Ted has warm, chocolate-brown eyes.
The eyes say a lot about the man, Robin thinks. Ted's eyes are soft and kind. Ted's eyes are truthful and earnest and sometimes a little bit dorky. Ted's eyes and loyal and romantic and loving.
Ted Mosby is in love with her. Even now, even still, Robin can tell when he looks at her that Ted's still a little bit in love. He sits there, in his new car, talking about Marshall's job and the future, planning, always planning. And he flashes her a look of parental disapproval for dropping melted ice-cream on to the upholstery.
And maybe Robin is just a little bit in love with Ted back. Even knowing they'd never work, even being sure she made the right decision, maybe she misses the closeness, the reassurance of having a steady boyfriend.
Sure she'll talk the talk - she wants her independence, a career, to travel, to not be tied down. But sometimes, at night, all she longs for is those brown eyes.
The car door opens and Barney slides into the back seat, the biggest, fattest lit Havana clutched in his fist, and for a moment their eyes meet.
Barney has azure-blue eyes that crinkle at the edges. His eyes flash, like a huge, neon sign that says fun and danger and keep away.
And maybe she's just a little bit tempted.
Maybe she's been letting her gaze linger a little longer lately, on what's underneath that suit. On that broad chest, on that tight little butt of his. On those bright blue eyes.
Ted chastises them again when she takes a toke from Barney's cigar and they share a grin, like wilfully disobedient children in the back seat of their parent's car. And Robin realises something, like a flicker of an epiphany at the edge of her senses.
Those brown eyes can scold. Those brown eyes make demands. Those brown eyes ask too much.
Yes brown eyes can be good. They're solid. They make an excellent friend. But somehow they're not for her.