Haze -

His fingers slip on her skin, the world nothing but her gasps, her moans, the high softness of her voice when she says, "Robin," and kisses him over-hungry, slow and savouring lost with their clothes. He's tense with missing her no touch can translate, too much warmth and wet and curves that he can barely think he's overflowing with her, a townline promise to make every finger-span indelible flying from his grasp to have her everywhere so close.

"Slow," he murmurs, half-smiling against her lips, "I'm not going anywhere."

"Oh," she says, like crying, and doesn't slow down a bit.