Robin snuffled loudly into the tissue, then dropped it into the rapidly filling bin beside her.
"God, I hate summer colds," she sighed. "I can barely breathe." She propped her chin on her hand to look at Strike, her eyes glassy and heavy lidded.
He murmured in sympathy.
"Last night..." she hesitated, shamefaced. “I didn't snore, did I?”
“Like a chainsaw,” Strike said cheerfully. Robin groaned and dropped her head to the desk with an audible thump.
"A cute chainsaw, though," he amended.
“I’m disgusting,” came her muffled response. Strike smoothed her hair off her feverish forehead, and heartily disagreed.