(My apologies for the wrong upload! I didn't mean to cause such distress. I'll be better about checking it over next time!)

Thank you so much for all of the lovely reviews!

Sweet Roisin Dubh: I'm so glad you like my Christine. So often she's a character who reacts to Erik rather than taking her own action, so I hope to treat her well here! I do love a fully-masked Erik, but I prefer that version to lean more to a Leroux-type characterization with the speech patterns that come along with it. :) I'm not a huge fan of Gerald Butler's soft, too-pretty Erik, so mine is definitely much more musical based. Think Ben Lewis's imposing height and temper with Ramin Karimloo's voice. Swoon!

After this chapter, the main plot starts to come out. I hope you all like this one!

Chapter 7

The next morning, Christine popped two ibuprofen with her first iced caramel macchiato and headed out the door. She hadn't turned on her phone since she shut it off last night, and she had no intention of doing so. She'd sent off a quick Facebook message to Meg and her mom, letting them know she was changing her phone number because she kept getting spam phone calls.

Her head beat to the sound of a hangover, but she didn't care. She was determined and nothing would deter her. Less than an hour later, she walked out of the store with not only a new number but the newest iPhone too. Bonus. And this type of phone didn't have a battery that could be removed. The asshole.

Christine's mood hadn't really improved after the few hours of sleep she'd gotten, but at least now she had a phone she could use.

She spent the rest of the morning fiddling with her new phone and making sure all of her apps were installed properly. She double-checked that Nadir's phone number was deleted but blocking him seemed to have taken care of that issue. All of the texts from him had to be wiped, but she'd taken care of that without looking at them.

A group text to everyone in her Contacts with her new number, and she was done. She threw herself back onto her bed and dug the heels of her palms into her eyes. There was absolutely no way she could contact him now. She was done.

So why did she still feel like she was suffocating?

It took her thirty minutes to stuff a backpack of supplies and change into her bikini. She had managed to find one with a bit of padding, but the swimsuit did little to hide the evidence of the past two years. She just wouldn't bother taking off her cover-up, like she ever did anymore.

The beach and Christine were soul mates, of that she was certain. She had grown up on the shores of Connecticut, but really, any beach called her name. She had traveled up and down the east coast before her cancer, and even though she hadn't felt much like driving around the past two years, the nearby shores of Martha's Vineyard and Nantucket had seen her often enough.

Colleges hadn't started back up yet, so the beaches were bound to be packed even on a weekday, but she didn't care.

Before her cab arrived, she grabbed a sandwich and cream soda and tucked it into a small cooler. She had her umbrella, her suntan lotion, her beach chair, and her sunglasses. She was set. As the cab dropped her off and she breathed in her first deep breath of salty sea air, she felt her muscles relax and her overall mood softened like the sand between her toes.

The rest of the day passed in a lazy haze of people-watching and dipping her feet in the waves as she looked for seashells. Erik entered her thoughts only once: the first time she dipped her toes into the water and looked out across the Atlantic Ocean, thinking for a quick moment about Europe on the other side of that vastness. She'd brushed the thought away and planted herself in the perfect spot. She even managed to finish the novel she'd started on the plane.

The sunset was brilliant, and everything she wanted.

As the last rays of sunlight drifted away, she hailed a cab and headed home, sun-kissed and ready for a long, cool bath to wash away the sand. Settling beneath the bubbles, she closed her eyes and mentally made a list of places to see about a job tomorrow.

She fell into bed with her hair still dripping and almost immediately fell asleep. She had no dreams that night nor over the next week, not even after she got a job at the campus library, not even after her last semester of classes began.

The days passed in a flurry of long weekend and evening hours at the library, as many as they would give her as they sorted through thousands of books and prepared for the upcoming semester. She slept in during the morning, often had lunch with Meg, and after a shift of moving heavy books around, fell asleep as soon as her head hit her pillow.

She didn't think of Erik again, at least not much, until a few days into her coursework. The campus was littered with flyers posted everywhere, and one in particular caught her eye. It was calling for the public to buy tickets to the university's first opera showing of the fall/winter season: Cosi Fan Tutte.

If Christine had taken a different path in school, she might be one of the ones performing opera on stage. Back in Paris, back under the opera house, standing in that underground living room, he had made her believe she had such a voice that could render an audience speechless. She didn't necessarily want to sing opera, but if she wanted to, she could. They'd never been able to practice anything but her own pop selections, but he had made her feel like she could sing anything, especially with his instruction.

She hurried past the flyer to her class in lighting techniques for the stage. But the damage was already done. After almost two weeks of little thought of him, her mind was flooded with memories.

It was Friday, and the library closed early, so after classes were done, she took the bus to Meg's for drinks. Christine stopped by her own place first to change into a green sundress that fell to her knees. It was a hot late August afternoon, the muggy air going hand-in-hand with the dark clouds overhead. Boston didn't often see rain, but when it did, it tended to pour for a few hours. Christine grabbed her umbrella just in case.

Already at 7, the party was in full swing, and Christine could hear the music blaring from the street. She waded through the full crowd until she found the petite blonde woman. Meg had always attracted a lot of friends with her wide smile and fun attitude.

Meg gave her a tight hug. "We're celebrating!"

"What's that?" Christine accepted the red cup Meg pushed into her hand and took a sip. Thank God it tasted like a margarita and not like one of Meg's more potent concoctions.

"I finally found an apartment!" Meg practically glowed.

That made Christine smile. "You did? Which one did you decide on?"

She listened as Meg spilled the details of a studio apartment only two blocks from the Parisian ballet company she had joined.

"Oh Meg, it sounds fantastic!" She hugged her friend again, this time with more enthusiasm. She was genuinely happy for Meg who worked hard to be so talented. Her mother, Mrs. Giry, had pushed her from a young age, and it showed. Christine had always known that Meg was destined for greatness.

"I leave a week from Wednesday, so I'm throwing a huge farewell party next Saturday. You'll come, of course?"

Christine laughed. "A bigger party than this one?"

"This is nothing!"

The two girls spent a bit more time chatting about Meg's future: how much she would make, what would be her first role. If she was being honest, Christine envied her more than a little. In contrast, Christine would be spending her fall semester shelving books in the library and taking classes in how to help other people on the stage.

She stayed about an hour, but that was all she could tolerate of the noise. She just wasn't in the mood. Giving Meg a wave goodbye, she headed into the night to catch a bus back to her place.

She'd been right about the weather. A summer storm was brewing, maybe the last of the season before fall weather started to roll in. A brisk wind tried to pick up the edge of her skirt as she jumped onto the bus. By the time she reached her apartment, rain had started to fall, bringing with it a fierce line of thunder and lightning.

They rarely had dangerous storms in Boston, but the wind could be enough to shake up the old power lines around her building. She quickly ducked inside, but not before the few seconds she spent running down the block soaked her hair and shoulders as well as her sandaled feet. Her umbrella was useless in the wind, so she closed it to avoid having it close backwards on her. The storm ushered in colder night air, brisk against her bare legs, that made her teeth chatter.

Lighting flashed, helping to illuminate her way as she hurried inside her apartment, locking the door behind her just as the thunder made the ground rumble. She wasn't terrified of storms, but she wasn't a big fan either, especially since they usually made the power go out for at least a few minutes.

Christine kicked off her sandals, grabbed a kitchen towel, and gave herself a brisk toweling off before drying her feet. She had her air conditioning turned up too high and it made her shiver, not helping the fact that she was now freezing. She spun the dial to cut off the air, put on a pot of coffee, and headed into her bedroom for a change of clothes.

Two quick flashes of lightning illuminated her balcony. She tried not to look too closely. Outside always looked so eerie during a storm; she'd have to close the blinds on her way back to the kitchen.

She slipped into a t-shirt and a worn pair of gray pajama pants, hanging her nude-colored padded bra over the shower curtain rod to air dry. Thinking for a moment, she decided to go ahead and take out the two breast forms out of the bra so they could dry properly on their own. The little nipple buds on the shaped silicone still made her blush to see them out in the open. She set them on the sink to take care of them later.

She'd started going without the bra again in the privacy of her home. She could tell her scars were happier without the tight fabric always chafing. She needed to get another mastectomy bra soon, maybe something cuter, in black.

Musing on this, she started to make her way back to the kitchen. The lightning came faster now, a real lightning storm with the flashes mere seconds apart. As she passed by the balcony, she grabbed one of the curtains to pull it over the large sliding glass door. She saw her own reflection in the glass, her appearance disheveled from the wind and rain. Her hair was wild about her face.

But beyond the glass, she caught sight of a bone white mask, stark against the dark backdrop of the night.

Her scream was swallowed up by the next crack of thunder.

She should have run away from the balcony. Really, she should have grabbed her cell phone as she ran away and called the police as she did. He might have caught her anyway, but at least she would've done something smart for a change. She could even have started screaming again – if she did it enough, someone might come to see what was wrong.

But she didn't do any of that.

Instead, she took a few steps forward and unlocked the balcony door under the sharp gaze of two glowing yellow eyes. She turned her back on him and walked over to the coffee pot, which had finished brewing her cup. She mixed in a tablespoon of sugar, added her favorite caramel creamer, and took a long, slow sip. She'd made it too sweet by mistake.

While she did this, doing her best to keep her movements calmer than she felt, she heard the balcony door slide open. The storm blew into the living room, knocking over the vase of fake flowers on her small dining table, until the door slid shut.

She set down her coffee, trying to motivate herself to turn around. When she held her own harsh breathing for a moment, she could hear him breathing along with her, the sound a quick pant not unlike her own. Besides that, he was silent, no doubt dripping all over her kitchen floor.

How dare he come here! She spun around, intending to say just that, but she choked back her shout.

Erik stood in her tiny dining room, clad head-to-toe in his usual black regalia, including gloves and his wide-brimmed felt hat. He was soaked, who knew how long he had waited there, the roof of the balcony providing little shelter against the blowing rain. And though he loomed, a silent, tall, black existence in her small apartment, his arms were folded against his body, his shoulders curled forward. His cloak, dripping rainwater, made him appear larger than she knew he was.

She couldn't see much of his face, hidden as it was behind the mask or in shadow from his hat. His eyes no longer glowed in the brighter light of her kitchen, but they remained trained on her. His lips parted to whisper one word:

"Christine."

While she stared, he rocked on his feet, his body swaying. She thought he might topple forward onto the table, but he crumpled down, his knees hitting the linoleum in a sickening crack of bone. His black-gloved hands spread across the floor as he struggled to remain upright.

He was everything she remembered, and he was here, in her kitchen.

She had never been so set ablaze with rage.

She strode to stand in front of him. She was well aware of the way his piercing gaze watched her bare feet move across the floor before swiveling up to roam over her face. In one quick motion, she tore off his hat so she could better see his face. He didn't move to stop her; he didn't move at all, except his eyes. She tossed the heavy hat onto the table behind her where it landed with a wet plop.

"How dare you come here," she hissed, finding her voice. "I spent all of this time trying to forget you, and you show up like you can just do that to me."

"You are safe," he breathed like he hadn't heard her. "You are safe." His hands shook as he placed them on his thighs and sat back on his heels. Even while kneeling, he was still so tall.

"Of course I'm safe," she snapped. "Why wouldn't I be safe? I'd probably be a lot safer if you weren't here now!" She wanted to hurt him the way he had hurt her, when he had stripped away her secrets by reading her medical files and then forced her to get on that plane.

Her hand reached forward of its own accord, and her fingers dug into his mask. She expected a flinch, something from him to acknowledge what she was about to do, but he gave her nothing. His eyes still journeyed over her, focused on collecting whatever he sought. Her fingers pulled the mask free, separating it from his face with some effort as though the two were stuck together. He didn't show any pain, even as she revealed numerous sores on his ruined skin, and he still didn't flinch when she didn't stop there.

She wanted all of it, and she tore off the wig as well. Both wig and mask fell to the floor at her feet.

His long, pale fingers moved to clutch the front of his own clothing, over his chest. His gruesome face was twisted with some unfathomable emotion.

"I had to know you were safe, Christine," he said, still in that hoarse whisper. "I had to, don't you see? I had no other way of knowing except to come here."

"What are you talking about?"

His words tumbled forth. "When we spoke, and you argued with someone, a boy, a man, I did not know. You sounded so upset. Your voice haunted me for days, and I tried to call back, Christine, I tried to contact you. I had no choice but to see you safe." His eyes found hers, and she found desperation in them, but also something else… relief?

She let herself take in the full view of him. He was filthy head to toe, his clothing stained, a tear across the arm of his coat. He stank of sweat and animal, and she wasn't sure she wanted to know what else. He was obviously exhausted, his body trembling, and his poor voice lacked its usual silkiness.

How had he gotten here? He couldn't have taken a plane. Had he taken a boat, then? How long would it take someone to sail across the ocean? He must have left right after that phone call to make it here as quick as he could. Her thoughts spun.

He had traveled across the ocean… to make sure she was safe?

And here she had taken away his defenses, betrayed his body the way he had betrayed her. She knew she had winced when she revealed his deformities; her memory had diminished just how horrible he truly looked. She'd done the one thing she thought would hurt him the most, and he had let her.

The anger drained away, leaving behind a thick blanket of… something. Compassion? Damn her and her own weakness.

"I'm safe, Erik," she said softly. She took a step closer, between his knees. She put her arms around his neck and pulled his head against her own body, tucking his face against her in a way she hoped was comforting. He shuddered, and though he didn't return the embrace, he turned so the scarred half his face was hidden between them. She was sure he could hear the fast-paced beating of her heart. She smoothed one palm over his sparsely-haired scalp, still soft despite the grim.

"I should go," he mumbled and began to rise. "You are well, this I can see. I am glad you are so well, and now I shall take my leave."

"What?" She grasped both of his arms as he straightened. "You can't be serious. You can barely stand up!"

He had to grab onto the table to remain upright, proving her right. He kept the ruined part of his face turned away from her, though he didn't try to put his mask back on. "A moment is all I need."

"Erik, it's still raining outside. You've already traveled a really long way to get here. Please, stay a while, get your strength back first. That's all I ask." She ducked around so he would meet her eyes. "Please?"

"I…" He searched her face. "I will do as you ask."

"Thank you." She gave his arms a squeeze, then shouldered her way under one of them for support. "Now, let's get you in some dry clothes. Bathroom is this way." Briefly, she thought about how free she was being with him. When had she been allowed to manhandle him without protest? Either he was still relieved to find her unharmed or he was just too tired to protest.

Honestly, he was scaring her. She'd never seen him in this state before.

When she moved forward, he followed her with a slow, shuffling pace, letting her keep at his side. She kicked open the door with her foot and went to help him inside, but he suddenly didn't budge.

"Erik, what-" She followed his line of sight and immediately noticed what he had seen plain as day in the bathroom.

Her bra, hanging at his eye-level, and the two realistic looking breasts sitting on the sink.

With a cry, she left him at the entryway and darted over to grab the items and wrap them up in one of her towels. Her face burned. She was well aware now of the fact that she didn't have on her bra, that he had just had his face pressed against the edge of her very flat chest.

She couldn't meet his eyes, but he gazed at her evenly. "Your secrets are your own," he said quietly. "I have no right to them."

Was that some kind of apology? She nodded and hurried past him to place the hidden items on her bed. Her tank top was too thin, too revealing. She swung on her bathrobe and tied it firmly around her waist. Then she began to pull out various things for him.

"Please use what you need. Here's an unopened toothbrush, and toothpaste is on the sink. Towels are in the closet here."

He dipped his bare head, his body stooped in weariness. "More than enough. My thanks."

"I'll leave you to it, then." She stepped out, closing the door behind her. A few seconds later, she heard the shower turn on.

Christine rushed off to get him a change of clothes. She didn't have much that would fit his tall frame, but she knew she had kept some of her father's clothes. Her father hadn't been a large man, but maybe something would work. When her mother had started throwing out his stuff, Christine had grabbed an armful and ran off. It was all stowed away in her bottom drawer, and she would admit to wearing some of it occasionally, especially for sleeping.

She found a worn pair of men's pajama pants in a faded blue and a plain white Hanes t-shirt. No underwear or socks, but Erik would have to deal for now.

She arrived back at the bathroom and knocked. "Erik, I brought some clothes. I'm sorry they suck." He didn't give an answer, and fearing for him, she cracked open the door a little to peer inside.

He had already removed his cloak and suit jacket. He was faced away from her, bent over as he adjusted the temperature of the water. When he straightened, he slid off his unbuttoned shirt, and she caught a full glimpse of his bare back. He was all lean muscle and pale skin, and his back was laced in criss-crossing, silvery scars. She pressed a hand to her mouth to stifle her gasp at the sight. He hadn't heard her over the roar of the shower, so she closed the door as silently as she could and knocked again, louder.

"Erik, I'm leaving clothes for you right outside the door. I'm going to run to the store to get you some other things to wear and to stock up on some food, okay? I'll be back in less than an hour."

He didn't reply, but she hadn't expected one. She quickly changed into regular clothes, another sundress, including putting her still damp bra back on.

Before she left, she fetched his belongings from the kitchen. His hat had left a large wet ring on her table, so she picked it up and put it on the coat rack near the front door. His wig looked like a dead animal on the floor, and the smell wasn't much better. It would need a good cleaning, but she'd leave that to him. She smoothed it out and hung it on the back of one of the kitchen chairs.

She picked up his mask. She had held the article several times before, and the heavy weight of it always marveled her. Even though the porcelain was lined in soft fabric, she couldn't imagine it was comfortable to wear for long periods of time. The inside was stained with sweat and brown and red patches she was sure were blood. She rinsed it out in the kitchen sink, using a little Dawn soap to rub out most of the stains. Then she blotted it dry and set it on the table where he was sure to see it.

That done, she slung her purse over her shoulder and headed into the rain.

At least the thunderstorm had passed, leaving behind a steady, drenching rain. Target was only a ten minute walk away, but she wasn't about to do that in this weather. She hopped a bus that dropped her off at the front of the store and hurried inside. There were probably other stores nearby by that sold much nicer men's clothing, but she was already going to have to put this on her credit card. Her savings had been depleted by her Parisian excursion to almost nothing, and while her loans had gone through easily enough, she hadn't received a reimbursement check yet. Target would have to do.

As is, she bought him the nicest clothing Target had to offer. There weren't any black shirts, but she picked out one dark gray and one white, as she had only seen him wear white dress shirts under his suit coats. She had to guess at the size; even if she'd gotten a closer look at his own clothing, she doubted he wore anything but tailored clothes. A large in shirts? Despite his leanness, he had broad shoulders and an impressive height, so large it was. He had a trim waist as far as she could tell from the few times she'd put her arms around him, so she got one size 32 and one size 34 pants, figuring one should fit and she could exchange the other. A male employee helped her with the length.

She picked up a pack of black men's dress socks, and, after hesitating and passing the section by twice, she also chose a pack of black underwear, boxer briefs. Who knew what kind of underwear the man liked, if he even wore underwear, and that was as much as she let herself think on the subject before burying the item in her cart.

She also selected a few toiletries in more manly scents, including a body wash that reminded her of him.

It was all very domestic of her. She briefly felt like a woman buying items for her boyfriend, or husband, instead of a young girl buying stuff for her emotionally-stunted former assassin turned underground musical genius.

She'd already spent too much time staring at labels. She hurried through the grocery aisles, selecting some easy items that he might like: fruits, cheese, crusty bread, as well as ingredients for a chicken stew she could make at some point. Good lord, would he even stick around past tonight? She added eggs and a couple vegetables just in case, remembering she had to carry all of this onto the bus. At the last moment, she grabbed some tea. She didn't own a teapot, so he'd have to boil water on his own.

For all she knew, he'd been gone when she returned.

That thought added some quickness to her step. She piled everything onto her credit card, trying not to pay much attention to the amount, and caught the bus back to her apartment. Target had been pretty empty and about to close, and a peek at her phone told her it was almost 10 at night.

Adrenalin had been powering her through her little shopping excursion, but as she hauled it all upstairs, she felt the drag of a long day on her limbs. Would Erik still be there? What would he be doing after all this time? It had taken her almost an hour like she'd thought it would.

She'd locked the door behind her as she left, so she keyed it open and hauled in the bags. She opened her mouth to call Erik's name, but immediately snapped it shut.

Erik was stretched out on her couch, his long, bare white feet hanging off the end.

Christine carefully set down the bags and shoved the cold items into the fridge before walking over to the couch. She had never, in the days she spent under the opera house, seen Erik either eat or sleep, but there he was, asleep, his long body taking up the length of her couch.

He wore the clothes she had laid out for him, her father's light blue pajama pants a little big and cinched at the waist, the t-shirt fitting a little tightly in the shoulders. She had never seen him look so… normal, like a normal man asleep on a couch, and the sight shocked her. One arm was thrown over his head in a carefree manner, the other folded over his chest that rose and fell with steady, slow breaths. She had never seen his bare arms before, the skin so pale and laden with more scars.

He seemed almost peaceful. He had donned his mask again but left off the wig, and the revealed part of his face was relaxed, his eyelashes long against his cheek.

She knelt beside him. She didn't want to wake him, but the sight before her fascinated her. A lock of his thin hair had fallen over his forehead, and she reached up to brush it back, the clean strands soft beneath her fingertips.

As soon as she touched him, his eyes shot open.

Before she could comprehend what was happening, he had leapt off the couch, throwing her to the floor, his knees a heavy weight across her legs. The wrist of the hand that had touched him was encircled in a painfully tight grip and pinned to the floor above her head. His other hand closed around her throat.

His eyes burned in the dim light. His cold fingers spasmed around her neck.

"Never touch me," he spat, his voice a foreign growl.

She clawed at that hand with her free one, trying to pry him off. "Erik!" she managed to choke out.

His fingers tightened. She bucked against him, finding him unmovable.

"It's me! Chri – Christine!"

"Christine?" The fury in his eyes began to fade, slowly being replaced with astonishment. "My Christine?"

The fingers around her throat relaxed further. "Yes, Erik. Your- your Christine."

She watched the rage turn to horror across his face. He shot away from her, back pressed against the couch. She coughed and rubbed at her neck. She'd seen that look in his eyes before when he had gone after Nadir Khan beneath the opera. She knew how close she'd come to death.

He swiped a shaky hand over his features. "I forgot where I was. Christine, did I…?"

"No, I'm okay." Already the pain in her wrist and neck were fading, but she'd likely have bruises in the morning. "It's my fault."

"No, never your fault, Christine. None of this has ever been your fault."

She didn't know what all he was referring to, but she let it go. She climbed off the floor and went back to unpacking the groceries, aware that he had followed her to the kitchen. The bit of sleep seemed to have done him some good; he was steadier on his feet. She was still unnerved to see him so under clothed. Maybe she should have bought him some slippers.

The cool touch of his fingers startled her, and she jerked back. He gently took the bag from her, murmuring a "let me" before setting it on the table and unpacking the contents.

"I bought some clothes for you," she said, gesturing at the items. "I had to guess at your size, but hopefully something will fit until I can get your own clothes dry-cleaned."

"My dear-"

"I hope they're okay. I didn't have a lot to choose from, and shoot, I should have gotten you some different pajamas to wear. Those you have on are a little old, but it's all I had that would fit."

"Christine." He turned and reached for her, and it was all she could do not to flinch away. She could tell where he wanted to look, and she let him lift her hair away from her neck. He didn't even touch her skin, but the cool, gentle touch on the underside her hair made her shiver. His eyes traveled over the marks that still ached.

"Don't worry about it," she said, moving away from him.

"How can I not worry? A twist of my hands and…" He left the heavy truth hanging in the air.

She shrugged and tried out a small smile. "I shouldn't have startled you like that, especially when I know at least some of your history." She pushed the bag of clothes at him, wanting to change the subject. She didn't want to linger on the reality of what he had been, of how dangerous he could still be. "What do you think?"

He fingered one of the shirts, his eyes soft. "Thank you for the kindness. This is more than you should have done for me."

"Nonsense, I'm happy to do it."

"Even so, I will seek to repay you when I can. You have no reason to treat me like you are."

She bit out a harsh laugh. "What? Ripping off your mask? That was mean of me. I shouldn't have done that."

"Oh yes, that." A bit of his usual sneer returned, but he quickly snuffed it out. "I cannot blame you for that. My expectations were very low. After I found you safe, I expected more anger from you, more bitterness perhaps, not this kindness. Ah, Christine, always so kind." The corner of his exposed mouth turned up, and he took a step toward her, one hand outstretched. His fingers moved to again brush a tendril of curly hair that had fallen over her shoulder.

Not this time. She took another step back out his reach and watched as his arm fell. "I was mad at you – I still kinda am. But you're here now, and, well, I don't mind so much." She took a deep breath. "Now that you're here, I'm glad you are."

"As am I."

They unpacked the rest of the groceries and the things she had bought for him in companionable silence. As they finished, she stifled a yawn that didn't go unnoticed.

"I have kept you awake too long," he said. He stood there, letting her take the lead into bedtime. This was her apartment, her space, and he seemed content to let her shape what they were doing. He had always been in charge in Paris, ordering her about. This was so different, and she wasn't sure how she felt about the change.

"It's been a long day," she said around another yawn. "I don't have to get up early, but I do have work tomorrow."

"Work?"

"At the university library." She went to a linen closet and pulled out her spare set of sheets and a fleece blanket, as well as an extra pillow and pillowcase. "Here, you can use these."

He raised an eyebrow at her.

She felt a blush warm her cheeks. "I mean, assuming you're staying, the couch is yours to use."

"I may?" He was standing too close again, the thin fabric of the t-shirt pulling across his broad chest, his bare arms coming up to take the things from her. Did he realize how many of his scars she could see right now? He had turned off all the lights except one in the kitchen, so maybe he had been trying to hide the fact. Erik went over and set the blankets on the couch.

"I bought you clothes," she retorted, not wanting to play any games. "I think it's obvious that I'm expecting you to stay. You are staying, aren't you?"

His back straightened, his yellow eyes piercing in the dim light. "I had no plans beyond this point, Christine. This is your home, and I will respect your wishes in all aspects. If you want me gone this very night, I will leave. If you want me to stay, then I will stay."

She whispered, staring down at her toes, "What do you want?"

"I wish to stay." One long finger curled under her chin and tilted her head back up. She hadn't even heard him move. "I am where I want to be."

She couldn't handle it anymore, the touches, the sound of his voice, less raspy than before, sliding over her skin. She backed away, bid him goodnight, and all but fled to her bedroom.

It was a supreme amount of self-control that kept her from automatically locking the door behind her.

He's back! Like I could keep them apart for long. :)