You guys! Your reviews have been so sweet and thoughtful! I love reading each one! Seriously, you made my week and pushed me to finish this chapter. So here it is, SO FAST. I appreciate you all. Enjoy!

Erik

After a second week of isolation, Nadir coaxes me out of my apartment with the promise of a full meal from my favorite café. I've reached the limits of my will power. Once Lena lays out a spread of fattoush, kibbeh, hummus, and shawarma, the world doesn't feel so bleak.

Apparently I look like I've perked up after I start eating, because Nadir finally attempts a full conversation. "Erik, you've been radio silent for two weeks. Are you… okay? You look like shit. Do you need to take a break or do we need to get you on another project?" He drinks some of his tea, genuine concern in his light eyes.

I grab another pita. "That's not it, Nadir. It's… Christine."

He sets down his mug. "What's happened?"

Somehow he manages to pull it all out of me. All of my fears, anxieties, insecurities. Nadir's a good listener. But he's also a good problem solver.

"Erik, this is what life is made of. You haven't experienced something like this before, and it's time. She might be the one, or she might not. But you need to stop trying to protect her from your perceived future. We don't know what will happen. She especially has no idea what's going on and at the very least deserves an explanation. You can't just disappear and pretend nothing happened between the two of you. It sounds like you really like her, and honestly, I think she likes you too. I saw the way she looked at you."

I think my heart literally skips a beat.

Nadir continues, "Erik, you need to be honest about it all with her and see if she's willing to accept you and everything that comes along. And if not, then fuck her. But at least you'll know and you can put yourself out of this misery."

I nod. He's right, but I won't give him the satisfaction of saying it out loud.

"Oh, and Erik?"

I look Nadir in the eye.

"Take a shower before you talk to her." He smiles impishly.

I roll my eyes and chuckle, "Fuck off."

A late summer storm is building, my joints can feel it. My body is a 33-year-old barometer. Although, anyone else would be able to predict the weather just as confidently because it's unbelievably humid again. Sweat trickles down my back on my walk home from the café. I can smell the garlic seeping from my pores. Nadir wasn't wrong about the shower either. But I don't mind. I'm breathing fresh air, my joints ache, my blood is pumping. I feel alive. I'm terrified of the impending conversation with Christine, but I'm relieved to finally be feeling something other than self-inflicted melancholy.

I don't even wear my noise-canceling headphones on the short walk home. I want to hear everything, notice everything. I feel energized by the food and Nadir's pep talk, and I want to continue building up the courage to approach Christine tonight. To be honest, vulnerable.

When I return to the building, the lobby's air conditioning relieves me of the humidity. I return upstairs, lost in my thoughts. I reach the sixth floor landing and grasp for my keys when the hair on my arms raises. I briefly wonder if lightning just struck close by, but then I see her. Christine. She's descending the stairs. Right now.

My heart aches at the sight of her. I've missed her. She's wearing light wash jeans and a floral top. Her cheeks are flushed from the heat. Her hair looks soft despite the humidity, her curls bounce with each step. She looks up at me and I think I stop breathing.

I could look into her eyes forever. They are a deep, rich brown, like coffee with the tiniest splash of cream. I drink them in gluttonously. I've missed those round, expressive eyes.

A wide range of emotions passes through her face before cool indifference takes over. But something else lingers beyond the surface… I'm just not sure what exactly it is.

"Christine," I breathe.

"Hi," she replies, pausing briefly on the landing with me. She's carries a stack of binders with a full tote bag slung over her shoulder.

I catch a whiff of her perfume and I'm transported back to our date two weeks ago. Our kiss. I want to kiss her again, but then I remember how repulsive I must look and smell. I stand there frozen, unsure of what to do. Say something.

Christine seems to tire of waiting for me to form a coherent sentence, so she moves toward the stairs to continue her descent. Say something!

"Wait! Do you want to come inside and talk?" I gesture toward my apartment door.

She turns back around, looking distracted and slightly annoyed. Expressions I've never really seen on her before. "Actually, I can't. It's 'meet your teacher night' at school and I'm already late."

"Oh, that's exciting. Maybe later—"

"I don't think so, Erik." Christine pulls the tote bag higher up on her shoulder and carries on down the stairs.

"Wait, what?" I follow her. She quickens her pace, but I easily keep up.

"I don't know what you want from me. I'm not someone who will just come when you call. You're giving me whiplash." She doesn't look up at me. If she would just listen…

"I didn't mean— I didn't want—"

"I can understand if you just want to be friends, but then you need to act like one." Her voice is resolute, harsh.

"Wait, Christine, wait!"

I gently grab her arm on the fifth floor landing, but not gently enough. Her binders spill everywhere. She lets out a frustrated sigh and we both drop to our knees to pick them up.

"I'm sorry. For everything," I say softly, handing her a binder.

Her voice may have been resolute, but she finally looks up at me with uncertain eyes. Glistening. I didn't mean to hurt her. This is the last thing I wanted. We stand up and I brush the pads of my fingers against her cheek.

She pauses, like she's considering leaning into my hand. But then she cuts through me one last time: "I know we had fun with our music, but I misunderstood what it was. I misunderstood what you were."

"Christine, let me explain—"

"I'm going to be late," she says, pulling away from my touch.

She continues down the stairs alone.

What have I done?

The late summer storm unleashes.

I return to my apartment and take a scorching shower, trying to scrub the garlic and guilt away.

I don't know how this could have gone worse. I've made such a mess of things. I don't deserve a single thing from Christine, but I wish I could have just explained it all to her. So she could at least understand why I did what I did. Regardless of what she thinks of me, she deserves to know the truth. That she did nothing wrong.

I get dressed and replace my mask. Then I return to the living room and decide to clean up the disaster I left behind after my depressive episode. Dishes, liquor bottles, papers. Crumbs, tissues, clothes. I sort through the music I wrote during my manic state again, editing with fresh eyes. I wipe down tables, counters, surfaces. I wash the dishes. I sweep and mop and dust. I take the trash out to the garbage chute. All the while, the storm rages on outside. It feels poetic.

With my apartment returned to its usual spotless state, my brain feels clear enough to work again. What else can I do? Might as well immerse myself into my work and try to move on. She clearly doesn't want to see me again, let alone talk. I should try to forget. Leave her alone so I don't inflict more damage. I sit down at the baby grand, my stalwart friend. You've been waiting so patiently for me. I set one of the handwritten staffs on the stand and play a few of the melodies and chords. I miss her almost as much as I missed Christine. No. Try to forget. I adjust the rhythm and make a note on the sheet. A chorus of strings builds in layers in my mind. Sweeping, cinematic.

I'm about to try putting it all together when there is a stern knock at the door. I sigh. I spoiled my neighbors with my silence for two weeks, and the moment I play three chords the complaints roll back in. I stick the pencil behind my ear and go answer the door. I open it just a crack and feel my heart drop.

"Christine."

I swing the door completely open. She's drenched head to toe from the storm, hair soaking, clothes clinging to her every curve… I snap myself out of the last thought.

"Do… do you need a towel?" I ask, since she has yet to speak. She doesn't look angry or indifferent like she did just a few hours ago, just troubled.

"Yes," Christine replies and steps inside.

I fetch her one from the bathroom, and when I return she's still just standing in front of the door. Eyes distant in thought. I hand her the towel. "Are you all right?"

She looks up at me. "I couldn't stop thinking about… you. About the stairwell and what we said. What I said." Christine dabs at her face, hair, and clothes. "I always try to be honest, especially when I'm upset. But I feel like I wasn't earlier, and I want to hear you out too."

I nod quickly. "Okay." She pulls the towel over her shoulders as I guide her to the couch. "Gin?" I ask.

"Please." She takes a seat and brings the towel to her nose.

I make two gin and tonics at the liquor cart. I can feel her eyes on me as I slice up a cucumber. I would normally feel awkward in the silence, but the rain continues to patter against the windows.

"I got laryngitis in college."

I glance up from the cocktails in confusion. Christine is looking out the window, deep in her memories.

"My voice teacher put me on vocal rest right before a big audition. I couldn't sing or run lines for weeks, but it felt like an eternity."

I hand her a glass and join her on the couch.

"I didn't know who I was without my voice. I felt… lost. Useless. It really got me thinking about the trajectory of my life and what in the world I would do if I couldn't sing. I had to rediscover myself and find my value beyond my gifts and talents. I had to learn the hard way that I'm more than my voice."

She takes a drink and shifts her gaze to me. "I haven't thought about that lesson in a long time. But when you didn't talk to me for two weeks, I was afraid that… you liked my voice, but when it was just me, it wasn't enough."

My heart shatters for her. "How could you think that?" I want to wrap her in my arms and worship her.

Her eyes glisten again. "What am I supposed to think? How can I know what you're thinking—what you want—when you ghost me?"

I have no choice but to be honest. "Christine, I enjoy spending time with you. I adore your voice and our music and what you inspire in me… I like our conversations and the stories you tell. Your heart is evident in everything you do. You beguile me, you fascinate me. Each layer you reveal, I want to know more of you. And that's… you. More than a striking voice or beautiful face. You make me feel at home."

I desperately want to kiss her flushed cheeks. To wipe her single tear away. But I'm not finished.

"Which is why I ghosted. That night, I realized how close I had let you in and it scared me. My feelings for you terrified me. I was afraid to let you into my world—I couldn't allow my selfishness to hurt you in the end."

"Why?"

"I have an expiration date, I'm a ticking time bomb."

Her brows pull together, "Erik, what does that even mean?"

I stand up and run a hand through my hair. "I was born with a genetic condition. My father had it, his uncle had it, my great-so-and-so had it, and so on. I don't know why they all felt compelled to procreate, but here we are."

I start slowly pacing the length of my tiny living room so I don't have to look her in the eye.

"It manifests itself in various ways, but most consistently it is height and thinness, weak bones and achy joints, predisposition to illness, and shorter life expectancy. More inconsistently: seizures, internal organ damage, and facial deformity. I was blessed with the latter." I glance at her. She's holding the drink in her lap and her face is unreadable.

So I continue, "My mother forced me to undergo several elective facial reconstructive surgeries and skin grafts when I was young. We traveled all over the country, seeing specialist after specialist who advised against it. Until she found one plastic surgeon who would attempt it multiple times… he wasn't successful." I pause for effect. I want to prepare her—and perhaps more myself—for the worst. I gesture to my face, "It's… strange. Abnormal scarring, unnatural skin patterns. I wear a mask so I don't make others uncomfortable. The mask has its own brand of curiosity, but I'd much rather have questioning looks than disgusted ones."

I don't know what else to say, so I stop pacing and take a long drink. Christine considers me thoughtfully. Usually she looks into my eyes, but I can see her freely taking in the mask now.

"You say you wear the mask to make others comfortable, but does it make you more comfortable?"

What a question. Physically, it can be uncomfortable at times—especially in this blasted humidity. The surgeries affected many of the nerve endings in my face, so the sensations are inconsistent. I used to get sores because I couldn't feel the mask rubbing my cheekbone raw. I'm more careful and diligent now. I don't dare say any of this out loud, though. It's repulsive.

"Yes." I sit back down next to Christine on the couch.

She looks me directly in the eye now. "How?"

She's so small and yet I feel so frightened of her at this moment. I've only ever told Nadir my story. I've pulled my wound wide open for her to see and now she's pushing in even deeper. She's staring into my soul. I take a breath. "It's… security. A protective barrier, I suppose." A barrier that you are passing through like a ghost, a phantom. How are you real? She leans in closer and I feel like my heart will rip through my sternum.

Christine

Everything Erik has just told me is scary and uncomfortable and uncertain. And he really just glossed over the "shorter life expectancy" part, didn't he? But for some reason, my resolution keeps growing stronger. It's work to be with someone like Erik, but it's work worth doing. I want to do it. I feel it in my gut, this is where I'm supposed to be. With him.

I came here tonight for answers and clarity and he's given me so much more. He assured me, so now it's my turn to assure him.

"I know what you're doing, but you won't scare me off," I say gently. He clenches his jaw. "I don't care about scar tissue or an expiration date. One step at a time. We will deal with those as they come."

He shakes his head, "You don't underst—"

I take his hand. "I'm serious." I can feel him getting nervous. "You don't have to show me your face until you're ready. I don't fully understand your condition, but I don't have to right away. Erik, I'm here. I want to be with you."

"What would your boyfriend say?" What? Oh, he means Raoul. He's deflecting, running out of excuses not to let me in.

Raoul is handsome and thoughtful, but he can't differentiate between his own desires and the expectations of his family. He made that abundantly clear. His career and future, me or his ex-fiancée. Who knows what else he was uncertain about?

"Raoul is not my boyfriend, Erik. He… doesn't know what he wants. I know what I want. Do you?" I glance up at him from under my lashes to see if he finally gets that I'm here to stay. Lightning flashes and the last of his defenses fall. I think he does.

Erik's long, cool fingers ghost along my cheek, barely touching my heated skin. It's electric. Or maybe it's the storm. No, it's real. It's as real as the warmth spreading from his touch. It's as real as the thunder that shakes these paper thin walls. He's leaning toward me, so I reach up and very carefully press my palm to the cheek of the mask while looking him in the eye. Acknowledging. Will he allow me to push this boundary? He looks startled for a moment. The mask is as cold as I expected it to be but not as rigid. It's more flexible than I thought. I move my fingers to his chin and graze the edge of his bottom lip.

"Kiss me," I whisper. He does.

I taste the gin lingering on his lips. He kisses me again and again until we melt into each other. His sharp edges seem to thaw when we touch. His fingers leave fire in their wake against my skin. I reach up to his hair, I've wanted to run my fingers through it for so long. My hand knocks the pencil tucked above his ear loose. His chuckle vibrates against my mouth. He smells so good, like clean linen and musk.

Electricity shimmers between us. I want to kiss his neck, his ears, his chest. Thunder cracks simultaneously with a flash of lightning and the power goes out. I open my eyes and Erik is looking directly back at me. His mask looks blue in the darkness. We both sit back, breathing heavily.

"Damn," he gasps.

"Me or the weather?"

Erik laughs unexpectedly, flashing his teeth. I love making him laugh.

We light what few candles he has lying around and refill our drinks. Then we spend the rest of the night talking, drinking, kissing. Like we used to before, but better. So much better.

Buzzing. Something is buzzing. My mouth is dry. I try to lick my lips and swallow. My lips are swollen. From kissing Erik.

My eyes open and see his apartment. I sit up slightly. I'm fully clothed lying under a blanket on Erik's couch. The blanket smells like him and I bury my face in it.

Buzz buzz. What is that? I look around his living room and finally find Erik. He's lying flat on his back on the floor in front of the couch with a single pillow under his head. I rest my chin in my hand and take him in. His hair is in disarray around the pillow; I remember how soft it was when I ran my fingers through it. His lips are parted as he breathes deeply in his sleep; they also look a little swollen. I blush. And his mask is still perfectly in place.

Buzz buzz. Oh, it's Erik's phone on the coffee table, ringing or alerting or alarming. Wait, what time is it?

"Erik, wake up," I say softly. He jerks awake and looks up at me with bleary eyes, like he's still dreaming. It's cute. I reach down and touch his hair. "Wake up, Erik," I whisper again.

He suddenly sits up and we're face to face. I get lost in his steel blue eyes.

"We fell asleep," I murmur.

"We did." His voice is hoarse and it's incredibly sexy. "Good morning."

"Good morning." He leans toward me and my stomach flips in anticipation.

Buzz buzz. He groans and pulls away to silence his phone.

I suddenly feel self conscious. Was staying over a mistake? All we did was talk and kiss, but maybe this was too much too fast… I clear my throat and stand up awkwardly, "I need to get ready for work." I head for the door and Erik scrambles to his feet to follow me.

"Wait." I turn around in front of the door. He towers over me. "I wanted to…"

He tucks a stray curl behind my ear and kisses me. All my questions and anxieties melt away as I melt back into him. It was all real. He is real. I breathe in his scent.

"See you later?" he asks, lips still close to mine.

"Yeah—yes," I kiss him again and open the door. "Okay. Bye."

"Goodbye, Christine."

Ah! Here we are! I love writing these two so much. Such depth of fears and insecurities but they just want love each other! I think I'll let them... for now ;) Please leave a review!

A quick note: Erik's condition is very loosely based on Marfan's Syndrome. There are some key symptoms and attributes that Erik shares with Marfan's, but overall this condition is fictional.