He wants her to leave. Every instinct screams that she should leave now, leave quick, leave quicker. When the morning sun rises, the deed is done, it creeps him out to touch her.
Leave. Leave now.
Leave quicker.
Instead, she takes a shower. She can't feel his frustration, hear his desperation.
He finds himself calling Lily, then stopping the call before it rings. It's like he wants something, needs… something. There's a feeling that's familiar but he can't find where from… The memory is cauterised with only the stink of burned flesh left behind.
He's thinking about Robin; thinking about one night, one woman, over and over.
He's thinking about the scent of her skin, the silk of her hair tumbling over his fingers, the softness, urgency, warmth, comfort.
Feelings… Things he's stopped himself having years ago.
It's not love. He doesn't believe in love.
If he says it out loud, it makes it real. He doesn't deserve love, or even feelings.
He's thinking that he doesn't get to have Robin. He doesn't ever get to have that.
His phone seems to stare at him, accusingly.
She's too good for him. She'll never want him.
He doesn't believe in love.