Christine woke the next morning already thinking about the events of the previous night. The ball, that awful dance with George Wright, the uncertainty between Erik and her, and then finally that kiss. Her breath caught as she thought about kissing him, about how bold and reckless and wonderful it had felt. She supposed that there was no denying now that she felt for him, and although the recognition still left her with a vague sense of unease, kissing him had been too much to argue with. And he must feel for her, too. She hadn't imagined the way he had held her, the eagerness with which he'd kissed her back, the shy smile on his lips when she'd left him. No, he must feel something.
She had no idea what any of this would mean for them—she could imagine that this was uncharted territory for them both, and it certainly wasn't something they had planned for. But here they were, and they would have to figure it out. The thought of what was to come made her stomach knot, but not entirely in a bad way. She pushed the thought from her mind, deciding that thinking too much about it would only paralyze her. There was nothing for her to do but go and see Erik now, to talk to him and try to gauge how he was feeling. She couldn't allow herself to think any further ahead than that.
Despite the fear that still threatened to grip her, she caught herself smiling as she dressed, lightly humming a cheerful little tune. There was a brightness to her face that she had not seen in a very long time. She dressed quickly, anticipation and anxiety rushing her actions, and her heart was racing by the time she made her way downstairs.
To her surprise, though, Erik was not in his study. The library was unoccupied as well, and the parlor had also been empty when she'd passed it. She supposed it was possible that he was still in his room, as it was fairly early in the morning, but it seemed unlikely—he'd risen well before her every day for the entirety of their time living together. She was lingering uncertainly in the parlor when Louise emerged, seeming surprised to find her already up.
"Mrs. Mason," she greeted. "Forgive me, I thought you would be in bed later after the party last night. Shall I have your breakfast prepared now?"
"No, Louise, that's fine," Christine replied distractedly. "Has Mr. Mason risen yet?"
"Yes, ma'am, he left the house a while ago. He asked me to tell you that he has been called away on business and does not know how late he will be kept away."
"I see." The world around her began to slow down again and she fought to keep her disappointment from her expression. "Did he say anything else? Or leave a note for me?"
"No, ma'am." Louise hesitated, and Christine gave her a small smile to assure her that any agitation she could see in her manner was not her fault.
"Thank you for letting me know, Louise."
The girl nodded and hurried off, leaving Christine to fully feel her heart sinking. Of course it was not unusual for Erik to be distracted by his work, and with opening night drawing ever closer, it wasn't unreasonable to think that he might be called away suddenly by some unexpected problem. But something about this left her with the distinct feeling that something was off, that he didn't wish to see her. Short of another fire, she struggled to think of anything that could require his attention so early in the morning, especially when the majority of the people in charge at the opera were likely still sleeping off the previous night.
But if he had left to avoid seeing her, what did that mean?
Christine tried to pass her morning as if it was any other, although the book she had been perusing the day before struggled to hold her attention for more than a minute or two. Her thoughts continually drifted back to Erik. Perhaps he had left because he was uncomfortable with her, even disgusted. Perhaps she had misread everything horribly and he didn't feel anything for her, hadn't wanted to kiss her. As certain as she had been about this earlier that morning, doubt now sat like a rock in her stomach. It now seemed all too possible that she had ruined any closeness that had been between them and made a terrible fool of herself in the process. If that was the case, what kind of life would they have now? Erik would have to return eventually and they would continue to live together, continue to keep up the ruse of marriage. But what had been slightly awkward at worst before would certainly be downright painful now. He would understandably want to keep some distance between them, knowing as he did now that she was drawn to him in a way that he did not reciprocate.
Before she could stop the train of thought, she was seeing their quiet mornings together, their comfortably shared meals, their companionable walks, all of it disappearing. He would not want to see her more than he had to, and she could not blame him for that. But the thought of losing the most cherished parts of the little life they had created together made her throat tighten. She tried to tell herself that it would be no worse than going back to where they had begun, that she would again get used to spending her days without him. Perhaps it would even be for the best—in no time at all rehearsals would be starting, and then she would make her debut on the Metropolitan Opera stage, just like she had always dreamed of doing. She ought to focus on preparing, and if this meant fewer distractions for her, than it was surely a good thing. Soon she would hardly have time to even think of Erik.
The thought sounded hollow, even as she repeated it.
The afternoon came and Erik still did not return home. There was no note from him, no explanation, nothing to ease her worry, and so her thoughts ran wild. She found herself pacing the parlor, imagining every possible situation, each worse than the last. Erik hated her. Erik would insist on living entirely separate lives, coming together only when absolutely necessary if at all. Erik would simply never come home. Part of her knew that these worries were outlandish, that it was only her anxious imagination getting the better of her, and she tried to cling to this calm, rational part. It felt like clinging to debris in a stormy sea, though; her grip was constantly slipping and the waves kept crashing down on her harder and harder. She wished that she had never come to feel anything for Erik. She had been right to be wary and should have trusted that impulse that warned her there would only be pain ahead. It was rash foolishness that had made her kiss him. She should have fought against it harder. She should never have dropped her guard so much. This torturous day that felt like it was stretching into weeks was the price she'd always known she would pay.
It was when the sky began to darken outside that she actually began to worry about him. What if something had happened to him? Suppose he had gone to the opera house to check the construction and had been injured—he only ever went when he knew there would be few to no people in the building. Or suppose someone on the street had harassed him and had injured him, or worse… This was a train of thought that she put an immediate end to—it was too much to even consider the possibility that something serious had happened. She could barely quell the rising guilt at the thought that she could have spent the entire day stewing in her own hurt while something far worse happened to Erik. No, she told herself, he would soon be home, and no matter what else happened, she would at least know that he was safe.
For a long while she sat in the parlor and waited, a book open on her lap that she did not even attempt to read. She could hear the clock on the mantle ticking away the seconds. Perhaps she was just worn after spending the entire day in uncertainty and agitation, but her nerves had finally started to fade away, replaced by a kind of resignation. She would be here to meet him when he came home, whenever that might be. Whatever happened next would at least be preferable to this not knowing.
Erik was hiding, and he knew it. There was no denying it, really—he had risen before the sun after a short and futile attempt at rest and had slipped silently out of the house at dawn. The only explanation he had given to a very confused Louise, who had been lighting the fire in the parlor when he had attempted to make his escape unnoticed, was that he had an urgent business matter to take care of. She asked what she should tell Christine if she asked about him, and a pang of guilt had hit him hard. The vision of her crossing the room toward him and the breathless embrace they had shared had not left his thoughts for a moment. He couldn't guess at what she was feeling, what she was thinking, but he was sure she would be confused to wake up and find him gone. But the thought of facing her, of having to find out what she was thinking, was a paralyzing kind of fear that he was far too cowardly to face. So he'd told Louise to tell her that he did not know when he would be back, and then he'd rushed for the door as if being pursued.
The quiet streets, just barely beginning to come to life, had at least eased his nerves a little, and the walk to the opera house had kept the nervous energy coursing through him at bay. But his mind would not settle, and he could only hope that focusing on the opera for a while would take his thoughts off Christine. He spent the morning scouring the auditorium for faults in the construction, for any minor detail that could require a fix or a change—something he could solve. Then when it was time for the workers to arrive, he turned to exploring the more secluded parts of the opera house, searching backstage for any lingering signs of damage from the fire, making sure that every detail of the reconstruction was exactly as he had specified, despite the fact that he had already looked through everything several times before.
Even as he tried to convince himself that he was here for legitimate reasons, he could not make the statement ring true. In fact, it was probably fortunate that the inspection he was attempting was not actually required, as his focus was constantly drifting. Last night, he was reluctant to admit even to himself, was not the first time he'd imagined kissing Christine. The thought had crossed his mind before, but he had always forced it to be fleeting, passing it off as nothing. But then last night, as they had sat in the relative stillness of the Harrisons' conservatory, he had almost been able to imagine that her insistence in the falseness of George Wright's claims about them might mean that she did care for him. It had given him a jolt of hope that had stunned him, not only in its intensity but in its very presence. He had, after all, worked quite hard to convince himself that he did not want Christine to care for him. But just for a moment the possibility had seemed real and it had been all that he wanted in the world, and her expression had been soft and expectant and he'd very nearly let the fantasy run away with him. He'd been unable to completely shake that feeling for the rest of the night, then, and when he'd looked up to find her standing in the doorway of his study, his heart had stopped.
It had been a mistake; he'd been a fool to allow himself such a slip. Things like this could only ever bring pain, and he had become so adept at sheltering himself from such pain. And there was so much at stake here. If his relationship with Christine turned sour or distant or ended altogether, he could lose his career, his livelihood, his… heart. And the only person who mattered to him. In the face of such a risk, who could blame him for requiring some time alone to clear his head and figure out what to do next?
Eventually he gave up the pretense of his inspection and made his way to his office. Fortunately for him, the room was now furnished enough that he could justify being in it, and he sat down heavily at the empty desk and let his head drop into his hands. This wasn't good. He wanted so badly for it to be good, for everything to be simple; he wanted to be an ordinary man falling in love under ordinary circumstances. Undoubtedly he would return home—he couldn't stay here forever—and Christine would say that it had all been a mistake, that she hadn't been thinking clearly, and things between them would become strained and uncertain. Or, a far worse possibility, it would be good for a little while, and then it would fall apart as good things were bound to when it came to him, and the loss was certain to destroy him. Either way, the result was the same: he would lose the closeness they had come to share, the pleasant warmth that her smile always sent rushing through him, the deep comfort that she could instill in him simply by placing a hand on his arm. He would lose her, and the thought was too terrible to bear.
After his mother had died, during those horrible years in the boys' home, he'd decided that he would never lose anyone again, and the simplest way to go about that, he'd known, was to just not have anyone to lose. It had seemed easy enough at the time. The pain of his mother's sudden death and the guilt of how difficult the last years had been was enough deterrent alone. But then there were the other boys. Those who were kind to each other were either frightened of him or frightened to be associated with him. And those who were not kind… he had learned quickly to fight viciously enough to fend them off. That didn't stop their abuse entirely, but it at least lessened it. It wasn't long before he'd started to consider a day where he was left alone a victory, and he'd understood that he needed to live the rest of his life in more or less the same manner.
And now, as if he hadn't learned this lesson all those years ago, here he was: vulnerable and longing and frightened.
He allowed the day to pass in a haze that he was hardly aware of as he vacillated between reverie and worry. There was nothing to do but return home and face Christine, he knew, and he would simply have to brace himself for whatever came next. Avoiding it would make no difference. Still, he couldn't find the will to drag himself from his office until after it had grown dark. His feet felt like lead as he made the walk home, feeling very much like a condemned man walking to the scaffold. Whatever happened when he reached the house, it would lead to pain. He could not rebury the feelings he had developed for Christine, not after last night. And so, sooner or later, he'd be left heartbroken and desolate, and there was no way around it.
His steps slowed as he approached the house, and he thought of Christine inside, thought of the way her soft, warm lips felt against his and of the warm giddiness that the embrace had sent coursing through him, and any small amount of courage or resolve that he may have come to deserted him. He continued walking past the house and instead wandered aimlessly through the streets, not paying any particular attention to where he was. He walked until his legs grew tired and his feet ached, and then he continued walking until the sensations dulled to a vague discomfort. When he finally circled back to the house, too weary to do anything else but still buzzing with nervous energy, a glance at his watch informed him that it was nearing midnight. He sighed with relief at the realization that Christine would likely have gone to bed, and the conversation he'd been fearing would at least be delayed until morning. Slipping inside quietly, he found the house silent and dark, with only the flickering light from the fire in the parlor lighting the hall.
He'd only taken a few steps further inside when he stopped, catching sight of a figure out of the corner of his eye. Christine was half-reclined on the sofa, her legs pulled up beneath her and her head resting on her arm, her face relaxed in sleep. She was still fully dressed, and there was a pang of guilt in Erik's chest at the knowledge that she must have been waiting for him. The cowardly part of him wanted to continue upstairs, to let her sleep undisturbed. But he couldn't just leave her here.
"Christine," he said softly, not daring to reach out and touch her.
She stirred, scrunching her eyes before blinking drowsily. "Erik?" She sat up with a jolt, suddenly more awake. "Erik, are you all right? It's so late and you've been gone all day."
"Yes," Erik replied gently, guilt settling heavily in his stomach at her concerned expression. "Yes, I'm fine. I'm sorry to have worried you."
His assurance only deepened the crease in her brow, and she looked away. "So you stayed away because of me," she said softly
He opened his mouth to respond, but no words came. She pressed on.
"Because of last night? Is that why you disappeared today?" Her voice held no anger—only anxiety and, he could almost imagine, a tinge of hurt. His chest constricted, and still he could not find the right words to assure her that she was not at fault for any of this, that it was all him, that this was exactly why she would do well to keep him at a distance. She met his eyes again, her gaze seeming to plead with him.
"Perhaps we should talk in the morning," he said, straightening as if to make for the stairs. "It's late."
"No," Christine said, the resolution in her voice stopping him. "No, I think we should talk now. We've always been honest with each other, haven't we? Let's be honest now."
After a second of hesitation, Erik sat down beside her. He had no idea what he would say to her, but she was right—they had always talked candidly, and he supposed he owed at least an attempt at candor to her now, despite the fact that every instinct was urging him to flee. "Very well."
She nodded. "I'll begin. I… I feel close to you, Erik. Last night I wanted to kiss you, and I convinced myself that you wanted it too, so I acted. But I was wrong, and I'm sorry. I did not wish to make you uncomfortable, and I have been worrying all day about… about what this would mean for us, whether this would change things."
Erik drew in a shaky breath, his heart hammering at the admission. "You were not wrong," he heard himself saying softly.
Christine looked up at him, surprised and, he almost didn't dare to even think, hopeful. "No?"
He shook his head, struggling for the right words, fighting back the impulse to keep all of this buried. As dangerous as it was, didn't she deserve the truth from him? "I… I wanted that as well."
She gave an uncertain nod. "And now?"
"Now there isn't a thing that I want more in the world. And that… frightens me."
There was silence for a moment as the confession settled, and then Christine's voice came softly. "It frightens me too. What I feel for you."
The words struck him with force, and it was a second before he could recover himself enough to speak again. The fact that she felt anything for him was more than enough, but that she felt it forcefully enough to be frightened by it certainly spoke to the extent of that feeling. The knowledge sent a surge of disbelieving delight through him, but it was quickly overpowered by anxiety.
"Christine, you must understand that I—" he sighed. "I'm broken, I suppose. I am not the sort of person who can have close relationships with others. Perhaps I was at one point a long time ago, or perhaps I once had the potential to be, but any possibility of that is long gone now. So allowing these feelings to… to grow, or acting on them, would only lead to pain for both of us."
"Do you think that I am not also broken?" she replied, her voice soft but steady. "I have lost everyone I have ever loved—I certainly understand the risks of caring for someone. And while I… I cannot say that I intended to feel this way now, I…" she paused, taking a breath before meeting his eyes. "I do not wish to deny it. Not if you feel the same."
Erik's pulse was quickening with each word, the sound of it pounding in his ears. She could not possibly mean that she wanted to act on her feelings, that she wanted any of this to progress. But her expression was earnest, her eyes wide and warm and vulnerable, and he had to suppress the urge to pull her to him, to promise that he would keep her from ever being hurt again. That was not a promise he could make, especially if he was to be any closer to her than he was now. He was ruinous; he did not know how to love or be loved, and he could not imagine that he had much of a capacity for either. Except he did love her. It was a word that he had desperately suppressed until now, but that was what this was. He loved her so much that it made him physically ache. Still, that did not change the damage that had been done over his lifetime. He was not the steady, safe person who would make it easy for her to care for him. He would only ever hurt her, and he couldn't allow her to think otherwise, as much as he might want her to.
"I wish—" his voice broke, and he sighed. "I wish that were possible, Christine. God, do I wish it were possible. But I would hurt you, don't you understand? It's all I know how to do. I have spent nearly my entire life working to keep others away, and I have become quite skilled at it. I would hurt you because avoiding pain myself is all I can do. And I cannot allow that to happen."
"And do I have no say?" she replied. "Am I incapable of deciding for myself what I want, what's worth the risk?"
"You don't know me like you may think you do," he told her. "The man that you have come to know hardly scratches the surface of what has happened to me and what I have done in my life, the things that are wrong with me."
"Then let me know." Christine's voice rose only slightly, but the crack in her steadiness took Erik by surprise. "Let me understand you. Give me a chance to care for you anyway."
"I would not even know where to begin."
She was silent for a moment, seeming to consider something. When she spoke, her words were barely more than a whisper. "You could show me your face."
Erik was shaking his head before she had even finished speaking, panic stirring in his stomach. It felt as if he was beginning to forget how to breathe. Christine appeared to sense his discomfort and shifted closer to him, gently laying a hand over his.
"Erik." Her voice was soft but held an insistence that was strong enough to pull him from the fog of terror that had started to settle over him. "I know that it is a lot to ask of you, and I do not wish to do anything that pains you. It is your choice to make. But I thought that… I thought that perhaps it might be a way to prove to you that I can care for you even if things are not perfect. I want to know you. I want to know your struggles and be here to comfort you, just as you have comforted and supported me."
He dropped his eyes to where their hands rested between them, his throat suddenly constricted. He wanted to tell her that she already did those things, that she comforted him simply by being beside him, that whatever it was that kept him wary and on-edge settled when she was near. But she continued before he could form the words.
"It wouldn't need to be tonight, or tomorrow, or the next day. But if you could show me—" she held his gaze, her own gentle and warm, inviting him to imagine what she left unspoken. If she could see his face and still care for him, still want to be here with him… he almost couldn't even imagine what that would mean. Surely it would mean that she cared for him a great deal.
His shoulders tensed and his jaw clenched as his mind warred with itself. It was entirely beyond his comprehension, but some persistent, terribly stupid part of him wanted to show her; he wanted to give her a chance. If any human being deserved a chance, surely it was Christine. She'd shown him nothing but gentleness and earnestness for as long as he had known her. She had eased his worries and brought him comfort and, dare he say, happiness. There had never been anyone else of whom he could speak so highly, so perhaps she would not be like the others who ridiculed him or looked away in horror. But on the other hand, if her presence in his life was so precious, shouldn't he do everything in his power to ensure that it continued? Allowing her to see his face was horribly risky at best. Even someone as kind and compassionate as Christine had to have a limit. She would likely try to conceal her reaction, sure. Perhaps she would even go on living with him for a little while, doing her best not to let him see her disgust. The tension would still be there, though, and soon it would be too great for her to bear, and then she would be gone. And there would be disgust, he was certain. Despite her best intentions, she wouldn't be able to help it. Even he often felt a surge of disgust at the sight of his reflection, his deathly appearance like some horrible apparition appearing in the mirror. Even he avoided looking at his face as much as possible.
But Christine was looking up at him so tenderly, her silent entreaty making his heart stutter. Somehow, despite the cold rush of fear and the prickling of his nerves as every instinct warned him against it, he wanted to give her a chance. Giving her a slight nod, he began to bring his hands up to his face but quickly dropped them back into his lap, losing his nerve. She understood his intent, though, if the way her expression sobered was anything to judge by, and she gave him a slight nod in reassurance.
He considered asking for one more kiss first—a goodbye kiss, as she would undoubtedly never look at him the same way once she saw his face. But it would be dishonest of him to ask for such a thing now when he knew she would be so repulsed by him in a moment. He would have to be content with the memory of what had passed between them last night. He only wished that his mind had not been so clouded with shock and frantic desire, that the memory of those fleeting moments was sharper. Of course he had known as soon as she had left him alone and his mind had started to clear that he would never again feel the press of her soft lips; the impossibility of it had been obvious. Now, though, the pain of that knowledge was sharp as he faced the prospect of also losing her gentle affection, her soft smiles, even her presence. The thought was almost enough to make him change his mind. But no. He needed to do this. He wanted to do this, as insane as it was. That tiny part of him, that small voice in the very back of his mind that insisted on being stupidly hopeful, kept insisting that everything just might be okay, and the lure of that was impossible to bury entirely.
Closing his eyes, he brought trembling hands up to his face, and then he lifted away the mask.
For a moment all he could hear was the blood rushing in his ears. Then the realization of what he had just done, what he could not undo, hit him with force and he couldn't breathe. Cold dread settled over him as he waited for her to cry out or faint or run away. But there was no movement from beside him, not even a sharp inhale. After what could have been seconds or hours for all he knew, not knowing how she was reacting was beginning to seem worse than knowing. He was just contemplating opening his eyes, undoubtedly to be met with a look of mute horror on her face, when he felt her stir beside him. There was a light swish of silk as she shifted, and he froze, not even daring to take a breath.
A moment later, there was the feeling of fingertips running over his hollow cheek, and he flinched away instinctively before realizing that the touch had been gentle. Not quite able to process what this meant, he leaned forward, seeking the contact again. It came after a second, first the fingertips brushing his cheek, and then a slightly firmer touch running across his forehead and down his jaw, and finally a warm, soft palm cradling the side of his face. He grasped, then, that it was Christine—that Christine was touching him—and his eyes flew open with a startled jolt. She was kneeling on the sofa so that her face was level with his, and he found that he could not look away from her eyes. They were gentle and compassionate and brimming with tears, and he could feel something inside of him coming loose.
Suddenly his breath was coming in wracking gasps and his shoulders were shaking violently and he was slumping forward as though every ounce of strength in him had been sapped in that second. Christine caught him and pulled him close, letting him press his horrible face into her shoulder as he wept, her arms wrapped securely around his boney frame. His arms were around her, too, although he couldn't remember doing it, and he clung to her as if his life depended on it. His thoughts drifted to those nights in Newport, which now seemed like a lifetime ago—nights when she had slept beside him and he had wanted very much to curl up against her, to bury his face in her hair and be engulfed in her warmth. And now here he was, having practically pulled her onto his lap, crying shamefully for reasons that were so numerous that they blurred together indistinguishably.
But she was here. She was warm and soft and the faint smell of roses clung to her, and she was perfect, and how could he let these precious moments of closeness pass in a haze of feverish tears? The thought seemed to give him a foothold on regaining his composure, and after a minute the tears had subsided, his breathing had started to slow, and he was left trembling weakly in her arms. It was only then that he noticed the way her breaths caught, and he pulled away just enough to see her face; she was crying too, her cheeks flushed and streaked with tears. Before he could stop himself, he reached up to wipe the tracks away, and she covered his hands with hers, holding them in place.
"Christine, I—" Erik's voice came out hoarsely and he realized that he had no idea what he wanted to say. He wanted to thank her for holding him, to apologize to her for causing her pain, to tell her that if she wanted to leave he would understand, to beg her to stay. She took a shuddering breath and spoke before he could.
"I'm sorry," she said softly, "for everything that's happened to you. For the pain you've endured. You're a good man, and you have not deserved any of it. Your face doesn't change that. And it doesn't change how I feel about you."
His breath caught and tears pricked at his eyes again, and he swallowed hard, hoping that his voice would not be too unsteady. "Are you certain?"
"I am."
Christine held his gaze unwaveringly before reaching out to take his face in both hands. His hands tremblingly slipped from her cheeks until his fingers were carded into her hair, now only loosely held in its arrangement. She smiled a little, and he might have smiled too if he had been able to recover even half his senses, but everything was still blurry and not quite adding up and he could only look at her in absolutely awe. Then she spoke again.
"I'd like to kiss you."
The words were only a faint, tremulous whisper, and for a moment he could only stare at her, certain that he had misheard her. But she looked at him expectantly, her thumbs gently stroking his face, and he gave a small, stiff nod.
This time, even through the muddle of emotions, he knew to savor the sweet anticipatory flutter in his chest as she leaned closer to him and the heart-stopping pressure of her lips against his. She kissed him slowly, her hands never leaving his face, and it was all he could do not to begin weeping again. It was soft but certain—reassurance that she knew exactly what she was doing. Erik wished he could say the same as he leaned into her; this was all too much to comprehend. But she was real enough, and she was here cradling his bare face, kissing him with impossible tenderness, and for now that was all he needed to be certain of.
Even when they parted, Christine made no move to stand, and Erik was grateful, as he wasn't sure his legs would hold him up. Instead they sat, their hands entwined between them, talking in low voices. He told her about his life, about the sting of guilt that still lingered over his mother's death, about what he'd suffered in the boys' home, about the harsh and desperate years after. Tears glistened on Christine's cheeks as he spoke, but she remained beside him, her grip on his hands as strong as it had been when she'd woke crying in Newport. His body ached with exhaustion and emotion, but he couldn't think of leaving her side. She spoke to him softly, soothing him when he grew agitated, letting him speak until the sickening weight of his life began to lift a little, telling him of her own loneliness and grief. They talked and held each other and she kissed him again and again, covering his face with kisses before meeting his lips again.
It wasn't until dawn, when his eyes were almost unbearably heavy and they could hear the stirrings of someone building a fire in the kitchen, that they finally stood and shuffled upstairs. Her hand remained in his until they reached her door, and she stretched up onto the tips of her toes to kiss him again, and she gave him a smile that, though tired, brightened her red-rimmed eyes. This time he could return it, feeling lighter than he could remember ever feeling before, and then she slipped into her room. He returned to his own room in a daze, not expecting sleep to come easily, as much as he felt he needed it. His mind, although sluggish, would not quiet, and his body tended to fight sleep, instinct arguing that it would leave him vulnerable. Still, he felt calm and his limbs were heavy, and Christine's presence just down the hall somehow seemed closer than before. He didn't bother changing out of his clothes or turning down the covers, letting himself fall unceremoniously onto the bed.
He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.