull over the offer for a moment, her eyes twinkling over the top of her glasses in the sunlight as she squinted in the direction he'd vaguely indicated.
"By 'over there', how far do you mean?" He didn't care for his own sky-blue button-down, he had a million of them each one as average as the next; but he could imagine her shirt was probably worth more than he made in a week and he felt like he needed to somehow make amends.
"Just over there," He waved across the street. "The one with the garish blue door, just there." He smirked, secretly proud of that little house with the bright blue door, smiling sheepishly in her direction as she looked back up at him skeptically.
She seemed to be summing him up, watching his every move and expression as she considered her choices. The stain was noticeable, covering nearly her whole blouse and soaking it through. She worried her lip, glancing up and down the street for a moment before she looked back up into his eyes.
"Okay," She answered quietly and Robin smiled, widely, gesturing toward the house, guiding her with his hand at the small of her back, but being careful not to touch her for fear of frightening her with a touch that was perhaps too intimate, from the man that had doused her in sub-par tea. "The blue door is interesting," She said quietly and Robin smirked, looking up at his house as they made their way up the steps.
"It's unusual, I know," he nodded. "But I like it, it almost feels like you're stepping into,"
Her voice cut him off and surprised him, a little touch of wonder in her tone. "The TARDIS."
He looked down at her again, surprised, craning his neck back to really look at her for a long moment. "Yeah," He drew the word out, marvelling at how easily she'd drawn the comparison. Not many foreigners did. But her eyes had turned back towards the house, focussed on getting inside to remove her sodden shirt, he was sure. "This way." He opened the front, letting her walk in first.
Regina didn't really know how to place this man - he was attractive to be certain, the muscles beneath his cotton shirt making her shiver whenever she watched him move, stretching the fabric over strong, agile arms - and she couldn't shake the memory of those muscles beneath her hands as she'd collided with him. His eyes were a bright, ocean blue; eyes she could feel herself gazing into without thinking about it. In the bookstore he'd been adorably babbly and she'd seen in his eyes, the moment they'd met, he hadn't immediately recognised her. The thought of it had a warmth pooling low in her belly - a man that was so focussed on her, so curious of her, who didn't know who she was.
She stood in the foyer of his tall, narrow house, looking up at the tall ceiling and through the corridor to the galley kitchen ahead of them. She listened to him fumble with the door behind her, closing it up before moving back beside her with that awkward, breathy smile she'd seen several times that morning.
He had certainly now discovered who she was and she was a little bit disappointed, but however intrigued that he seemed to persist at not acknowledging it, not really.
"The bathroom is on the second floor," He said, tucking his hands in his pockets with a soft smile. "There's a shelf in there with towels, you're welcome to whatever you need."
She just nodded, looking around the house as he guided her towards the stairs.
"Let me take that for you?" He questioned and Regina blinked, turning back from her place only three steps up from the kitchen, stopped on the creaky stairs by his voice. It was like honey, warm and sweet, a voice that sent a shiver through her and turned her insides out. She stared down at him for a moment, confused and one hand rested on the white-painted banister, before realising he was gesturing to the shopping bags in her hand.
"Oh," Was all she said, before giving him the one with the books inside and moving the other bag to her other hand. "I need this one." She said softly, pulling it against her and he just smiled, that smile that had reeled her in at the bookstore - the smile that had her spending more than she'd ever spent on a book, just to see it one more time before she walked away.
"Very well," She watched him as he gingerly set her bag on a chair in the kitchen, handling her possessions as delicately as he'd handled her, apart from their collision, and she found herself even more intrigued by that bone-deep gentleness he seemed to exude. She was still standing there, staring at him as he moved to tidy his kitchen, his attention and his face turned away from her. It caught her breath.
This man, this stranger, who knew who she was and that she was standing before him; she was so used to the fawning and the swooning, or the misguided hate - the scrambling over each other to get her picture. The bumbling adorableness was a new, welcome response. He must have sensed she was still there, his shoulders tensing briefly as he began to turn, no doubt to ask if she needed anything else.
So she bolted, as carefully, slowly and deliberately nonchalant as she could, she turned to make her way up the stairs, looking around her every inch of the way, ignoring how he missed seeing her face as she turned, but out of the corner of her eye she'd seen him step towards her and stop himself.
The house was not untidy by any means. But it was so incredibly apparent it was a house lived in by a man, from the looks of things, more than one and not even the smallest hint of a woman. Books crowded the corners of nearly every step as she made her way to the bathroom, children's drawings hung in small frames all the way up the staircase and the small bay window on the landing was lined with boots of a few different sizes. She'd have used that space for a few throw cushions and a warm cashmere blanket, she thought - a reading nook - but the pair of tiny green gumboots, no larger than for the feet of a toddler, next to a larger pair, undoubtedly his, had her lips tipping upwards at the corners.
She had to sidestep a Tonka truck on the last step before the bathroom, stepping in and closing the sounds of him in the kitchen, behind her.
Robin could barely breathe. As Will had so delicately put, she was Regina fucking Mills, and she was currently, in his fucking bathroom. Not one to normally indulge in Will's usual vernacular, Robin found himself in situations like this - though how could he really know for sure, he'd never been in a situation quite like this - using the colourful language of his friend, if only in his head.
She was there, a floor above him and he could hear her moving about. The sounds were faint, she was being careful not to make too many, surely, but he could hear her nonetheless and his heart was threatening to pound out through his chest. He ran a shaky hand through his hair as he paced the kitchen. He went over everything that he'd said to her in his head, cataloguing everything and checking he hadn't said anything too damning. In all his bumbling, rehashing it in his mind's eye, he realised he hadn't really said anything of substance and remarkably, that soothed him. Better she leave thinking he was a babbling idiot, than a blaggard or a right prick.
The comfort was short-lived, though, for he could hear the tap running for a moment, then it shut off, making the pipes shake through the kitchen and an overwhelming sense of dread lanced through him. What if the stupidest thing in the world was due to come out of his mouth when she came down the stairs?
He busied his hands with tossing Will's breakfast dishes in the sink - in getting his son out the door that morning, he hadn't had the time to clean up after his friend like he did nearly every other day. He tossed the old paper he'd been reading over his cornflakes, in the bin and froze in the middle of the kitchen, sniffing the air, realizing for a quick second that he hadn't even thought about the state they'd left the place, before he'd brought the world's most famous - most beautiful - actress, into their home. Thankfully, the kitchen smelled like fresh mandarin and he found himself praising Will's sloppy eating habits, just this once, for the peel sitting on a plate next to the coffee maker. He tossed that too, it had done it's job and he didn't want her to see it when she came back down.
It felt like a million years and thirty seconds, all at once, before he heard the bathroom door click open and tentative steps on the stairs. He struggled to think of what to do with himself, to look like he hadn't just been sitting there, waiting for her, before he realised that that was exactly what he'd been doing, and really, what was so wrong with that? That's why they were there. He busied his hands with repositioning the fruit bowl on the dining table, stepping around the chairs as she took the last few steps down into the kitchen and managed to stop his heart once again.
Clearly he'd soiled her shirt beyond repair, because she'd done away with it entirely and replaced her jeans and blouse with a tight fitting black cocktail dress that highlighted every single curve of her body - it must have been what was in the shopping bag - the internal battle he had to fight to stop himself from staring at her hips as she moved, was akin to David, fighting off Goliath, if there had been a bit where David almost ate shit and died. Robin took a deep breath, grateful she'd pulled her leather jacket back over the top because he wasn't sure he'd have handled it if he knew just how much skin that dress was designed to show.
"Ah," He took a breath, moving around the table towards the fridge. "Would you like a cup of tea before you go?"
She raised one perfect eyebrow, looking to the tea stain still spread across his shirt.
"No, I suppose not. Coffee?"
"No, thank you."
"Juice?" He pulled the fridge open, suddenly desperate to find something that would give him a few extra minutes with her, anything really, that could justify her staying. "I have apple, orange," He looked through the fridge, realising that they really had a fuck-ton of juice options that he was going to have to fight his son to cut back on. "Apple and Blackcurrant, Apple and Pear," He met her eye again, feeling his heart flutter at the sight of the little smile on her lips. "Tropical?"
"No."
"Perhaps something to eat?"
"No."
"My son made these rather horrible looking chocolate strawberries with faces," He pulled one out of the fridge and held it up to her, next to his chin as he plastered a grin on his face. "This one is me."
She suppressed a laugh with her hand to her mouth before shaking her head and looking over her shoulder towards the door. "I should really be going, my car is on the way." It was then he noticed the phone in her hand and realised she must have called someone to pick her up, while she was upstairs. Rightly so, he supposed. "Thank you, though," He could almost see a blush creep up her cheeks. "For your help."
"You're welcome, and may I also say," He felt his voice dropping an octave or two, quieter and quieter the more his confidence wavered. But he was likely never to see her again, in and out of his life like a heart-pounding, overwhelming, beautiful whirlwind dipped in lukewarm, mediocre tea and he had to say it. "…heavenly."
Her eyes were wide for a moment, as he looked up at her, those large chocolate eyes that were no longer encumbered by her sunglasses, free to look on him and for him to see right into them. She blinked, but he hurried to add.
"I thought I'd take my chance to say it," He kept his voice light, his tone steady, doing his best to make it sound sincere and keep it from sounding like every other compliment she'd ever been paid. "Once you decide that book is horrendously overpriced, you're not likely to come by the shop again."
She smiled softly and Robin could feel his insides melting, those butterflies flying up into his throat.
"Thank you." Her voice seemed to be just as small and he didn't dare think it's because she felt the same way, it wasn't possible.
"Yes. Well." He grinned. "My pleasure, my lady."
He seemed to black out from the kitchen to the door, because he found himself suddenly there, standing before her awkwardly and entirely spent for what to say. He'd exhausted every corner of his sanity to remain normal in front of her. But she was standing right there, readjusting her hat on the crown of her head, fixing her hair just so and looking back into his eyes. Blue met brown and he knew, even if she wasn't, he was done for.
"It was nice to meet you." Good, Robin. He internally praised himself, that was a good and normal and polite way to end their meeting, to send her off with a bland, if not, positive memory of the whole encounter. "Bizarre, but nice." Fuck you, Robin, fuck you and everything you stand for. He wanted to slap himself in the face.
She just nodded, silently, watching him as he reached for the door and pulled it open, letting the sound of the street outside and the world beyond, in.
He didn't open it all the way, letting her squeeze between the door and frame with a gentle smile as she raised her hand to put her glasses back on, dipping past him and moving down the steps. He closed the door behind her, resting his forehead against the wood, raising his head, to knock his forehead against it again, his teeth clenched. "Bizarre, but nice?" He winced at his own word choice, knocking his head against the door again just for good measure. He was normally pretty well spoken, particularly with women, he liked to think. Normally, he wasn't at a loss for what to say and rarely did he find himself at such a shortage that he'd come out with the absolute blunder that was bizarre, but nice.
A knocking at the door made him jump clean out of his skin and he stood there, silently, staring at the scuffed white paint on the frame as he listened, thinking perhaps he'd imagined it. But it came again, the gentle knock, a little louder this time and he found himself immediately grabbing for the handle.
It was her. His heart leapt into his throat, he couldn't breathe.
"Forget something?"
"My books."
"Oh!" Robin spun on his heel, leaving her as she stepped back through the door, closing it gently behind her as she pulled off her glasses and he dashed back for her bag in the kitchen and the heavy, leather-bound volume he loved, but was likely to never see again.
"Here," He handed it to her.
They stood there again, as awkward as it was the first time, neither of them moving for the door. Robin couldn't take his eyes off her, feeling from the moment that she'd walked into his shop, he'd been lost to her.
Suddenly, her arm wrapped around his shoulders - just one, her other was still holding her bags - and her lips were pressed to his. The kiss was short but electrifying, the feel of her plush, velvet lips against his, the taste of her and that smell of apples and cinnamon suddenly made his head swim.
Then she'd pulled away, a sheepish, almost girlish smile on her lips that had her port-wine lipstick slightly smeared.
"Sorry for the 'bizarre, but nice' comment, don't know where that came from."
She smirked. "Oh, I don't know," Her eyes were positively sparkling and he realised in that moment, he could look into no other eyes for the rest of his life, and be satisfied. "But you may want to consider cutting back on the fruit juice."
Robin chuckled, sucking his bottom lip between his teeth as he looked down to her mouth again. She seemed to draw in a breath, as though she was almost, almost, considering kissing him again before a loud bang sounded on his front door and they jumped apart like they'd been caught doing something scandalous.
"Oi! Robin, I know you're home, I heard the pipes ya pillock, I'm comin' in."
"Oh my god, I apologise." Robin stepped back as he heard the front doorknob wiggling. "My neighbour, Killian, there's no excuse for him, I'm sorry."
In the seconds it took for the door to open, she had her sunglasses back on and her face angled down and away from their intruder.
"Mate, are you gonna tell me where you were last night, or am I gonna have to strangle the truth from you?" Killian squeezed between them, greeting Regina with a little nod as he passed and muttered a 'Hi, love' in her direction.
"Hi," Robin heard her quiet answer and smirked, watching his friend head up the steps into his kitchen and immediately stick his nose in the fridge, entirely oblivious to who he'd just brushed past as he berated his friend for not showing up to his gig to drink rum and hit on women with him, as was Killian's style.
"Seriously, Robin, how many times have I told you the boy doesn't drink the apple and pear." He called through to them from the kitchen, and Robin heard the sound of a juice bottle being pulled from the fridge, a bottle cap being unscrewed - no doubt with one hand - tossed across the kitchen and heavy boots heading back towards them.
"It's probably for the best if you don't tell anyone this happened." Regina gestured between them and Robin felt his cheeks burn at the memory of her lips, the softness, the fullness, how he longed to kiss her again.
"Absolutely," He smiled kindly, genuinely. He wanted her to know, no matter how badly he now ached for what he was letting walk away, he'd never tell a soul. "Who would believe me anyway?"
"I would." She all bit whispered, and that heat was pooling in his gut again, her dark eyes meeting his over the rim of her glasses. "Bye."
He stood in the doorway and watched her go this time, watching her as she stepped down the three front steps and moved across the footpath to the waiting black car and the man in the pressed suit holding the door open.
And then, she was gone.
"And who, pray-tell, was that amazing set of legs?"
Robin looked over his shoulder to his friend; his friend who was leaning against the kitchen doorframe with an open two litre juice bottle resting on his hip. Killian who had a penchant for black leather, eyeliner - he could get away with it, he was a tawdry pub musician - and that prosthetic hook he weirdly seemed to favour over all the other, normal looking prosthetics he'd been offered since he lost his hand three years ago in a drunken boating accident.
"No one," Robin frowned, turning to brush past his smirking friend. "And also none of your business."
"Ooh, aren't we testy." Killian needled with a laugh and Robin just rolled his eyes.