His music swirls around her, enfolding her in its embrace, soft and gentle. No particular composition, simply his fingers trailing across the keys, dancing lightly, his eyes closed. What images must it conjure for him? Candlelight and roses? Murmured words in the darkness, their bodies pressed close? Her dress pooled on the floor in front of the fire, his lips on her throat, fingers a feather-light touch at the nape of her neck?
His face betrays none of his thoughts, even with his mask thrown away, his lips not daring to twitch. He is so calm, so peaceful, and she savours the contentedness of him. With the exception of those skilful hands weaving a world around her, he is still. And it's all she can do not to kiss him, to hug him. She aches to pull him close and whisper her love for him, murmur it into his ear. But even if it is no particular composition he is playing, he would not forgive her for interrupting his music. So she holds her still place beside him on the bench, their legs brushing, and restrains the impulse to lay her head against his shoulder.
It's a confession of love, this music. A declaration of longing and of tenderness and of love, each note delicately crafted into the whole, soft on her ear, warm as his breath, the ghost of his fingers over her skin. Her eyes burn at the gentleness of it, the quiet beauty, his unspoken words seeping through.
"Christine," he murmurs, lips barely moving. "Oh, Christine."
And with his music, there is no need for anything more.