She had dreams then, strange dreams with blackbirds swirling and swarming in circles, led by an enormous crow with silver eyes. But when next Robin woke, she was alone in bed.
Why did men always do that? They never stayed.
Industrious sounds came from the kitchen, however, and the scent of coffee told her that Mark hadn't abandoned her. She roused herself from the bed, the subtle aches from the night before making her smile guiltily. Mark had been a gentle lover, but insistent in his own way.
He was barefoot and topless, wearing only his sweat-pants and Robin's scarlet-red apron. He had bacon on the skillet, sizzling away beside a couple of eggs. Robin couldn't help but giggle at the sight. He was so caught up in his activity that he didn't notice her, and Robin took the time to admire him.
It wasn't just his leonine form--though that was a big part of the draw. With his jet-black hair and the ascetic cheekbones, Mark could have just walked out of a pre-Raphaelite painters studios. Like Waterhouse or Moore. She was smitten--had been, from the first time she'd laid eyes on him. He'd ordered a non-fat double-whipped mocha, and his eyes never left hers the entire time she'd made his drink.
He'd been like a predator of some sort, communicating his desire, even willing his desire upon her. And she couldn't stop staring at him, even through the two-o'clock rush.
Now, he was half-naked at her stove, bathed in light from the small window over the sink, humming a strange, distant tune. A single Red-breasted Robin perched on a branch outside, peering in. Mark crooned to it.
It fluttered under the attention, then resettled.
Robin giggled again.
Mark whirled, spatula in hand and his severe lips split into an enormous grin. "Breakfast?" he asked with an arched eyebrow.