A lifetime of apologies for the hiatus. My excuses are as follows: I graduated from college last May, got a job within a couple months of graduating, and moved into my own apartment a few months after that. Also, I think when the weather gets cold, I get writer's block. So with spring comes new inspiration! I genuinely appreciate all of your reviews and loyalty to my story! Please enjoy the longest chapter yet!

Christine's eyes fluttered open. A sigh escaped her lips as she wondered if it had all been a dream. The morning light had chased away the magic and darkness of night, but the memories remained. She brushed her fingers against her lips. It had to have been real. Granted, the wine was very real too. But she had made perfectly sober decisions; she had no qualms. Christine stretched and took her hair out of the bun, but movement outside of her door made her pause. She could have sworn she heard footsteps pacing back and forth.

The thought of seeing him again sent her heart hammering. Christine stood and tried to calm her bed head. Then she opened the door and found Erik with his arm poised to knock. His grey eyes looked at her in surprise and he pulled his arm behind his head to scratch his scalp. He was still wearing the same white t-shirt and sweats from the night before. Christine took a step closer. He didn't step back, but his chest and shoulders caved in slightly, as if to keep some distance between them. Her lips parted as she gazed up at him. It wasn't a dream. You aren't a dream. His fingers slowly reached out and combed through her messy curls. She inched even closer. Instead of backing away again, Erik's body enveloped hers in an embrace as he kissed her. Christine lost her fingers in his thick hair.

"I just wanted to make sure," he whispered against her lips. His breath was minty and delicious. Christine kissed him again, breathing in his scent. Then she jerked away suddenly and clamped a hand over her mouth. Erik's eyes darkened in confusion. His arms were extended as if he was still holding her.

"I'm sorry," Christine said from behind her hand. "I haven't brushed my teeth yet… Ugh, my breath probably reeks!"

Erik's body relaxed and he ran a hand through his hair. "You're perfect," he said softly.

Christine dropped her hand from her mouth and smiled slightly. They stood there for a moment, comfortably studying each other. His hair was also messy—from sleep and two pairs of hands running through it. He eyed the sliver of exposed skin between her tank top and the waistband of her pajama pants.

Christine clasped her hands behind her back. "Breakfast?"

It was quiet as they ate breakfast, save for the sounds of clinking silverware and scribbling pens on paper. Their newly ignited attraction left them both as inspired as ever. Erik sipped his black coffee and wrote a thought here and there. Christine took a bite of a strawberry and drew the fresh-picked wildflowers at the center of the table. They stole glances at one another between bites, sips, and bursts of inspiration.

"What kinds of things do you write down?" Christine asked, eyeing his favorite notepad. His long finger ran down the edge of the margin.

"Character descriptions or ideas, odd situations, words that intrigue me… Things like that."

"Who's your favorite writer?"

"I admire the works of Poe and Whitman." His eyes wandered over to her sketchbook. "Who is your favorite artist?"

Christine's pen paused. "I can't get enough of da Vinci's sketches."

"Why?"

"They're… they're so elaborate, but they weren't even his final pieces. They're full of research and practice... and they made him a better artist."

"Is that why you sketch all the time?"

"Perhaps," she replied thoughtfully, standing to grab the coffee pot.

She glanced curiously over Erik's shoulder as she topped off his mug. His writing was hardly legible. She could barely read half the words on the page.

"How can you read that chicken scratch?" she asked, returning the coffee pot.

"I'm ecstatic to know you're not a snoop," he commented.

Christine clasped her hands behind her back in chagrin. "I'm sorry, I just… I was curious about your handwriting. I thought it would be exceptionally elegant or something."

Erik glanced down at his notebook. "These are a bit more of scribbles—passing thoughts or ideas. If I truly wanted to impress the artist, I would grab my calligraphy pens—"

"You can do calligraphy?" Christine's eyes narrowed seriously.

"I took a semester of it, yes. It gave me a completely different perspective and appreciation of language and the written word."

Christine stared at him for a moment. "Can you show me?"

They spent nearly an hour playing with his calligraphy pens. They went to his office and he pulled out the pens from the drawer: Japanese felt tips, italic nibs, flex nibs, ink dips, fountain pens… Christine was in heaven. Erik demonstrated a few different styles he remembered, and she tried her hand—and she managed not to fail miserably. She was in love with a particular red-ink flex nib pen.

"Was your mother an artist?" he asked, watching her play with the variations of strokes the nib could provide. Her hand paused and he grew nervous. "You said she encouraged you to pursue the arts, so I wondered—"

"She was, on the side." Her hand continued writing her name. "She loved oil. I would watch her paint with such fascination as a child. It was magical, entrancing even, to see her hands at work. I knew I wanted to do something like that some day."

Erik watched as she started writing his name next. "So," he hesitated for a moment. "Why didn't you pursue art in college? If you don't mind my asking.."

Christine stopped writing and looked up at him. She looked like she was trying to find the right words. Her lips parted. "I wasn't sure— I didn't think it was a realistic career choice."

Erik leaned back against his desk, noticing how her shoulders began to hunch defensively. He had a feeling she wasn't being honest with him, like there was something more she wanted to say. His hand itched to touch her arm, to comfort her, but he continued gripping the edge of the desk.

"At the risk of sounding like a cliched high school counselor… I want you to know you can talk to me, Christine. If you're comfortable, that is. We don't know a lot about each other for having lived in the same house for a few months."

Christine fiddled with the calligraphy pen for a few moments before looking up at him. "You're right," she finally said, eyes turning into mahogany pools. It wasn't lost on him that she had glanced his mask first.

While Christine caught up on her morning chores, Erik decided to make lunch for a change. He moved around the kitchen with ease, gathering the supplies and ingredients. He decided to make stir fry. Although Annette had made meals for him for the past few years, he was still perfectly capable of cooking something decent.

As the rice cooked and he chopped vegetables, Erik thought more about what he had said. He really didn't know very much about Christine, and he sure as hell hadn't shared anything with her. He remembered how her eyes had flicked over his mask when she looked up at him. If he wanted anything to… progress between them, he was going to need to be more honest with her. And in return, she would open up to him. Erik wasn't a genius when it came to relationships, but he knew that those were the fundamentals, at the very least.

He began to sauté the vegetables. Did he want things to progress? What were they even doing? He had never been in a situation such as this one. It was so bizarre. They spent the previous months in such disharmony… he was sure that she even hated him at some point. Erik enjoyed pushing people away so he wouldn't have to be concerned with whether or not they would betray him or hurt him or worse—care for him. But he had kept pushing Christine in different ways. He had been so interested in her reactions that he neglected to think of the consequences. Like that sudden outburst he hadn't been mentally or emotionally or even physically prepared for.

That was why he kissed her.

That day had been a whirlwind of emotions, but Christine breaking into his personal space and actually touching him… that was the straw that broke the camel's back. Kissing her had been a knee-jerk response—Erik hadn't realized it was what he wanted all along until she kissed him back.

He added the rice and soy sauce. He'd never felt this way before, about anyone. It was exciting and terrifying and exhilarating to have such rich feelings for another person. He wasn't in love by any means, but… it was something. She was something.

How was he supposed to open up to her? What could he possibly say about his past that didn't sound horrible or like he wanted her pity? How would she—

"Hi."

Erik turned around, suddenly nervous. "Hello." She had changed into her cleaning clothes: the faded lavender t-shirt that was a tad small, the jean shorts she had cut herself, the messy and wonderfully curly braid. He felt a little foolish for still wearing his pajamas… Erik pulled out the chair for her and she smiled slightly.

"Wow, this looks delicious," Christine said, picking up her fork.

"I'm not completely useless," he replied as he sat at the head of the table next to her.

"You know that's not what I meant, Erik."

He took a few bites before saying something. Here's to winging it. "Annette taught me this recipe when I was seventeen."

Christine looked up at him, her eyes curious and encouraging.

"I lived with the Girys for the later part of my childhood. Annette was—is a very compassionate woman. She.. she was actually my social worker throughout my teen years." Erik stared at Christine's plate as he talked. It was easier than he had anticipated to say it out loud, but it was far too difficult look into her eyes as he said it. It wasn't just because he struggled making eye contact anyways, he didn't want to see her expressions…

"I went through foster care for a year before Annette took me in. She was a breath of fresh air after the hell I went through." He tried to keep his hands and face relaxed, he could feel the anger and hurt building up. Ah, yes, this is why I don't talk about my past. Feelings. Christine's delicate hand slowly wrapped around his, just as he had comforted her the night before. Had that been less than twenty-four hours ago?

He swallowed and looked down at their hands. Her finger gently traced a pale scar on the edge of his left wrist, extending a couple inches up his forearm. It was a question. An elegantly silent question. Erik glanced at the scar again.

"When I was sixteen, one of my foster families required the children to do chores—many chores. Since I was the eldest, and the most stubborn, I was graced with the responsibility of the largest and most arduous chores. One summer, I was sent to the roof to repair damage after a particularly violent storm. Needless to say, I had no idea what I was doing. Before I could fix anything or make it worse, I somehow managed to fall from the ladder at the second story and broke my wrist. Hence, the surgical scar."

"God," was all Christine could manage to say. Her fingers gently stroked the top of his wrist.

"And that was when Annette intervened." He gave a half-smile at the memory. "She came into my hospital room post-op and gave my foster parents an earful. It was magnificent."

Erik chuckled lightly and laced his fingers with Christine's. He was rather relieved that this particular scar was the first story he told. There was a much wider canvas of scars and stories to choose from. He looked at her thoughtfully. It seemed like she wanted to say something.

"I'm… I don't know why, but I'm embarrassed to admit this to you…" He released her hand and she took another bite of stir fry. Erik waited patiently for her to continue. "I never really wanted to change my goal of becoming an artist. My… boyfriend at the time convinced me it wasn't reasonable or feasible."

He tried to keep his face neutral, but she could see through him.

"You have to remember that I was in a really vulnerable and lonely place at the beginning of college. I—I didn't have many friends or someone I could trust and talk to. I went to UNLV to get out of my town, away from the knowing looks when neighbors brought casseroles and the pitiful glances at the grocery store and the sad whispers at the mall. I wanted to be invisible." She looked back down at her lunch. "Robert Carlisle was one of the first people I met at college. With Rob… I wasn't invisible, nor did I want to be. He was one of the few people at UNLV I told about losing my family. He had been so kind and understanding. He helped me grieve."

Christine didn't speak for a few moments, lost in her thoughts as she looked out the window. Erik shifted toward her. "He made you change your mind?"

Her eyes fluttered as she returned to the room. "Yes. I had very few friends other than him. When we started dating, I didn't really have any girlfriends to talk to, especially about relationships. Perhaps if I had, someone could have pointed out the warning signs.

"There were little things at first. Checking my phone, wanting to know where I was all the time. I thought that was just how boyfriends were, stereotypically protective and jealous. I didn't realize that he was isolating me. Keeping me for himself."

Her eyes grew dark and Erik thought he was beginning to understand.

"Rob was… It was his personality. He came from a wealthy and influential family. He was used to having his way and getting what he wanted. He was persuasive, powerful, controlling. I was vulnerable. He convinced me that art wasn't a reasonable path in life or even useful. He told me about his family connections and how he could get me a job right out of college. He even spoke to my academic advisor for me and convinced her, too. I didn't have anyone else to talk to, so I believed him and changed my major as a sophomore."

Another pause.

"Can we talk about this later?" She rubbed her temple.

"Of course, Christine," he said gently. He stood and cleared the table. He hadn't realized that there was more; it seemed like the story had ended. Of course there is more to her story than her first years of college, you idiot.

As Erik washed their dishes, he looked over at Christine. She was still sitting at the table, shoulders slightly hunched inward, eyes distant again. Of course there is more. Much more.

"Christine?"

"Yes?" She slowly looked over her shoulder.

"Would you like to go on a walk?"

Erik gave them both the afternoon off and they went for a walk. He had asked her to bring her sketchbook and supplies and he brought along his own notepad.

"I do this occasionally when I need inspiration or if I have writer's block," Erik told her as they made their way toward the lake.

Christine glanced up at him. "Do what? Walk?"

He looked down at her knowingly. God those grey eyes. "No. We walk for five minutes, stop and write—or draw, in your case—for ten minutes, walk for five, draw something different for ten, and so on."

"Ah… an inspiration walk." She casually slipped her hand into his as they continued on.

"Indeed."

They made their first stop at the edge of the lake, sitting in the grass a couple feet away from each other. Erik immediately began writing. The sound of his pen mixed with the noises of nature and Christine pulled out her charcoal. Distant landscape, the one she knew by heart. It felt like seconds before Erik timed the ten minutes. He didn't ask to see her drawing so she didn't ask to see his writing. They dusted themselves off, joined hands again, and continued on.

The next stop was in the shallow line of the trees. He sat down and began writing right away. She stood for a moment, trying to find something to draw. When she found a particular spruce, she sat down behind him so they were back to back. His pen faltered and she felt his back stiffen for a moment. But he relaxed against her just as quickly. They knocked elbows a few times and she liked feeling the movement of his shoulder blades against her own. Touching him was a bit distracting—she had drawn very little by the time he clocked in. Again, he didn't show, so neither did she.

Deeper into the forest they went, away from the worn path. Christine trusted that Erik knew the area well and wouldn't get them lost. This time she decided to sit against a tree. The scenery wasn't changing much and it was hard to find something new that she wanted to draw. After wasting a minute or so trying to decide, her eyes settled upon Erik. She smiled slightly and began.

He had changed before they left and now he wore his usual dark wash jeans and boots. Like her, he sat with his back against a tree. One leg was extended and the other bent with his notepad atop his knee. He scribbled quickly, apparently having a breakthrough. Her eyes traced the line of his lower back up to his broad shoulders. He wore a dark green flannel shirt, blending in with the scenery. The sleeves were rolled to his elbows. She drew his profile—his left side faced her. His hair was still messy; he absently pushed it back from his forehead. Christine smiled and adjusted her drawing to match the pieces of hair that stood on end. She distantly wondered how often he cut his hair. Annette probably did it for him. He called time as she continued to add details to his shirt.

Erik got up and stood in front of her, but she closed her sketchbook before he could steal a glance at the subject matter. She took his outstretched hand and he helped her up. They stood face to face; something in his eyes kept her from moving away. He looked down at her lips. His fingers reached up very slowly and brushed at something on her chin.

"Charcoal," he said softly, smirking.

"Oh," she replied, looking away.

Erik gently pulled her chin back and kissed her. She smiled against his lips.

They continued on and after a few minutes of silence, Christine said, "Are we allowed to speak on our inspiration walk, Mr. Destler?"

"Absolutely no talking allowed, Miss Denton."

She giggled. His comedic sarcasm needed work, unlike his regular biting sarcasm. That he was good at.

She asked him questions about living with the Girys and even a few about being in foster care. He was surprisingly open. Hesitant, but open. They meandered around the lake, not bothering to stop to write or draw anymore. He asked about her parents and her childhood. He chuckled at her adolescent anecdotes.

The mansion came into view, but they continued on for another lap around the lake. It was still afternoon; the sun was pleasant and the occasional cloud and tree coverage kept them cool. There were a few minutes of comfortable silence as they left the house behind them a second time. Erik looked down at Christine as she closed her eyes and tilted her head back to enjoy the sun. He looked forward again before speaking.

"Was there… more to your story at lunch? That you wanted to talk about, that is." It was hard to ask her these questions in the correct manner.

She looked straight ahead. "Yes. Yes, I suppose there is.

"I dated Rob throughout college and… we eloped after he graduated, after my junior year. I was twenty-one. He was in financial control of everything we had. He owned everything from the house to the car to the insurance and retirement benefits I received from his family's business. They even paid for my final year of college. I was dependent on his family's wealth to survive. We eloped, but he was sure to get me to sign a prenup.

"Apart from that, though, I began to see how disproportionate our relationship was. I was putting the effort into our marriage—I gave him my whole self. It sounds pathetic saying it out loud now, but it was true. I gave him all of me to try to gain his attention, his appreciation, his affection. Rob was… he was so incredibly manipulative and demeaning. He would withhold love and I would try to earn it and when he showed me the slightest response, I was elated. I felt worthless unless I received some sort of acknowledgement from him. He loved his power over me and I was powerless to stop him. I crumbled beneath his control."

Christine had to stop walking. She had to catch her breath and not let the tears surface. She turned toward the lake, away from Erik's curious masked face, breathing heavily. You are free. You are not under his control anymore. You are worth it. You are worth it. She repeated her mantra in her mind over and over as she walked out on to the fateful dock. What had happened here the day before didn't matter anymore. She could feel Erik following her at a safe distance.

"I'm sorry," she said softly, knowing he could hear, "I haven't talked about this for a while." She sat down, took off her shoes, and dropped her feet into the cold water. Watching the methodical ripples soothed her. Erik quietly sat next to her, a couple feet separating them. "I went to see a therapist for the last few months of our marriage. Secretly, of course. We were married for just over a year, but he did so much damage in that short period. My therapist helped me recover my sense of self and sense of worth. And she helped me gain the courage to escape my toxic marriage."

Christine leaned forward, pressing her hands against her forehead. She closed her eyes and breathed. "He tried to tell me he would change… he almost had me convinced. Almost. Then he subtly began to threaten me. I tried to get a restraining order after the divorce was official, but I couldn't win anything over the Carlisle family. He contacted me a few times after that ordeal, so I moved to Phoenix and found a job there, hoping I could hide in a large city. And now I'm here with you. I escaped. I finally escaped the hell he put me through."

The lake glistened in the afternoon sun, reflecting against their faces. It was beautiful. Peaceful, even. It didn't look like she had just cut open her heart and laid out everything—every insecurity, every problem, everything—she had experienced for the last four years before him. They continued to sit in silence. It wasn't uncomfortable per se, Erik just didn't know what to say. Anything he thought of didn't seem like enough. He wanted to tell her how strong she was. He wanted to say that she deserved so much more than what Robert Carlisle had done to her. That she was worth love and relationships. He wanted to apologize for his rude behavior toward her for the previous months.

Erik didn't know how to articulate any of these things properly, in a way that would be respectful to her past and honest about his feelings and honorable to her now. So he simply put his hand on her knee. And she leaned against him.

It was getting late, but Christine didn't want their day to end. She didn't want to go to bed only to wake up and it all have been a dream. After their walk, they came back to the house and made dinner together. It had been surprisingly comfortable. The table conversation was easy. His latest novel projects, her new goal to submit pieces o the local gallery, their disagreement over who had to do the dishes. They read in the library for a while before returning to the kitchen and doing the dishes together.

Now they sat on the couch in the living room. The fireplace cast warm shadows on Erik's mask. Her legs were draped over his lap and his body was pleasantly warm against her own. Christine buried her face against his neck, her lips and nose grazing against his pulse. She could feel her eyelashes tickle his skin. She sighed as his arm wrapped tighter around her. His other hand held hers. She felt him swallow as she began to trace each of his fingers with her own. Up one side and down the other.

"Can I confess something?" Christine asked without looking up.

"Yes," he said softly.

"I love your hands."

His head tilted as she began to retrace his fingers. She was glad he couldn't see the pink embarrassment creep across her face. What a weird thing to say to someone.

"Thank you," he replied, turning his palm upward so she could trace the lines there. "May I confess something?" Erik asked, watching her finger.

"Hmm."

"I love your hair."

She let go of his hand and looked up at him suspiciously. How could he love that mess on top of her head she called hair?

"Honestly, Christine," he said, smiling slightly. God, she loved it when he smiled. It was so rare. "...May I?"

She wasn't exactly sure what he wanted to do, but she sat up slightly. Erik's fingers brushed down her neck, across her shoulder, and down her braid. He gently pulled out the hair tie and began to unbraid her hair. She hoped he wouldn't try to run his fingers through it; it had to be a tangled mess after the afternoon outside. But he didn't. Instead, he caressed the length of each individual curl like it was something sacred. His grey eyes looked so fascinated by them. He gently pulled on a curl that framed her face then touched her cheek.

"Christine, I want to tell you something," he said seriously.

Her eyes looked into each of his, back and forth, very carefully. "Yes."

"I wear a mask." He paused for an unbearable stretch.

"Yes," she said again, softer.

He swallowed. "I wear a mask because I was born deformed. The right side of my face is disfigured."

After a few seconds of silence, she said, "Okay."

Erik blinked. "Okay?" Christine, my face is the bane of my existence. It is the worst of me. It has caused me all kinds of absolute fucking hell throughout my life, and all you can say is okay?"

"Erik, I really didn't like you when we first met. But it wasn't because you wore a mask. It was because you were an asshole. And now you're a bit less of an asshole, so I like you a bit more." She smiled. "I'm pretty sure I've seen the worst of you already."

"You're ridiculous," he said softly, thoughtfully.

"I know," Christine replied, lifting her chin to kiss him.

He had mastered the art of angling his face so that his mask wouldn't touch her when they kissed. She found that both impressive and sad. She reached up and caressed the edge of his mask in his hairline—not with the intent of removing it, just to acknowledge this part of him. His body grew stiff. She pulled back and kissed the cheek of his mask and then trailed kisses along the edge back to his lips. His breath accelerated against her mouth. Was this good or bad? Perhaps both.

Christine touched his jawline, trailed across his chin, down his neck, and took a handful of his shirt collar. She leaned back and brought him with her. His hand reached behind her neck to help lower her onto the couch. Her lips parted as she watched the muscles in his other arm strain to brace his weight. He straddled her and looked into her eyes briefly before kissing her again. His hot tongue slithered against hers. Their breath mingled as she gently bit his lip. Erik growled softly and dragged his lips down her neck. She almost lost it when she felt his teeth against her skin. Breathless, Christine ran her hands through his hair. She quietly moaned his name and his hips instinctively pressed against hers. She let out a pleased gasp.

"Fuck," he whispered against her neck, and rolled over off of her.

They lied next to each other breathing heavily. Yes, the couch was that big. She wanted to ask why he stopped, but she already knew the answer. They couldn't… they shouldn't…

"I'm sorry, Christine, I just—"

"No, I know."

More breathing. Staring at the firelight on the ceiling. Thinking.

It had been a while since Christine had last had sex. She hadn't really thought about how long it had been until she saw Erik naked the day before. Oh God, don't think of that now. She let out an unsteady breath, trying to forget the feeling of him on top of her, against her… She wondered how long it had been for Erik. Was he a virgin? She wasn't sure—he definitely knew his way around her lips, but that didn't mean… Stop thinking about sex! This isn't how you cool off.

"Can you say something?" she whispered. "Something completely unrelated?"

"I'm hungry," he replied.

Christine laughed and put her hands over her face. Erik rolled onto his side and pulled her hands away. She looked up at him, mask and all. He was beautiful. She refrained from saying it, though, knowing he wouldn't know how to accept such a compliment. Not yet, anyway. But it was true. She sighed and pulled him closer and gave him a slightly more chaste kiss.