Christine woke at the shift of the mattress. For a moment she wasn't entirely sure where she was, but at the grumble of the voice behind her, she relaxed.

His body tumbled once more, shifting back again, pausing, and shifting once more. She sighed in annoyance by his little fit, and when he began to move once more, she flipped herself over, reaching an arm over him in hopes of pinning him down.

His eyes shot open in an instant, the pearl white surrounding his irises appearing to shine through the darkness. She thought for a moment she saw panic, but just as soon as they had opened, they relaxed, and his lips curled upwards. She felt the gentle brush of the back of his fingernails without having heard his hand move at all. The way they tickled her cheek sent her spine rippling with a shiver of delight.

He turned his head away from her to look towards his windows, a small sliver of moonlight peeking between the curtains. With a heavy sigh, his smile dimmed.

"I guess I should get you back home." His voice rumbled from having gone untouched in sleep.

Christine wanted to beg him to grant her a while longer, but she knew that if she were to fall back asleep it would probably be far into the morning before she'd wake up, and by then Mamma would know.

She forced herself out of the bed and began her fumble in the darkness, finding her dress and underwear scattered about on the floor amongst his clothes. She was dressed before he'd gathered himself enough to sit up, and so she headed out to find a bathroom before they left, hoping to clean herself up a bit so she wouldn't look like a complete wreck. Instead, she got distracted by his piano.

Papers were strewn all about. Music sheets, she realized. She approached quietly as if she would startle it if she did not. Even in the darkness, she could make out her name scrawled in red ink. It was struck through in an almost violent manner and above was replaced with the words Mea Stella.

"I would play it for you, but it's not quite finished."

Christine jumped back from the bench, pivoting towards Erik with wide eyes. He laughed at her startled reaction, his lips curling into a weary smile.

"Come," he said, beckoning her towards his grand foyer. "Let's get you home before the sun rises."

She was suddenly thankful for Erik's restlessness, catching the clock on his dashboard as they rode back to her home. Nearly 3:30 in the morning. Another hour and a half or so and Mamma would've been awake preparing them breakfast before they cleaned themselves up for church.

The car came to a creeping halt as they approached her house, Erik making sure to stay two doors down. Christine hesitated to reach towards the handle, staring at her home as if it no longer felt like home to her but instead something she dreaded. She wasn't sure why or how, but it wasn't home anymore. She did not feel happy there nor safe like she had with Erik, in his arms and bed. She hadn't realized it but somehow that piece she'd been missing—the chunk of her being that seemed to have disappeared with her father—was now fulfilled by one man. One man and music.

She turned to that man and saw in his eyes just what she was feeling in that moment. Don't go. But she had to, she knew she had to. Even though her mind had reminded her that it would only be a few days, maybe not even that long, she still did not want to leave the car and have to know what a life is without him in it.

"You should stay for dinner Thursday." The words came before she could even think to say them.

His face did not change, but she recognized a hesitation there in his eyes. "I'm not sure if that's a good idea, Christine," he replied finally after a few seconds—an eternity to her—of contemplation.

She wanted to cry. She was shaking, trembling, in that moment. "I'm tired of this," she blurted, tears fogging her vision. "I'm tired of all this sneaking around. I just want you to love me without all the worry. Mamma needs to know."

Erik shook his head, tears forming in his own eyes as well. "I'm afraid, Christine. I'm older than you and I don't want her to think-"

"I don't care what she thinks!" Even she surprised herself when she said the words. The one woman who actually cared for her when no one else did and she didn't care about her feelings. Christine hated herself for it, that she'd repay Mamma's kindness with such disregard.

Erik blinked at her a moment in surprise and took his time with his next argument. "We've only known each other for two months, Christine. That isn't even every day of seeing one another."

"I can't even see you every day because of this constraint we've bound ourselves to: teacher and student. I don't want that anymore, I just want us."

Erik's heart twisted as he saw all the pain swirled in those eyes of hers. He hated it. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt. He sighed shakily in defeat. "I'll think about it, Christine. Okay?"

That seemed like enough. To his relief she smiled, leaning forward and planting a small kiss upon the cheek of his mask before turning and exiting his car. He wanted to pull her back, beg her lips for more, touch her where she liked it best all to make it up to her for having just nearly broken her heart. But it was late and she was tired. He was tired too. And it was just better to let things go.

At least until Thursday.

XXX

He finished the song. Every note and every lyric. Polished it to perfection just in time for their lesson, praying the upright piano he'd spotted in their living room was in enough shape for playing. He tried to contain his excitement as Mamma greeted him at the door and showed him to the drawing room, but as he entered all that washed away at the sight of her. Dark circles beneath her eyes; washed-out jeans; and an extra large gray hoodie that hung down to the center of her thighs, adorned with several balls of lint. Even as she looked at him and managed a feeble smile, he knew she was something more than tired. Mamma left without a word, shutting the door quietly behind her.

The air between them grew heavy with every second of silence that passed between them. Erik opened his mouth to speak, but before he could, she was doubling over, trembling with muffled cries. He tossed his case and music to the floor, rushing to her side. He pulled her instrument and bow from her hands and set them back in their open case before lifting her into his arms and carrying her off to the nearby chair.

He rocked her for several minutes, eventually humming a small tune he'd made up to help calm her nerves. Once she seemed fine enough, he opened up the many questions that were running through his mind.

"What happened, Christine?"

The finger she'd been stroking along the edge of his lapel stopped and her stomach twisted with pain once more. "Nothing," she choked.

Erik rolled his eyes proceeded to run his hand along the side of her hair. "I can't say that I'd believe that statement even for a moment."

Christine felt her throat tighten and she bit her lip in hopes of resisting another cry session. "I was cleaning up today."

"And?" he asked after several seconds absent of elaboration.

"And I found a postcard my father had sent when he was touring a few years ago."

Baby steps, he thought at another moment of silence. "Where was it from?"

"Sweden," she replied. "My farfar's country."

Erik lifted his head and settled her's beneath his chin. "Farfar?"

"Grandfather."

"Ah," he smiled. "So you grandfather was an immigrant?"

"Yes."

"Let me guess, came with little money and a dream?"

She laughed for a moment, a small exhale of breath, and Erik mentally tallied himself one point against whatever it was Christine was struggling with. "Something along those lines." She shifted in his lap, nuzzling her cheek into the warmth of his chest. "But it's not really where the card was from—not necessarily. It was more about what he wrote."

"What did he write?"

Again Christine's throat tightened and she wasn't sure if she was going to be able to speak. "He told me to always remember who I am." She shook her head slightly and her vision blurred once again with tears. "And the more I think about it, the more I'm not sure who I am anymore." Her words had become a whisper and her throat closed itself off from speaking, only allowing her choked cries.

Erik closed his eyes, frowning against the pain that constricted with a knot in his chest. "Oh, Christine," he whispered, setting unmoving lips upon the crown of her head. He did not kiss her, only held her and felt her tremble against him for a moment until he decided to move her back to her room.

He laid there with her under the covers, smoothing her curls with one hand until the cries subsided. She fell limp against him, completely exhausted from all the tears. He closed his eyes now and focused in on her pattern of breathing, the rise and fall rise and fall of her chest against his side. Softness and liveness and real.

Her door popped open, the small click of the latch begging for his complete attention. He kept stroking at her curls and opened his eyes slowly to find Mamma's looking on at the scene before her. At any other moment he'd shared in that room with Christine, he might have felt fear—might've seen shock in the woman's eyes. Yet he did not. No shock or hate or any emotion demanding that he get out. Only pity. Pity that for once in his life was not directed towards him. Pity for Christine, the shattered, struggling girl in his arms.

Then she smiled. A real, whole, genuine smile. A smile that, if it spoke, would say "Thank you," in almost a whisper. With the gentlest of clicks, the door was once again shut and they were alone.

Erik had managed to slip out of Christine's room without disturbing her, not wanting to stay much longer than he was scheduled to be there out of respect for Mamma. As he made sure Christine's violin was tucked and locked safely into its case, Mamma entered the drawing room with worried, furrowed brows.

He stood as soon as he finished with the final latch of her case. "I think she's fine now, madam." The woman did not speak, her eyes dropping to the floor. "I'm sorry about all of this," he added speedily. "She just needed-"

"Erik?"

The sad little voice interrupted his explanation and its owner crossed the room, taking up his hand and leaning against his shoulder. Christine was still exhausted as he could tell, her lovely eyes shutting as her face turned in on his arm. He felt his heart in his chest. Fear, love, and grief all at once slamming against one another with every beat.

He looked back up to Mamma to find a smile. Her posture, which had already not been so well with age, appeared to slump once more in relaxation. Her Christine was fine, safe, and in love. She had to know now, he thought. Nothing he could say could convince her otherwise, not that he could say anything or even be capable of doing so. Not if it meant breaking Christine's heart—the one heart he wanted to be forever his.

The face on his arm shifted once more, turning out in the direction of Mamma. "Can he stay for dinner? At least until then?"

Erik's heart twirled at the sound of her sweet voice begging. He wanted to take that voice and toss it into a jar that he could keep up on his shelf so that he could look at it everyday, place it on his piano where he would write tiny melodies for its own pleasure, tuck it into bed beside him at night so that it could be there in case he happened to wake from a bad dream. He wanted it in every second of his day.

Mamma Valerius' smile widened and she almost laughed at Christine. "Of course, dear."

All the tension that had built in Erik's body washed away in those three simple words, and he squeezed Christine's hand triumphantly. Mamma turned, shooting him one final glance of something he read of gratitude, and left the room once more.

Christine did not allow herself a moment before she folded herself into Erik's arms, wrapping her own around him as she did so.

"I've got to tell her, Christine," Erik said, his eyes not moving from the door Mamma just left through.

Christine tilted her head up to his and planted a small kiss upon his chin. He glanced down at her, searching for a hint that maybe it wasn't such a good idea he confessed to Mamma. Finding nothing, he sighed and broke their embrace to collect his music folder.

"I hope you're in the mood for singing," he said, smiling as he opened his folder and glanced at the first page of his compositions. "Because I am so looking forward to-" he turned and stopped mid-sentence seeing the concern in her eyes and the fumbling of her fingers. "What is it, my dear?"

She dropped her gaze as she explained her reservations. "It's been so long since I've actually sung music." She spoke so nervously.

Erik stepped forward in her direction. "But Christine, you've sung for me in bed last Thursday and-" she cut him off before he could get to his compliment.

"That was just a short lullaby. It didn't feel like actual singing. It's been so long since I have… my father was usually the one to get me to sing and since his death I really haven't been able to." Her eyes still avoided his, but her hands had dropped.

He should've stopped and respect her wishes, he thought, but he couldn't allow himself to let something so wonderful go dormant. "I can guide you, Christine. What you have is a gift. It's like nothing else I've ever heard and I want you to love it as much as I've been losing my mind over it." She finally faced him, spotting the love and passion in his eyes. "As much as I've been losing my mind over you," he added. She watched his entire body clench, and he closed his eyes, turning.

"I don't think you even understand," he continued, pacing the floor. "I-I mean, I know how painful it must be." He turned back to her and approached, reaching out a reassuring hand. "I had a mental breakdown a few years ago after having a composition I'd been working on for a decade be rejected, and so I forced myself to stare at my face in the mirror. I lost my mind. It took forever to get back into music. I thought I would end up burning my piano and everything I've written. I almost did. But a friend worked me out of it and forced me to get back to writing and performing and I haven't stopped since."

He held her hands in his, his calloused palms brushing along the side of her hand as he moved to hold her fingers. She nearly shivered at the pure joy his touch brought to her own skin.

"You can do this, Christine. I promise it."

She was practically breathless. This man, she thought. She could surely lose herself being with him.

Christine slipped from his grasp, curving around him and making her way to the door where she turned the lock. He watched her leave for the other door and locked it as well, staring at her in confusion. She pointed towards the chair he'd usually lay his case in. He did not budge, still slightly confused by her intentions, his mind still focused on the idea of her singing.

She crossed the room to him, outstretching a hand that she planted on his chest, and pushed him back towards the chair. He tossed his folder on the side table before he sat back and helped her into his lap.

"Did you-" He pulled a packaged condom from his front coat pocket before she could finish her question.

She smiled, reaching between them to fumble with the button of his pants. Before she could reach in and free his hardening member from its confinement, he showed her off, demanding she undress herself in front of him.

She was glad she had at least been able to convince herself to take a shower before their lesson, as much as she hadn't been in the mood to pull herself out of the bed that morning. At least her skin was soft and clean and smelling of the vanilla-scented body wash she liked so much.

He took the time to plant a kiss upon each of her breasts as she fixed herself back over his lap, straddling him. "You know you're still singing for me once we're finished, right?" He lifted his eyes to her questioningly.

She smiled mischievously. "You'll have to make me."

He emitted a deep growl and dipped his hand into his briefs, lifting the throbbing member before rolling the condom over top. She didn't give him any time to observe her once more before she lifted herself over top of him to settle his tip between each of her folds. They muffled their subsequent grunts when she dropped herself down, happily accepting him.

She made the attempt to help their efforts in muffling their cries, pressing her lips to his and welcoming his grunt into her mouth with a smile. She dug her hips into him, grinding away in an attempt to build friction between them. She broke their kiss to adjust herself in his lap, frustrated that she was struggling to find a position that pleasured her.

Recognizing the frustrated crease between her brows—the same one he'd see when she struggled with a phrase of her music—he stood, taking her with him, and set her on the carpet of the floor. She cried inaudibly as he thrust into her, practically matching the rate of her heart. He lifted her leg, skimming his fingers over the back of her calf before leaning to press a kiss to the back of her heel.

She lost herself to the rhythm of his hips and the skating of his hands over her abdomen and towards her breasts. His fingers cupped the soft tissue there, holding them both with loving care. Whatever carpet she could gather into her fists, she did, resisting her oncoming orgasm with no success, collapsing beneath him. Slipping her arms around his back to encourage his climax proved itself effective, and he came, pressing into her one last time with the smallest of groans.

She laughed, truly laughed, for the first time that week. It almost hurt to do so. Her cheeks and lungs ached as the sound bounced off the walls around them, filling the entire room with her bliss.

She was happy. So utterly happy.