“I’m wondering what sort of blind idiot I was, not to find you attractive when we first met,” said Robin. Colour touched Edwin’s cheeks. The smile that tugged at his mouth was the same one he’d worn when Robin had admitted to being fascinated with his hands: faintly incredulous, but mostly pleased. It wasn’t an expression of regret. It did make Robin want to drag him back to the bed, pin him down, and murmur praise into his skin until it inked itself there like the opposite of a curse. “Ah,” said Edwin. “Whereas I am neither blind nor an idiot.”
