Her hair was tied up in a ponytail and she wore a black puffy coat, a red scarf wrapped warmly around her pale throat.

He wasn't sure how he recognized her, only that he did. She was dressed so completely differently than anything he had ever seen her in, blue skinny jeans, and her freckles were exposed to the world without the thick layer of foundation she always wore.

It took him two blocks to catch up to her, rudely pushing past people on the sidewalks. "Christine," he said when he finally made it near enough, falling into step beside her.

"You know, a big part of stalking is that you aren't supposed to let me see you," she said, never even glancing at him. "It isn't Sunday."

He frowned, keeping up with her and her quickened step easily. "I only saw you and thought to say hello."

"Well I'm glad you got it out, then."

They walked together in silence for a long while, Erik frowning and Christine refusing to even glance at him, before she finally huffed and looked around herself and then grabbed his forearm, her grasp just a little too tight as she pulled him into a small, darkened alleyway.

"You can't do this," she said seriously, finally looking at him. "You're going to fuck everything up."

"I was only saying hello."

Christine sighed and dropped his wrist. "I can't even be mad at you," she murmured. "You're like a kicked puppy."

"I didn't mean to offend you," he said slowly. "I didn't realize there was harm in it. What on earth am I going to mess up, Christine?"

She frowned, and he thought he might like her better without the heavy makeup she regularly wore. Her lips were a pretty pale pink and her cheeks and nose reddened from the cold. "Everything," she answered eventually, blinking as she looked back at him. "Listen, I like you, okay? I like our Sundays. I like the things you say and the way you make me feel… but it has to be Sundays. You're going to mess this up if you start following me around."

"Mess what up?" he asked again, looking at her closely.

"This," she huffed. "Us… and everything else, too."

"You are very pretty without the makeup."

She only gave an exasperated groan, running her hands over her face before she pressed them warmly to his chest. "I'm going to go," she said seriously. "I need to leave. And you can't follow me, Erik. I will see you on Sunday. Tell me that you understand."

"I understand that you are hiding something," he answered with a frown, wrapping his hands gently around her wrists. "I do not understand what or why."

"It doesn't matter," she said, her smile weak. "If you want to continue seeing me on Sundays you can't follow me. I'm the only thing keeping you from being kicked out… you've been noticed a few times. Just. Don't follow me, Erik. Please."

When she began to pull her hands away, he let them slip through his grasp. "I was only saying hello," he repeated. "I wasn't stalking you."

"I know, I know," she said quickly. "I believe you. And we've said hello, then, haven't we?"

"Of course," he answered, not quite sure why his heart was suddenly racing.

She frowned, swallowed, and then rolled up on her toes, pressing a quick kiss to his lips. "Please just take the hello," she said softly.

When she turned to walk away, he let her go, frowning. Christine was an enigma to him, a puzzle, and at times she so thoroughly contradicted herself that it was impossible to determine what she actually wanted.

It wasn't an excuse. There was no misinterpreting her request for privacy. No one wanted to be stalked and he was fairly sure that she had meant that much, but he found himself trailing along behind her anyway, curiosity spurned on by her insistence.

It wasn't like he had anything better to do, and throughout his life that had been both a blessing and a curse.

His eyes picked her out of a crowd easily, the long red scarf standing out in a sea of grey and black and concrete. He could spot her from a block away and he kept a careful distance, just far enough that even if she did spot him he could have the excuse that they were simply going in the same direction.

She was alone, and she wrapped her scarf one more time as the wind kicked up, lowering her chin to her chest to attempt to keep out of the bitter bite of wind.

He wasn't sure where they were going. Part of him hoped that she wasn't going home. Somehow it felt more intrusive to follow her home than to simply follow her. Another part wished that she was so that he would know where to place himself when he had the urge to simply spot her.

But it wasn't home. The closer they drew, the more sirens he heard, ambulances trying to force themselves through unmoving traffic, horns blaring loudly.

The man stood there waiting was young. He had a grim sort of look on his handsome face when she approached him near the cement stones leading up to the entrance of the towering hospital.

He greeted Christine with a warm, tight hug, resting his chin atop her golden curls.

Erik thought his heart might beat straight through his ribcage and suddenly, he wished that he could read lips. He wondered what it was that the young man was murmuring to her. He wondered who he was, why Christine was there, why she was greeted with such an intimate hug yet no kiss.

He lingered only until they made their way inside, the young man pulling the heavy door open for her.

She was a mystery indeed.

This week, there was no hesitation when she stepped out into the alleyway, taking the long-stemmed rose from him without any hesitation. "I'd like you to take me somewhere," she said, the words clear and simple.

Erik frowned slightly. "Where would you like to go?"

Christine lifted the fat bud of the rose to her nose, covering her lips as she spoke. "I don't know," she answered easily. "Anywhere. I've brought a change of clothes tonight. Take me where you'll stay. I want to see."

"You'll freeze to death."

"If I do, I can go home." She paused, frowning. "But you can't… I want you to show me where you'll stay tonight."

"Are you laughing at me, Christine?" he asked slowly.

"No - no," she answered quickly. "I don't find a thing funny about it. I just… I want to know how you live is all. And maybe, well, maybe I need to get away from my own life for a minute. I will bring something to keep us both warm."

It had never occurred to him, in any capacity, that the Hell he lived might be someone else's escape. It wasn't a thought that offended him so much as it fascinated him. He looked at people constantly and wished to trade lives, and the unknown had always had a certain appeal to it for him. "Did you bring pants to change into?" he asked, eyeing the silky edge of her red skirt peeking out from the black jacket that ended just over her knees.

She nodded, and he frowned thoughtfully.

"Only if you promise you will go home if you get too cold," he answered eventually.

She seemed to light up with his agreement, her smile soft and sad as she tucked the flower among her curls the way she did with every one of them before. "Then I will meet you back here again," she said,almost shyly. "I'll dress warm."

With her halfhearted promise, she was gone and Erik frowned to himself as he made his way around to the front of the building.

Christine reappeared in her same black puffy coat, that same red scarf wrapped four times around her pale, slim throat, excess material still hanging low. She clutched a large brown paper bag in one hand, the cap of a liquor bottle poking out from the top of the bag.

"You still can't just drink in the street," he said, eyeing the bag she clutched tightly.

"Then I guess you know where you'll take me," she said, frowning. "Somewhere that we can. And don't give me you don't drink bullshit. I'll drink the whole thing and make you watch if you do."

"I do drink," he said, offering her his arm. "I didn't mean to offend you."

She huffed but she took his arm anyway, her warm hand wrapping around the inside of his elbow. "I know," she said. "You took a drink that one time... what kind of drunk are you?"

"I'm not sure myself," he answered with a frown. "When I drink, it's usually to feel warm. Drunkenness often leaves you cold. I don't honestly remember the last time I was drunk."

"You're either really nice or an angry drunk," she murmured, following him easily out of the alleyway. "I'd like to find out."

He paused when they reached the sidewalk. "Pick a direction," he murmured to her.

"Right, I guess," she said after a moment.

So he led her to the right with a murmured, "East," reminding himself of the direction and trying to think of a place where he could take her where they could tuck out of the cold and have some level of privacy.

"What's that?" she asked, her hand shifting on his arm.

"We're going east," he said. "If we took a left we would be going south. The city is mostly built on a grid."

"You're a nerd," she mumbled.

He could only chuckle. "It's good to know when the cops decide to start another round up... it's easy to get lost when you're running. It's how I learned most of the city."

"Running from cops?"

"Mostly," he said with a slight smile. "On occasion other people. Better than any gym membership. Cheaper, too. Unless you get caught."

"I ran from the cops once," she offered.

"You did?"

"Mhm," she said, following easily when he turned a corner. ''In high school. My ex was an idiot. It's a good thing, too. I'd probably still be dealing with charges if I didn't. That party was stupid."

For the first time, Erik thought he might be getting a glance of her. Not that thing she dressed up and projected on a stage, but her. Real, human Christine. "Did you grow up in the city?"

She shrugged one shoulder absently. "Mostly in the suburbs," she said slowly. "Dad got real sick around middle school and we had to move closer for his hospital... what about you?"

"Born and raised on the south side," he answered simply. "I've thought about leaving but I don't think there's any place else that could be quite as horrific and beautiful."

"If you're looking for horrible you can go pretty much anywhere," she sighed. "I want to drink, Erik."

"I'm taking you to Washington Square," he said, leading her down another side street. "It isn't far and there's nothing there... no one has ever bothered me there after dark."

"Will you get drunk with me?"

The question sounded more like an invitation than it did a question but he frowned anyway, leading her into the greenery of the park. "I suppose so," he answered. "If that is what will please you."

"Is that what you want?" she asked, her voice teasing. "To please me?"

"I thought it was rather obvious," he answered easily, slowly learning the way she flirted. "I haven't made it much of a secret."

"Then open this, please," she said, her hand slipping from his arm as she held the brown paper bag out to him.

He took it easily, slipping the bag down so that he could crack the seal of the cap. "Find somewhere for us to sit, Christine," he said as he popped the pour-control cap out with one thin finger.

The spot she picked was dark, just out of reach of the flickering lights, and he was only glad to find that the grass was mostly dry as he settled himself beside her, holding the bottle out to her in a silent offering.

She tilted her head back and took a concerningly deep drink before she held it back out to him. "So this is it huh?" she murmured as he took it from her. "What would you be doing if I wasn't here with you?"

"More of the same," he offered, pausing and taking a drink from the bottle himself before he held it back out to her. "I'd probably still be walking. I'd be paying a lot more attention to open purses. But mostly the same."

She hummed, taking another slow drink. "South side, right?"

"That's where I grew up, yes," he answered, watching her and her thoughtful frown.

"Then you know how many empty houses there are," she said, wiping at her lips and handing the bottle back. "Fuck it. Pick one. Sign up for some junk mail. They'll have a helluva time trying to get you out if they even figure out you're there."

He took a slightly deeper swig this time. "I'd be lying if I said the thought hadn't crossed my mind," he admitted.

"Why the Hell not?" she asked. "It's not like they're doing any good sitting there empty... at least it'd be walls."

"If this winter is as bad as the last it might come to that."

Christine's frown was thoughtful as she reached for the bottle in his hand. "Sometimes you have to do things just 'cause you have to, not 'cause you want to," she murmured, the words slow. "Everyone does. It just looks a little different."

He let her take it, staring at her and her already flushed cheeks. "You're speaking from experience."

"Everyone is fuckin' miserable," she huffed pausing as she drank. "Everyone wants to be someone else. It isn't really great on the other side either, you know."

"What are you miserable about?"

She frowned, turning the bottle in her small, soft hands. "I didn't mean what I said last week," she murmured. "Not like you took it. I don't want to stop fucking you."

He swallowed, looking up at the sky and the few stars dotting it that he could make out. "You don't have to," he said eventually. "You may not have but I meant what I said."

"Have you ever tried to work with a producer?"

"No," he answered, shifting his gaze back to her.

Now it was her turn to swallow, passing the bottle back to him as though she only just remembered it was there. "You're right," she murmured, and he wasn't sure if the flush in her cheeks was from the alcohol or embarrassment. "Music is my soul. I love to sing. But this industry is garbage... it's impossible to get anywhere and if you do, you just get groped by dirty old men. Just once I want something good to come because I can sing and not because some guy gets hard looking at me and I can suck a dick... I guess I just - I didn't know this is what it'd be like."

His drink was just a little deeper this time. Part of him couldn't help but wonder if she would be saying any of this to him if she wasn't halfway to drunk already, and it was an uncomfortable sort of thought. "You are very pretty," he offered eventually. "But it was your singing that brought me back. If all you were was pretty I would have forgotten you easily. I may not know the industry but I do know you have the talent for it."

"I know you mean that," she said softly. "I just wish I believed it, too."

He took another quick drink before holding the already half-empty bottle back out to her. "I will write you a song," he murmured as she took it. "When you sing it even the angels will weep. No one will be able to deny your talent, least of all yourself."

"Are you a musician?" she asked softly.

"I'm whatever you need me to be," he answered gently.

Her laugh was an empty sort of huff. "You're ridiculous."

"Maybe," he agreed easily. "But I mean every word of it."

"Will you tell me something?"

"Anything," he said, watching her face closely.

"You wear a mask," she mumbled. ''You're homeless - like really, actually homeless. How the fuck do you stay so optimistic?"

"I'm not," he admitted easily. "I'm bitter and angry. I'm cold and hungry and miserable on a daily basis... I'm the furthest thing from optimistic. But you bring something out in me that I think I forgot was there."

"What is that?"

"Human," he answered.

She set the bottle aside carefully in the grass, making sure it would stay up right before she shifted, pulling herself into his lap and straddling him, wrapping her arms carefully around his neck. "You are different," she mumbled. "I think that's what scared me so much."

He swallowed, looking up at her and her cloudy eyes. His hands were gentle when they found her waist, resting there loosely. "You're shivering."

She huffed, her arms shifting around his neck. "I'm fine."

"You're going to catch a chill."

"And you aren't my dad," she snapped, the sweetness gone from her tone. "I can take care of myself."

Her eyes were still cloudy, despite the way she narrowed them, and he sighed. "I have no doubt of that," he answered carefully. "I know that I'm terrified of you."

She leaned back slightly, still straddling him, and reached for the bottle in the grass. She took another long drink, rubbing at her mouth with the back of one wrist as she looked at him. "Are you really that ugly under there?" she murmured, eyes roaming over his mask.

"I don't find it very pleasant to look at myself," he confessed. "No one has ever reacted in a way that leads me to believe otherwise."

"What happened?"

He halfheartedly shrugged one shoulder, feeling his own frown. "My mother was a heavy user of a variety of substances," he said slowly. "I'm inclined to believe it may have contributed."

She leaned back slowly, one hand sliding from his shoulder to reach for the bottle. Her frown was small, contemplative. "I bet it's not as bad as you think it is," she murmured thoughtfully.

"I'm in no rush to learn your opinion on it."

She lifted the bottle to her lips, sitting back against his legs just over his knees as she took another slow, deep drink from the emptying bottle. "Where will you stay tonight?" she mumbled.

"I'm not sure," he answered honestly. "I never am."

"You should go back to that hotel," she said slowly. "Or maybe a shelter. It's really cold, Erik."

His tight-lipped smile almost hurt. "It isn't that bad yet," he answered softly. "I'm very used to it by now. I'm good at surviving, Christine. You don't need to worry about me."

"M'not worried," she grumbled.

Erik dared to let his fingers curl around her thin waist, looking up at her even though she was avoiding his eyes. "Of course not," he said, knowing that it was a lie. "You're shivering."

She lifted the bottle, giving it a gentle shake and frowning. "It's almost empty," she murmured. "We have to at least finish it."

She was freezing. It was easy enough to see. Even her teeth chattered as the wind swept across them, and so he took the bottle from her hands and tipped his own head back, taking a deep drink before he held it back between them. "I think this may be it," he murmured.

There was a certain ease as she finished the bottle off, and it took him longer to coax her into standing than it did for her to drink it.

While the walk there had been filled with curiosity, the walk back was filled with a somehow easy quiet. There was a slight stumble in her step and he was careful to tuck her against his side so that he could wrap a thoughtful arm around her thin waist, disguising his attempt to keep her from falling as a simple show of affection.

He wasn't sure what exactly had happened between that night in the hotel room a week before and then, but something had certainly changed. Something about her was just a bit easier, just a bit more open, and while he would very much like to know what caused it, his curiosity wasn't quite enough to allow himself to spoil it with questions.

Sometimes, when good things did happen to come to him, he found that it was best not to ask. It was the simplest way to spoil things.

It wasn't until they made it back to that little alleyway that he had grown intimately familiar with that she even seemed to notice his hand against her waist, pulling gently at his fingers to free herself, and when she made her way to the door and disappeared inside, he found himself following without much thought.

It was dark when the door closed behind them with an unpleasant thud. He could hardly make out the shape of his own hand in front of his face but it didn't seem to phase Christine in the slightest. She gave a drunken laugh and he could hear the slide of her shoes against the pavement, moving just a bit too quickly for how intoxicated she was.

He wanted to follow her so that he could catch her when she inevitably stumbled, but he wasn't actually sure where exactly she was.

"Lights!" she called, and before he could even question her shout there was a loud buzzing and a flood of fluorescent light.

He blinked uncomfortably. "Too bright," he complained.

"Yeah," she sighed, leaning against the rough cement wall beside the switches. "Gotta read the labels, I guess. C'mon."

"Come where?"

Her smile was the easiest he had ever seen. She looked remarkably normal in that moment, her cheeks flushed from drink and cold, her street clothes. Her hair was beginning to frizz, messy and windswept. She looked nothing like the girl he had first seen on the stage and he was absolutely intrigued by it.

"With me, silly," she mumbled, holding one hand out like she was reaching for him.

He glanced toward the door they had come through, and then he took slow steps toward her, knowing full well that even if they were guaranteed to get caught wandering through the building he couldn't actually manage to tear himself away from her.

Her hand was soft, warm, and he wasn't sure if he would actually be able to let go of it again.

She led him down the hallway he had first made his way in through, around that same corner, through the door and into the dark room, long empty, chairs left upside-down on the tabletops.

"Do you actually play piano?" she asked, turning and pressing herself to him, resting her chin against his chest as she gazed up at him.

"Not in a long while," he answered honestly. "I never actually learned to."

"You have to play piano if you're going to write me a song," she said, staring up at him intensely. "Will you try?"

He swallowed and slowly, he nodded. He wasn't sure how he was ever supposed to say no when she was looking at him the way she was, when she was so close to him.

With a grin, she pressed a quick kiss to his lips, and he knew that he never would be able to tell her no.

Just like that, she slid away from him, making her way onto the little stage with practised ease, turning to watch him from near the black grand piano tucked near the wall. "Well?" she asked.

With a sigh, he made his way to her. "What do you want me to play?"

Her frown returned. "Anything," she answered noncommittally. "I just want to hear you play."

And so he made his way to the piano, sitting at the little bench and staring at the white and black keys. "I'm entirely self-taught," he confessed, knowing that it was nervousness that made him say it.

"I don't mind."

With slight hesitation he let one finger brush against the white keys, pressing gently on one and using the note to help him position his hands. It wasn't a lie; it had been quite a while. He couldn't honestly remember the last time that he had the opportunity to sit at a piano.

He glanced toward her, her curious eyes and frizzy hair, and she leaned against the piano as he looked at her.

Something slow and soft.

With that thought, he began to play.

Twenty minutes later, it would all be gone. If she asked him to play it again, he wouldn't be able to. He hardly knew what his hands were doing in the moment. He only knew that the notes sounded pleasant enough and that if his pinky moved up two keys and his thumb touched the small black one, it would make an enjoyable sound. He wouldn't have been able to name the notes, or the time signature, or even the key but if she would have happened to record it, he could have recreated it with relative ease.

Her hands against his shoulders jolted him out of it and the sound the instrument made when his hands pressed against the keys to steady himself was entirely unpleasant.

"Erik?" she whispered, her breath ghosting against his ear.

"What?"

She pressed a soft kiss just behind his ear, her hands sliding purposefully down his biceps. "No one has ever fucked me on the piano before," she murmured.

He closed his eyes, drawing in a sharp breath. "Christine -"

"You play beautifully," she mumbled. "I think you can write that song you were talking about, but I want something else right now."

When she pulled at his arm, he let her move it, making room for herself to slide into his lap. Her kiss was warm, soft, and crazy as it was, he couldn't help but think there was something there.

There had to be. It was the only thing that made any of it make sense at all.

"I think I like you more this way," he confessed, his voice low. He wasn't sure why he said it. Maybe drunkenness, maybe her closeness, her warmth, maybe because he seemed to have a self-sabotaging instinct, but he said it anyway, brushing one thumb against her warm cheek. "Without the makeup and the dresses and all that… you're very pretty, without all that. With it too, but -"

Her kiss was insistent and she huffed a laugh against his mouth. "Shut up," she breathed.

"I'm not good at this," he confessed in just the same tone, watching her eyes as well as he could. "I don't know what you want."

"Yes you do," she insisted, finding his hand and drawing it between them, pushing it down between her legs. "It's easy."

He wanted to tell her that wasn't what he meant, that he was speaking in much broader terms, but somehow he knew it wasn't the right thing to say, and certainly not the right moment for it, so instead he toyed with the button on her jeans until he managed to undo it.

The sound that she made when his hand slipped into her underwear almost made him forget about it entirely. He pressed gently, slipping past the coarse curls that tickled his fingers and finally, his finger found her silkiness and her breath caught.

He watched her eyes, her face, the way that she bit at the inside of her lip as he rubbed gentle, slow circles and somehow, despite everything, it felt more intimate than anything they had ever shared before.

"You don't do this, do you?" he murmured, watching the way her cheeks flushed. "Let someone actually pleasure you."

She didn't say anything at all, just let her eyes slip down to his chest as she gave a breathless kind of moan, and it was the only answer he really needed.

It felt more intimate because it simply was. She was giving him something unique, something private, she was letting him glance past the strange bravado she insisted on wearing, letting him get the slightest glimpse of something real in her.

Suddenly, her hand was squeezing his wrist, almost painfully tight. She made a breathless sound and he paused his movement allowing her stillness, quiet, intrigued by the way she was attempting to catch her breath.

The kiss that she gave him was decidedly unique. It was soft and warm, open, almost sloppy, and he loved it all the more for it.

When she slipped away from him, he let her go and made no movements himself. He watched her as she stood, as she slid her jeans off, her thong, as she reached for him, for his belt and his own jeans.

She wasn't afraid of him. That wasn't why he didn't move. He knew well enough that she wasn't afraid of him; she was afraid of whatever it was that happened in her head when she looked at him for too long, when he said nice things, when she gave him a piece of herself. It wasn't him that she was afraid of, but instead herself, whatever minefield it was that was tucked away deep in her head.

She needed to be in control, and he was more than willing to allow her that.

So he sat quietly, shifting for her as she pulled at his jeans, and when she grew quiet, staring at him in her hand, he sighed. "I only want whatever you do," he said softly. At her silence, he frowned slightly. "Even if that's nothing, Christine. I'm okay with that, too."

Her eyes snapped to his as her hand pumped once, twice. "I want you," she admitted quietly.

"But you don't actually want me to bend you over the piano," he chanced, watching her and her suddenly shy eyes.

"No," she whispered, her voice small.

"Do you need to be on top?" he asked gently. "I don't mind - I want you to take what you need from me. That's all that matters."

With his suggesting she was shifting, climbing back into his lap the way she had been moments before. "M'gonna fall," she mumbled.

His hands found their place, wrapping around the small of her back. "I won't let you fall," he answered simply.

That seemed to be the only assurance she needed, and he couldn't help his groan as she sank onto him, using her hand to guide him. Once, twice she rolled her hips against him, making a breathless sound as she tilted her chin up and took a kiss for herself.

It was different. She was warmer, softer, she didn't avoid his eyes, his hands, his slow kiss. For perhaps the first time, when she looked at him, he had no doubt that she was actually there with him. There was no sudden tenseness, no pulling away as she rocked herself against him, her hands tangling tightly in his sleeves.

There were a few moments before she shifted, pulling at his hand and guiding it back down between them. He rubbed gently at that same spot and found himself rewarded with soft, breathless sounds from her golden throat, warm kisses, and it was truly in that moment that he realized she was right.

He was in love and she would, undoubtedly, break his heart in a million different ways.

It wasn't long before she was panting, her hands tightening their grip on him and he wasn't sure what exactly it was that tipped him over the edge; if it was her very real moan, the warmth of her quick breath against her chin, the tight flutter of her muscles around him but whatever it was, it did tip him very much over the edge and he was fairly sure that her name managed to escape his lips as his hand on her waist held her in place.

Exhausted, boneless, she collapsed into him and he held her tightly, pressing a long kiss to the top of her head as he attempted to catch his breath, comforting himself with the fact that she wasn't immediately pulling away from him for the first time.

Slowly, she lifted her head from his shoulder, gazing up at him. "Where will you stay tonight?" she asked again, breathlessly.

With one finger he brushed her frizzy curls out of her face, tucking them behind her ear. "I have a castle," he murmured. "Did you forget?"

Finally she began to pull away from him, silent as she reached for her thong and jeans on the floor of the stage, and he watched her carefully as she redressed herself, obviously deep in her own thoughts. "You'll need a piano to write a song," she murmured thoughtfully. "Won't you?"

He frowned slightly, moving to fix his own clothing. "I suppose it would be some help," he answered, watching her back as she brushed two fingers along the smooth finish on the instrument.

"Whoops," she whispered as she turned back toward him, looking straight into his eyes.

"Whoops?" he asked.

Her knuckles brushed against his hand and he opened his palm for her, staring at their hands when he felt the press of warm metal against his palm.

"I'm very forgetful," she said quietly. "I must've lost my key again."

Erik swallowed, looking at their still-entwined hands. "I wouldn't want to get you into trouble," he said eventually.

"You won't," she answered easily. "There's no alarm and you'll stay away from the windows… besides, I lost my key, remember?"

"I don't need pity handouts," he murmured.

"Who said I feel bad for you?" she snapped. When he looked up at her, her smile was weak. "I don't feel bad for you. I want you to write me a song. And maybe…"

"Maybe what?" he asked, watching her closely.

"Maybe I want to know that I can find you," she answered, her cheeks flushing red. "Just for a few weeks, until you figure something out. It'll help, won't it? You can actually take some time to figure something else out."

He wrapped his thumb over the back of her hand, pressing gently. "It'll help," he agreed.

When she slipped her hand out of his, she left the key behind. There was a long moment of hesitation before she took a step backwards. "It's late," she said softly. "I have to get my things. Go home."

He toyed with the key between his fingers. "You're drunk," he pointed out slowly. "I can walk you."

"You're drunk, too," she laughed. "I'm fine. I promise. I'll take a cab."

He ran the pad of his finger over the pitted edge of the key thoughtfully. "Thank you," he forced himself to say.

Her smile was halfway shy and she took a few steps forward, giving him a warm kiss, running her nails gently against the back of his scalp. "People start showing up around seven, Fridays," she murmured. "Everyone's gone by two thirty. All weekend."

He gave half a nod and she was slipping away from him again, biting the inside of her lip.

"No one really comes by during the week," she said, a blush spreading slowly across her cheeks. "But I might… if you'll be around."

"I'll be around, Christine."