Vivace
Regina had surprised Robin with the suggestion that he accompany her for her two-week concert engagement in Chicago, but Robin had been more than willing to get to follow her on the plane for once, rather than waving her off at Heathrow and feeling homesick for her for the duration of her trip.
One of her delightfully quirky habits which Robin has quickly learned is her preference for breakfast food after late concert nights.
Which is why Robin is currently wandering the streets of Chicago at midnight on a Wednesday in search of open—well, something—while Regina finishes up her reception with the concert hall's wealthiest patrons.
…
When Regina enters their hotel room at 1:30am in flats and the red ball gown that made Robin's jaw drop earlier that evening, heels dangling from her fingers, her stomach growls after almost twelve hours without food at the delicious scents filling the room.
Robin has repurposed the small writing desk as a table, spread with orange juice, water, decaf coffee, eggs, toast, pancakes, and half a dozen other breakfast dishes.
"You found breakfast food for me?" Regina asks, looking from the food to the man perched casually on the end of the bed and offering her a pile of pajamas and a fresh towel.
"For us," he clarifies, smirking at her (he loves when she gets that bewildered smile because of him, her brow furrowed, her eyes wide and warm; it's a point of great pride). "That is, unless you would like to eat it all."
She steps forward, dropping her heels and flats by the door and sweeping her hair over one shoulder with another glance at the spread. "I just might," she tells him as she turns her back to him and he obliges, pulling down her dress zipper.
Regina spins back around, holding her dress up with an arm pressed across her chest. "You bought me breakfast at midnight," she repeats, rubbing a thumb across the scruff on one side of his jaw. "How did you manage that?"
"I tipped the right people in the hotel kitchen."
"Mushrooms? Tomatos? Beans?"
"Apparently the chef is a fellow Brit."
"Nice."
She kisses him, once, again, a third time, each drawn out longer than the last, the remnants of her blood red lipstick wearing off onto his lips.
"You better go shower, and eat this food before it gets cold," he says against her lips as she shifts to wrap her arms around his neck and steals another kiss.
"Mmm, fine," she agrees.
Rather than pull back, he kisses her again, his hand lifting hers so that her dress pools at her feet.
"You're not helping," she argues with a sigh as one of his hands reaches across her back to unclasp her bra.
" 'Course I am." He moves to kiss her neck, his lips lingering over her pulse point as he pushes her bra strap off her shoulder. "Unless you were planning to shower clothed."
"Robin," she groans, not really a complaint at all, shoving him gently back.
"Yes, of course, Milady," he teases, dropping into a mock bow. "Shower. Then come eat your strange 2am breakfast with me."
She wraps the towel around her torso against the shiver of the cool room, and catches a fistful of his T-shirt to draw his lips back to hers for one last breathtaking kiss. "I may have to keep you around," she sighs, playful, but he doesn't miss the trembling vulnerability, the past loneliness that lingers in her eyes, and he feels like the luckiest man in the world that he's the one who gets to bribe overnight chefs to make Regina Mills a full English breakfast at midnight.
