Amon sleeps, exhausted.
Robin sits perched at the edge of his bed, hands curled in on themselves, tight. She is tempted to reach out and smooth her hand across his forehead, trace her fingertip down his cheeks, the bridge of his nose, the line of his jaw. She wants to feel his pulse, wants to run her hands down the fabric of his shirt and feel the solid muscle of his chest.
She wants to lean over him, hands cupped around his face, and press her lips to his.
She *wants* what she should not.
Robin is wanton, sinful, aching.
Amon sleeps, unreachable.