She brushed him in the hall. Silk of her dress. The harsh fabric of his trench coat. Electricity swept up her arm, speeding, rushing, sweeping through her veins and slamming into her heart.
His gaze snapped to the curves and angles of his face, tracing hot lines through her skin.
"Good night, Robin."
He turned.
Her sight followed --
the play of light on his dark hair, staining it the bluish-black of midnight --
him.
Her chest tightened, her breath caught. If her mind were a book, it would read
Quick death. Static. No need to mourn. Died in love.