After several years of marriage, Christine becomes pregnant
It is the soft shifting of lips against her throat that brings Christine to wakefulness. She is groggy with sleep, heavy with it, and for a moment she does not quite know what is happening, until she realises that it is Erik nuzzling her. He sighs, and whimpers, pressing his face closer into her neck, and in the stillness of the night Christine cannot help but smile.
Though it is dark, she can just make out the glow of his pale skin, and she inclines her head, very slightly, and her lips brush his forehead. "Erik," she murmurs, her voice hoarse, "are you awake, Erik?"
He does not answer, only sighs again, and she presses another kiss to his forehead. So he is asleep, fully asleep. That's good. He does not get nearly enough rest, no matter how she tells him that he needs to relax more. Though in the last few months, she will admit, he has gotten better at it.
His hand is warm on her stomach. She can feel it through her shift, the gentle weight of it, and she smiles to think that she has always loved his touch. Even in the early days of their courtship, and before, whenever his hand would accidentally brush against hers, be it on one of their walks in the Luxembourg or when he was handing her sheet music or roses, his touch would always send a thrill through her. He has such lovely hands. They are so delicate, so finely crafted, the bones thin and fingers long, but though they are delicate they are strong, more than able to steady her.
Those hands. She has kissed them so many times. Pressed her lips to the tips of each finger, kissed each knuckle, nuzzled into each palm, and her lips tingle at the memory so that she kisses the soft skin of his forehead again. So many kisses, and he deserves each one of them, and more. He deserves all of the kisses she could ever give him, should be kissed a hundred, a thousand!, times each day, each kiss an impression of her love left in his skin.
The fruit of his love for her is growing beneath her heart, though he does not know it yet. She will tell him soon, but for now it is her secret, hiding inside of her, a very precious little secret, and as she lays her hand on top of Erik's own, she sighs to think that it will not be so very long, only a few more months (seven, she thinks) until he is cradling a baby in his hands. Their own tiny baby.
Christine giggles into the darkness, and Erik sighs against her, his fingers twitching on her belly. A baby, think of that! A baby who will have Erik's eyes, and her nose, who will love music and will curl tiny fingers around one of hers, or one of Erik's, and cling on just for comfort, just to be close. And she will hold the baby close to her, and kiss his (or hers, it could be a little girl though part of Christine hopes for a son, even now) kiss his soft hair, and he will cuddle into her, the sound of her heart soothing him to sleep.
Tiredness is tugging heavy at her eyelids, and she lets them slip closed. With infinite gentleness, so as not to wake him, she twines her fingers with Erik's, and slowly raises his hand to her lips, kissing the back of it softly before laying it over her heart. "I love you," she breathes, pressing her lips one more time to his forehead. "I love you." And she sighs, his slow breaths bearing her back to the land of dreams.