A number of weeks pass during which they grow closer to each other, and finally, Christine has a confession to make.
His heart stutters the moment the words leave her lips, before they ever have time to truly reach his ears. I love you. She said that. She did she said that. She really said it.
He swallows the breath that catches in his throat, knees buckling as he sinks back onto the divan. Through the tears prickling his eyes he sees her fall to her knees next to him, feels her soft little hand wrap around his own.
I love you. I love you.
"Erik," her voice is low, "Erik, I'm sorry I thought—I didn't mean—"
It's a struggle to command his hand to move when he feels so weak, but slowly he reaches out and presses one finger to her lips, silencing her, her words still echoing faintly in his ears.
I love you. I love you.
He never thought—never dreamt that someone could ever say that to him, but for it to come from her, from her lips, from off her tongue—his heart stutters and he turns his hand in his lap to squeeze hers back.
"Did you—" the words catch in his throat and he tries again, tears sparkling now in her eyes too, her lovely dear eyes that he has looked into so many times, hoping, praying. "Do you mean that?"
And she nods. She nods and he feels suddenly so weak, darkness buzzing at the edges of his vision. Before he knows it he's lying full-length on the divan, his legs propped up and cravat loosened and Christine, dear Christine who whispered such a beautiful thing, hovering at his head, his right hand clasped between both of hers.
"How do you feel?" she murmurs, her blue eyes searching his so that they are all he can see, and he feels limp, and lightheaded, but none of that matters because she said I love you.
"Christine," he breathes, curling his fingers around hers, "Christine, I—" he swallows, and his lips twitch into a smile. "I love you too."