The cold was sharp and stinging as it whipped at her face, and Christine hunched her shoulders against it. She'd already knocked twice.

He doesn't want to be bothered, and you're the last person he'd want to see. Why don't you just take a hint?

Christine refused to indulge the lizard brain whose voice hissed in her ear, not anymore tonight. There'd been too much time lost to it already.

Peeking around the side of the porch, she eyed the little walkway that she'd followed the last time she'd come next door.

After her window epiphany, she'd hurried downstairs to wrap the abandoned, untouched dinner in foil. The folding wagon, purchased over the summer for gardening and quickly abandoned in the laundry room along with her good intentions for productivity, was pulled out, the unsorted laundry it had been housing for several weeks dumped onto the counter next to the machine.

She carefully stacked her side dishes and dessert, tucked the foil snugly around the platter bearing her capon, addingthe wine and several other goodies from her counter. Makeup was touched up, teeth were brushed, then she was heading out into the cold with her heart in her mouth.

Here goes nothing...

Now she found herself shivering in the sharp December wind, willing Erik to respond to the knocking at his door. He hadn't answered the front door the last time either, she considered after several more moments passed.

The floodlight came on once she entered the backyard, the motion sensor triggering the same way it had that very first horrible night, and the butterflies who had taken up residence in her stomach took wing.

She knocked on the glass kitchen door, as she had the day she'd returned the car, and stepped back to wait. He would take a moment to put on his mask before answering, she knew. You'll count to a hundred, and if he still hasn't responded, take the hint and let him go.

She was counting in the thirties when he crossed the kitchen, seeming unsurprised to find it was her.

Unsurprised and frowning.

Christine tried not to lose her tentative confidence at the sight of his obvious displeasure. He was tugging a dark grey sweater over the black t-shirt he wore and self consciously tugged down the cuffs around his wrists as he approached the door with narrowed eyes.

Christine felt a sharp pang of regret. The damage on his left arm extended down to the top of his hand, the discolored scarring licking over his knuckles. She hated that he'd felt the need to hide even that from her, just to answer his door.

"What's wrong? Are you okay?"

His deep, melodic voice was colored with wary concern, again angling himself slightly in the partially open doorway. Christine could see that under the mask his forehead was bunched in consternation.

"Hi," she murmured breathlessly, her cheeks coloring. It's fine, it's cold, he won't even notice. "Yes! I mean, yes, everything's fine."

His eyes narrowed further.

Get yourself together! she roared to herself internally. You sound like an idiot!

"I-I saw your light was on and...did you already have dinner?" she asked with a swallow, knowing he had not.

"Yes." His eyes were still squinting down at her, and his voice was now more suspicious than concerned.

He'd rather call a piece of toast dinner than spend time with you, Christine. You're delusional. She tamped the pessimistic voice back again and gave it one last try.

"Oh, that's...that's too bad. It's just...I was home alone tonight, and I thought you might be as well and that we could…"

Erik appeared unmoved in the face of her stammering, and what miniscule confidence she'd cobbled together shriveled and fled as he glared suspiciously down. Her earliest impressions of his height were accurate she realized, and she felt herself shrink in front of him, her voice growing smaller as well.

"I-I'm sorry," she mumbled. "I thought you...might want to have dinner with me, but...this was...this was stupid." Christine felt her face heat, and knew tears wouldn't be far behind.

Just go home. Don't let him see you crying, just turn and go. He doesn't need to know you like him, he doesn't need to see you fall apart. This was a stupid mistake.

"I'm sorry I bothered you...again." Her voice had trailed to a whisper as she turned to leave. Let's hope you can walk away without falling and ripping your pants.

"Wait."

His voice had lost some of its suspicion, and she froze. His eyes still squinted at her, full of concern once more. "Are you sure you're okay?"

Christine was unable to answer, knew that if she tried her resolve would break, and she would melt into her misery, right there on his flagstones.

"I don't know what-you're not...for God's sake, will you just come in? It's freezing out there."

Christine stood dumbly for a moment as he stepped aside to allow her entrance. At her hesitation, Erik huffed and gave her the universal hand gesture of get the fuck on with it. It was enough to make her jump and follow him into the house.

Christine sighed at the warmth that greeted her once he'd slid the door shut. His kitchen was bright and spacious, as she already knew, missing the island and dividing wall that her own possessed. She turned in almost giddy anticipation to see the room beyond, the room where he seemed to spend the bulk of his time, just out of sight of her little window.

The room was cavernous, with vaulted ceilings and a large stone fireplace, in front of which sat a comfy-looking sectional sofa, where the little cat watched her with interest. On the far wall, the wall where the television sat in her own house, there were two massive tables, one with a computer, the side of it piled with tight rolls of paper. The other table was tilted, a large sheet of paper secured to its face. A drafting table, she realized, and the rolls of paper were blueprints.

Christine sucked in an elated breath; one more piece of the puzzle she could slot into place, the vague outline of a flesh-and-blood man becoming more real before her eyes. She turned with what she was sure was a stupid grin on her face to the other side of the room, and froze at the sight which lay before her.

I wonder if he likes music, she'd supposed during her cleaning frenzy several days prior…

On the opposite wall sat the largest, shiniest concert grand Christine had ever seen in a private home, answering her question in the best possible way.

"You know not much is going to be open, right? It's Christmas Eve, even the Chinese takeout place closes early."

Christine pulled her eyes away from the piano with difficulty at the sound of his skeptical voice, her own brow furrowed now. He'd crossed his arms and was still eyeing her warily.

"What?" She replayed his words and realized his meaning with a blush. "No, I...I don't want to go out anywhere."

Erik squinted at her again, his head cocked slightly as though she was speaking in a different language.

"Oh!" She jumped, realizing she still held the green tupperware in her hands. "I made this for you. Mamma V's famous fruitcake, it's really good...but you can't eat it for a few weeks, it still needs to mellow."

The only sound in the room was the crackling of the fire for several long, agonizing moments.

"You show up at my door and say you want to have dinner together, but you don't want to go out...so you want me to make you dinner?" he questioned slowly, still looking at her with bafflement, "and you brought me a dessert I can't eat until Valentine's Day. Thanks?"

Her mouth dropped open in shock. "What?! No! That's not what I said at all! How did you get...no! That's not what I said!"

"Well it's not my fault you speak in riddles." He scoffed, his arms dropping to his sides as he leaned upon the counter. "Why are you so willing to trust my questionable culinary skills?"

"Oh my God," she muttered, bringing a hand to her face. She wasn't sure how she'd managed to bungle things so horribly. "That's not what I meant. I made dinner."

"So I'm supposed to trust your questionable culinary skills?"

Christine dropped her hand from her eyes and balled her fists at her sides in frustration. He was making this impossible.

Erik watched her with a sharp grin, his eyes lit with mischief. He was playing with her, she realized-toying with her with sheathed claws, the way his cat might play with a mouse. Christine felt heat steal up her neck and burn bright at her cheeks.

"That's not what I meant. I knocked for five minutes! Will you just go open your damned door? You know, the front one? It does open, right?"

Erik watched her for another silent, loaded moment before disappearing down the dark hallway. When he reappeared, it was with her snow-covered wagon in tow. She crossed the room and with shaking hands, removed the foil-covered capon, setting it gingerly on his countertop before peeling the foil back.

"I already made the dinner, I was hoping you might be interested in sharing it with me." Her voice trembled nearly as much as her hands, she was mortified to realize. "But if you're not willing to trust my questionable culinary skills, I'm sorry for bothering you."

Another beat of silence passed between them before he moved to stand beside her. There was still a hint of mischief in his eyes, but when he spoke, he'd gentled his tone.

"I'm only teasing you...I don't know how to talk to people anymore, just ignore me. I'd be a fool to say no to such a lovely invitation."

Christine glanced up to find his eyes soft and fixed on her, not the bird on the counter, watched his throat bob as he swallowed hard before turning from her hastily.

"Take your coat off, make yourself comfortable. I'll get this back in the oven, I think someone left it sitting outside in the snow."

Christine carefully, quietly removed her wet ankle boots on the mat that was near the door as he turned away. She realized she was still trembling.

"Here, let me take..."

His rich voice cut off as she peeled off her her puffy lavender coat, and she watched his adam's apple bob once more. His eyes had widened as she stepped forward with her coat.

The sweater he'd bought for her was, she knew, incredibly flattering, and she had the soft grey and blue scarf at her shoulders.

"Thank you," she said softly, running her hand over the cuddly edge of the scarf.

He said nothing, just nodded curtly before hastily turning away with her coat, but Christine saw that the unscarred side of his neck had flushed pink.

"Is there anything I can help you do?" she'd called out after she'd given herself a tour of the large room. Erik had disappeared with her coat and not immediately returned, and in his absence Christine had been yowled at by the little cat.

"Hi, pretty girl," she'd whispered, holding out her palm, which was promptly head butted. "Where did your daddy go?"

"Yes, you can keep her from absconding with your chicken while I unearth the table." She jumped at his voice, not expecting him to have silently reappeared behind her.

Sitting gingerly on the edge of the sofa while the cat pushed her head under Christine's palm, demanding attention, she watched as he scooped up several armloads of rolled blueprints off a teakwood table she hadn't even noticed, depositing them in a heap onto the workspace across the room.

"I'd apologize for the mess, but we weren't exactly expecting company."

He flashed her another sharp smile and Christine felt her own mouth curving up, understanding that there was no malice in his words. Caustic sense of humor, she thought, as another piece of the Erik-shaped puzzle slid into place.

"How do you know I wasn't invited?" she countered. "Bebe and I had girl time after all."

"Then I would have expected you to know she doesn't like chicken."

Christine felt a muscle spasm below her eye and realized it had been many months since she had smiled so hugely. "I thought she was going to try to abscond with it?"

He shrugged grimly. An excellent poker face was added to the growing tally of things she knew for certain.

"Ah, well...the absconsion would have been executed with the aim of knocking the whole thing on the floor, rendering it worthless to all. If her majesty is not pleased with the meal selection, no one gets to eat in peace."

The cat loudly meowed her agreement with the sentiment, and then another one of those genuine laughs somehow crossed Christine's lips, to her surprise. She was having fun, she realized. She couldn't remember the last time fun had made an appearance in her life. Not in the past year, that was for damned sure, not in the preceding months as her father died. Here and now though, with this man and his cat, she was having fun.

"Well, it's a capon, if that makes a difference?"

Erik spun around from where he was arranging chairs to face her once more, a smile tugging at his thin lips. "That makes all the difference in the world. Do you hear that, Habibti? Very fancy."

Christine repeated the foreign-sounding word in a whisper to the little cat and was promptly rewarded with another vocalization and a headbut.

"Is that her name?" she asked Erik's back as he moved back into the kitchen, receiving a non-committal "mhmm" before he disappeared behind the refrigerator door. Christine pulled out her phone as he worked in the kitchen, looking up the strange-sounding name. "Not Bebe," she murmured to the cat, as she pawed at the fringed edge of Christine's scarf.

Arabic was added to the The List.

"Cheese," he announced to the room, straightening from the refrigerator at last, and the cat launched herself from Christine's lap like a furry rocket.

She heard the sound of her own laughter as if hearing it for the first time; a stranger's laugh, shimmery and carefree, absent of the heavy shackles of pain she'd been carrying for so long.

"Her favorite word," Erik explained unnecessarily, shaking his head in mock disapproval as the cat absconded with a cheese cube to eat beneath the table. "So spoiled and greedy," he lamented, motioning for Christine to seat herself at the table. She sat at the table slowly, watching him inspect the wine from her wagon with a critical eye.

"I can't imagine who spoiled her so...I'm sorry if the vintage isn't up to her majesty's standards."

He shrugged, a hesitant grin still tugging at the corner of his mouth as he placed the red back in the wagon, leaving out the second bottle of Sauternes. "Not an ideal pairing, but I'm sure we'll survive."

.

.

"So how did you wind up stranded here alone on Christmas?" he asked lightly after the dishes were plated and they'd begun to eat.

It was the first thing he'd said since he'd poured her the second glass of wine; they were now each on their third, and the silence had sat in the room between them like a fourth guest at the table.

Silence, Christine realized quickly, was something she'd need to get used to. She couldn't say that the quiet was necessarily uncomfortable, it was clear they could make small talk with each other, and she quite liked his dry, barbed wit, but silence was not something she'd been accustomed to, at least, not until the past year.

Raoul had been a chatterbox, always filling the spaces between conversations with stories of work or tales of the racquetball court at the club. Meg, Christine had come to learn, was the same. As she slipped further into depression, her friend had eagerly filled in the dead air with gossip of school friends and anecdotes about her fiance's family.

Erik preferred to let the unspoken speak volumes in nothingness, it seemed; formulated his responses slowly, let thoughts hang before completing them fully.

Somehow, Christine thought, he'd managed to hit on the most loaded question of all, all in one go.

"I'm not stranded," she answered in an equally light tone. "I live here."

Silence helped itself to a helping of mashed potatoes as the man across the table blinked slowly at her, sipping his wine, waiting. It was Christine's turn to swallow hard.

"I don't really have any family. This was my great-aunt's house, and I don't have any cousins, at least not any I know, no siblings...my dad d-died right before Thanksgiving last year, so…" she trailed off, horrified that still, even now, a ful, year later, just saying the words aloud brought tears to her eyes.

"I'm very sorry."

Erik's voice, in the space of three words, had transformed. The prickly edge he'd wielded since answering the door to her melted away; sharpness mellowed out to comforting warmth, and Christine wanted to wrap herself in the thick, velvet softness there. "This must be a hard time of year," he continued in that gentle voice, so full of understanding.

She nodded in agreement, abashedly wiping away a rogue tear that moved over the apple of her cheek. "It has been. I didn't think it would be, I didn't think I would really care about Christmas, you know? He was gone last year too, but I...I had so much on my plate, I don't think I even really noticed the holidays. This is the first time it feels like he's gone."

The press of her cloth napkin was a welcome bit of roughness against the hollow under eye, and she shook away the emotion that had clouded her for the moment. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to-"

"No, don't apologize," Erik murmured. "It's natural...you're fine."

She felt the little cat winding between the legs of her chair, rubbing a soft, furry head against her ankle.

"So you moved here over the summer, right?" he asked innocently, moving the conversation to safer ground. So he thinks. "For work?"

Here we go…

"You could say that," she answered slowly, attempting to telepathically instruct the cat to leap onto the table to wreak havoc on the capon after all. Instead, she darted off into the kitchen. Traitor.

"I could say that, but I shouldn't," he inferred.

Christine took her time loading her fork with a bite of capon and a smidge of her cranberry relish, closing her eyes and savoring the mouthful. Silence, it turned out, was a lovely dinner companion.

"I got divorced," she she said quickly, pulling the bandaid off the wound quickly. The sting, she'd found, had lessened as the months passed. "After he left...I needed to move, obviously. My great aunt had died, and the house was a part of my inheritance."

"He left?" Erik's eyes had narrowed again, his wineglass paused halfway to his mouth. "You didn't leave him?"

Christine felt herself color and gulped at her own wine before shaking her head. "No. He was having an affair, and he left right before Christmas, so I-"

"He cheated on you?"

The butterflies, which up until this point had been resting quietly since she'd seated herself on the sofa earlier, all flared to life, beating their tiny wings against her insides. He made it sound like the notion of someone being unfaithful to her was preposterous. Erik's forehead was bunched under the mask, and she could just barely discern the outline of a snarl on his warped features.

"Wait…" His brow drew together as he stared at her with slightly widened eyes. "Your husband left at Christmas? Last Christmas?"

Christine nodded mutely, watching his eyes narrow again as he pieced together the timeline of her shitshow year.

"Your dad passed away in November...and your husband left in December...two weeks? Three?"

"Two and a half, I think." Christine's smile was grim as he dropped his fork with a clatter against the plate, fully outraged on her behalf. "I didn't even have a headstone picked out yet," she murmured, taking another bite of stuffing.

Silence sipped its wine as Christine pushed the food around her plate, contemplating whether or not she wanted a bit more capon. Erik was still gaping at her across the table.

Habibti had reappeared and Christine watched as she sat before the kitchen door, enthralled with the falling snow. After several moments, she heard the drag of cutlery on the plate across the table. He'd composed himself then, she thought, chancing a glance up to see him chewing thoughtfully before he swallowed and sipped his wine.

"What a piece of shit."

His tone was breezy and conversational, and Christine burst into laughter, unable to stop herself. "Would you like to hear the rest?" she asked, her eyes watering.

The rumble of laughter that came from Erik's throat was low and rich and made her shiver. It reminded her of summer storms, the kind she'd anticipate eagerly when she was young, with deep, rolling thunder signaling the start of the warm rain.

"There's more? Obviously someone ran over your puppy, right?"

Christine tittered as she pushed around her food. "I worked in education, for an arts-focused charter school."

"Stop it," his voice rumbled, already chuckling in horror.

"The double edged sword of corporate education. We found out we were closing before the school year ended."

Erik groaned, still laughing sympathetically. It felt good to give voice to it all, she thought, felt good to have someone else acknowledge her disaster of a year for what it was. It feels nice to laugh again.

"So," Christine continued, turning up her wineglass and draining it, "if you're keeping score, I buried my dad in November, after being his primary caregiver the whole time he was sick. My cheating fuck of a husband left just before Christmas, and I lost my job that same spring. So when my great aunt died, I moved here."

Erik had stopped laughing and fixed her with a pained look as she paused to drain her wine glass.

"Since then, my ex-husband had gotten engaged to the woman he had an affair with, my unemployment is going to run out soon, and I've made a fool of myself in front of the man next door more times than I can count."

Silence, Christine learned, was a contemplative guest, as she squirmed under his sharp gaze.

"That is...a terrible fucking year," Erik said finally, sympathetically. "I'm sorry, Christine."

Her heart caught in her throat at the way he said her name, and the sincerity in his voice.

"...but here you are, still standing. You moved, on your own, you're starting over in a new place. That's pretty resilient, I think."

"Only standing some of the time," she murmured, thinking of the days she could barely drag herself out of bed.

"Well, you're allowed that. When you lose everything, putting yourself back together doesn't happen overnight. Anyone who tells you differently is an idiot."

He was speaking to her with a voice of experience, she could tell. Erik's eyes were soft upon her from across the table, and the butterflies fluttered in unison.

"My turn, I think."

In an instant that wounded look had returned to his eyes.

"I actually don't think I can stay another minute without knowing, so you're going to need to to tell me the truth," Christine said with a small smile.

She watched as his neck colored, his thin lips flatten out, and her heart tugged at his discomfort.

"Well, you may as well get on with it." His gentle, compassionate voice had changed in an instant, seeming deadened and heavy. Resigned, she added to her list.

"Do you actually play that piano, or is it just for show?"

Several beats of silence followed, during which she watched his eyes widen in relieved surprise, before crinkling with his broad smile.

He'd probably been very handsome once, she thought. High, sharp cheekbones and a strong chin, wildly expressive eyes, that tumble of dark hair she'd tried imagining...That doesn't matter. It wasn't an imagined past version of him that she fantasised about regularly, Christine reminded herself.

"Oh, I definitely play," he laughed. "I started out double majoring with music performance, but was convinced it was untenable if I actually wanted a career."

"I was a performance major!" Christine exclaimed, elated at addition of a puzzle piece she'd not anticipated. "Vocal performance...you were piano then? Are you an engineer or-"

"Architect," he cut in silkily. "Should have stuck with music, definitely less on-the-job hazards. Why were you working at a school if you have a performance degree? You should be singing with the symphony, or with an opera."

Christine flushed, both at his question and the brief allusion to how he'd been injured. "Ha, I'm definitely not good enough for anything like that. I was at least smart enough to get a master's in education, so I was able to-"

"But you are, though. Your voice is amazing."

One of the butterflies, or possibly several of them, fluttered up around her heart, as their brethren tightened her stomach.

"The night you brought Bibi home...I heard you singing Marguerite's aria from Faust after you left. And then again the next day."

His smile caused more of the blasted butterflies to beat their wings, and Christine felt her stomach twist with need for something she wasn't able to define.

"I was trying to thank you for the concert yesterday when you...fell victim to your driveway." Erik's eyes narrowed at her, and he continued in an accusatory tone. "Actually, you ruined my whole schedule. I came in after listening to you and started playing when I was supposed to be sleeping, then I slept when I was supposed to be working. I just started a new project and had to pull an all nighter to catch up."

Christine let out a breath she thought she might have been holding for several days, since she returned the cat. He hadn't been avoiding her. She began to laugh, feeling lighter than she had in months.

"So what about you? Have you been married before?" she asked him once she'd controlled her ridiculous laughter.

"Mm, yes. Married to my job."

Bitter found its way to her list at his sharp tone.

"Everyone told me to get married and start a family while I was young enough to enjoy them, but I was far too busy building skyscrapers in Dubai. Plenty of time for all that, I thought. Waiting didn't turn out to be a smart move, I suppose."

Christine felt her breath catch and insides twist in pain for him. Just make him take off that stupid mask and tell him it doesn't matter. She wanted to tell him that he didn't need to continue, to just let her kiss him, but her voice had become stuck, the fluttering wings in her chest trembling nervously.

"I was working on a project in Qatar when it happened," he continued after draining his wine glass. "It was after the war had started, the height of Blackwater. There was an insane amount of money to be made, and everyone wanted a piece of it. The firm I worked for was no exception."

"Was it a bomb?" she heard herself blurt out, instantly regretting her participation in the conversation. It doesn't matter.

Erik's smile was grim. He continued talking, but Christine had stopped listening, had stopped hearing him entirely. She didn't care, didn't care about his disfigured face and scarred body, didn't care about any of it. It doesn't matter.

"Were you alone? Did you have someone to...when you came home, did anyone take care of you?"

She didn't know why she gave voice to the questions she'd asked in her head, during all those weeks of watching him. She desperately needed to know though, in that moment, needed to know how badly broken he was. You can't fix him. You can't put yourself back together and him too.

She'd reached across the table and taken his hand, she realized, didn't even remember doing it. Christine silently willed him to meet her eye and answer her questions, but his eyes were fixed on their threaded fingers in the middle of the table. She felt a shudder run up his arm as she gently caressed his scarred knuckles.

She'd begun to pull away, embarrassed by her unconscious act of boldness, when his pinky hooked over hers, preventing her hand from escaping. His fingers were long and thin and bony, with knobbed knuckles. Piano hands. Tendons stood out in relief, and she traced one with her thumbnail, causing him to shudder once more.

Abruptly, her hand was released as he pulled his own back across the table, picking up his water glass with a slight tremble.

"It was a while before they were able to get me home. It wasn't a government contract, so the priority...by the time they did, the damage was done. The contractor I was meeting onsite was killed, so were a handful of others. They told me I was lucky."

He hadn't answered any of her questions, and it was her turn to infer.

No

"Bibi," he said sharply, startling her from her thoughts as the little cat hopped onto the edge of the table. "Get down now."

The cat meowed her rebuttal pleadingly and Christine couldn't help laughing again.

"You're not being a very polite hostess," Erik scolded the frustrated feline, pushing back his chair as she vocalized animatedly, glaring at Christine when she was lifted from the table.

"Oh no, we didn't give her anything!" she laughed, gathering up their plates and following Erik to the kitchen.

Weeks and weeks of watching him move about his kitchen made the next twenty minutes a gracefully executed ballet, as she helped him clear the table, cleaning plates and loading the dishwasher, wrapping leftovers and putting them in his refrigerator, despite his protests.

"I hope my questionable culinary skills didn't offend your palette too terribly," Christine said lightly, after winning back Habibti's good graces by giving her a small plate of chopped capon.

"It's questionable no longer. You've aptly proven yourself, I'm looking forward to being able to eat my fruitcake sometime in April."

She laughed in outrage, happy to see he was smiling. "You know, that is a highly sought-after recipe. And besides, I'm sure I can contrive to cook for you again before spring. Dinner was the least I could do, after all your nice gifts. I wish I had something else to give you."

She took note but ignored the way he stiffened at her mention of cooking for him again, the way his neck colored slightly at her last words. It was the first time she'd mentioned the gifts he'd bought her, but she wanted, needed him to know how much his thoughtfulness had meant to her.

"Oh, but there is." Erik turned away from the refrigerator, hanging up the towel he'd slung over his shoulder. Christine felt gooseflesh raise on her arms at the look in his eyes, felt the brush of a hundred tiny wings tighten her stomach.

"You can sing something for me."