Neither Strike, nor Robin slept well that night. Although their thoughts were together, they were not; Robin upstairs in her childhood bedroom, and Strike on the couch in the small parlor room. Both lost to vivid echoes and aftershocks of the evening's events. Downstairs, Strike's thoughts were in two places, he was lost in recollections of the feel of Robin's arms linked behind his neck as she leaned back over the low wall to draw him deeper into their kiss; and the thrill and apprehension of what his life would now look like after Christmas was over and they both returned to London, work and ….what? A relationship?

From the first time he permitted himself to fully examine his feelings for Robin, he knew that a life without her would be, for him, impossible. The feelings on both sides were now in the open, and yet he wasn't fully certain what that meant. Painful personal experience taught him that being in love was easy but making the commitment to it was far more difficult. Living with a woman caused friction in unexpected and uncertain ways- He hoped that they're shared values and commitment to the career meant that they would avoid some of the pitfalls that he and Charlotte had fallen into. The apprehension began to grow in him that if this were to fail, and he had no doubt that if it did it would be mostly of his doing, that he would have nothing whatsoever left. He felt as though he were staring down the barrel of a gun with one eye and eyeing paradise with the other. His will was strong and he knew beyond a shadow of doubt that he would do his best for Robin, in everything, but would that be enough? Was he ultimately enough? Although he was a thoughtful man, he was not prone to deep existentialism, but tonight his mind was so tightly wound into thoughts of his past, present, and future that he wished for a cigarette and a whiskey instead of a creaking couch and a painting of sheep.

With some effort, Robin focused beyond the snores and sleep noises of her family to the occasional creak of the parlor sofa downstairs. Strike, Doubtless uncomfortable on a sofa that was simultaneously too soft and too hard, shifted himself regularly. Each time she caught the sound of his restless movement, her heart rate spiked perceptibly as her body recalled the sensation of being pressed firmly against the garden wall by his steady bulk. The night crept by, every minute noted by both Robin and Strike, separately. At half past 6 in the morning, Robin rose to clean her teeth, brush her hair, and pull on her jeans and the favorite of the two jumpers she had packed for this trip. It was a dark green with a fairisle pattern that reminded her of evergreen bows- which seemed fitting given it was christmas morning. With a pang of irritation she remembered that she had worn this sweater the last time that she and Matthew had come to Masham for Christmas. Suddenly she wanted to change. Memories ghosted through her mind of holidays spent stifling her anger while Matthew Charmed her family. It was not the green jumper's fault that It was caught up in it. After all, it was a gift from her mother and that alone should be enough to make it dear to her but her home, her possessions, her life all seemed slightly tainted with painful memories of Matthew.

She stared past herself in the mirror, deep in thought. She thought faintly of next Christmas and a tiny flutter of hope rose in her chest- all at once the future seemed warmer and full of promise. Robin's mind flickered briefly to the look on Strike's face as she'd sent Matthew reeling back, breaking his nose in the process. Unlike most men, who would have come rushing to Robin's aide like a knight errant- Strike seemed to radiate pride at her taking matters into her own hands. It was perhaps this pride in her that always made her feel twice her strength and courage. This was a strange concept for Robin as Matthew always seemed to resent her for not allowing him to be 'the man' when she learned to stand on her own two feet. She didn't need a protector- she needed a friend. As she moved away from the mirror she came away with a resolution that she would make new memories in this sweater. The past would have no bearing on her future.

Strike must've slept briefly as he woke with a start to the sound of the kettle being put on. He reached for his phone and looked bleerily at the time- 0645. He didn't fancy the idea of waffling on about nothing with Robin's family while waiting for her to wake up, but he had an idea that she had also slept as poorly as he had and may have risen early.

He listened intently to the distant clatter of mugs and cupboard doors opening and closing and a sigh that was unmistakable to him. He felt it was safe to come out of his bunker and he thought he might even get to see Robin alone before the rest of her family rose and the festivities began. He dressed quickly taking care not to creek the sofa too much as he pulled his pants over the shoe attached to his prosthesis. He tugged the navy boatman sweater his aunt Joan had given him over his head and hastily flattened his hair which he knew would be spiked at all angles at this time of morning. Pushing himself up with a wince he quietly opened the door intent on a quick pee and some toothpaste, before looking for Robin, but as he took the first step into the narrow hallway he found himself looking straight at her.

"Oh!" she said, a blush creeping up her neck, "I hope I didn't wake you."

"No," lied Strike, "I needed a pee." She looked uncomfortable. Strike knew why- the night's momentum of kisses and confessions was on shaky ground after a sleepless night and the dawn of a christmas morning where nobody was to know of it. Strike wanted her to feel some echo of it to reassure them both.

"Me too," said Robin embarrassedly.

Strike gestured her to the door and as she slipped past him in the narrow hall he placed a hand on the small of her back and offered her a small reassuring smile. He had hoped to convey that he felt no regrets, and he didn't want her to either. She glanced back at him smiling weakly as she closed the door behind her.

Pee forgotten, Strike made his way to the kitchen and saw the kettle had just clicked off. He opened the cupboard and rummaged as quietly as he could for a mug, finally pulling one out that felt promisingly large. He felt that in the absence of sleep, a strong cup of tea was needed. The mug was oddly lumpy in his hand and looking down at it he let out a small snort as he recognized it as the body of a fluffy sheep, complete with protruding black face and feet.

Just then Robin returned to the kitchen to find him smiling as he examined the sheep mug. Another frisson passed through her at the improbability of seeing him holding that stupid sheep mug that had sat in the cupboard of her parent's house for years.

"It was a gift from one of dad's students," said Robin laughing defensively, "You know, there's more to Yorkshire than sheep."

Strike's head snapped up at her entrance,

"It certainly seems that way." He said with a lopsided smile, "I learned last night that there's also beer and brawling."

Robin flashed him a crinkled smile as she crossed the kitchen to pull the tin of tea from the cupboard above the sink.

"Funny the travel guides miss out that part," she said, placing a bag in each cup and picking up the kettle to pour water over her bag turning it an attractive sepia brown. She passed the kettle to Strike who took it and did the same.

"Happy Christmas, Strike." She said clinking their mugs together with a smile.

He returned it with a boyish grin that made him look years younger. He took a small sip without taking his eyes from her or dropping his smile. With a quick glance at the stairs he set his mug on the counter and settled his hands on her hips and dropped his head down to kiss her, brief and firm, releasing her with a

"Happy Christmas, Robin."

She felt the smile slide back onto her face as she studied him. Upstairs they heard the unmistakable sound of voices as the rest of the family began to wake.