The night was warm, like she had promised it would be, and the air grew clean as as she led the way closer to the walking path. He could feel a tightness in his shoulders that would soon ache if he did not relax the muscles. But it was difficult to do so. Out on some sidewalk with her, walking on a path next to a park, drawing close to a wooded area that loomed over them.

He soon noticed someone quickly approaching on the other side of the street, and he paused, feeling his frame seize up. His hands clenched into tight fists. Christine stopped as well and looked up at him before discovering what it was that was disturbing him. An intruder. Someone coming to attack. He took two steps back, unsure of what to do. He could not disappear and leave Christine alone. But he could not simply stand there and let the disastrous event unfold and ruin everything.

"She's just jogging, Erik," Christine then said quietly, looking back up at him.

"She will see me. She will scream and call the police."

"It's too dark for her to see us, and she's on the other side of the road. And look—she's got headphones in. She doesn't even notice us."

He could feel his fingers twitching toward the lining of his jacket where the lasso lay. The woman came even closer, and he took another step backward before a soft, warm hand on his arm stopped him.

"Don't go," Christine said, her voice pleading. "Please. Nothing will happen, I promise. Just stay here. Please."

He wanted to demand why she had insisted on coming out that evening when he had specifically told her that someone would see him, that it was not wise to take chances when dealing with this matter. He wanted to tell her that she was a stupid, naive girl for making such absurd promises and that she knew nothing of the world. But instead he paused and closed his eyes, his heart thudding loudly in his rib cage, waiting for the screams, the sirens…

The woman's heavy footsteps grew a bit louder and then soon faded away.

"See?" Christine said. "She didn't even know we were here." Her hand returned to his arm. "The path starts just over here. Will you still come? Please?"

His shoulders were still tense, hunched, and he gave her a glance, seeing her smiling face, her skin luminous from the few streetlamps, and he followed. He was unable to resist when she was so beautiful. She could have led him into a cage, a cell, a pit, and he still would have worshiped her and followed her.

"Why would that woman be out alone so late?" he grumbled a few moments later, determined to be irritated.

"This is a safe town," she said.

"Not anymore."

She did not respond to that, but he heard her sigh slightly.

The path was winding and even. He could faintly hear a busy highway to the west and a stream somewhere close by. He had been fascinated with nature as a child, undoubtedly from being locked in a basement for so many years, but that fascination had faded somewhat with the years. Nature and the elements had made almost as many attempts on his life as mankind. He had almost frozen to death that first year after leaving Madeleine's basement, and he still remembered that moment of delirious weakness when he had wanted to return to Paris and to that basement prison where at least it was warm and he had been fed.

It was apparent that Christine had had no such traumatic experiences. She was clearly enjoying herself, smiling widely and chatting to him absentmindedly, telling him about the baby fox she had seen in the spring and the owls she heard sometimes.

She then told him a story about how she had slipped on ice earlier that year and had slid down a small hill, nearly knocking out a tooth on the gravel walkway, and her gestures as well as her own laughter caused him to laugh softly as well. She looked up at him, and he could see a blush on her cheeks and a smile on her lips. He still did not fully understand how she could smile at him after everything he had done to her. How she could invited him into her home. How she could continually ask him to stay.

Something brushed up against his hand, and he looked to see her fingers there, sliding through his.

Immediately, he pulled away, stopping short. Christine paused as well, looking up at him in confusion, the smile gone.

"What are you doing," he said harshly, though there was no question in his words. It was a command.

"I was just…" She trailed off, looking at her shoes.

"Just what?" Frustration and confusion made his voice harsh, made his emotions raw. He did not want to hurt her, not truly, but her touch grated him.

"I just wanted to hold your hand," she said softly, glancing at him.

"Why?"

"Well...we've held hands before," she said.

He knew that. He was perfectly aware of that. He could still feel her soft fingers against his skin, a brush of a fingernail as she touched him. "Why?"

"Because—because people usually hold hands when...when they go for walks."

"No. Tell me why you touched me."

Her chin trembled. His heart lurched again, but he did not retract his words. Perhaps now would be the time. Perhaps now she would finally tell him that she was ready for him to leave, to continue on with her life. And wasn't this what he had been waiting for this whole time? He had played this game with her for several days now and had let himself become wrapped up in it, in this charade of normalcy. But it could not continue.

"Erik, can we talk about this later?" she softly pled.

"No." If she was going to tell him to leave, she would do it here. If they returned to her ridiculous apartment, he would become ensnared by her again. He would fall into her trap and play some sick imitation of life with her for as long as she let him. "You continually touch me. These past few days, you…" A pause, and then he said, "If it is pity, then I would rather not be touched at all."

"It's not pity!" she said instantly, her voice cracking.

"Then what is it, Christine?" he snapped. "What is it? What am I doing here? Why did you insist that I come? Why am I—am I sleeping in your bed? Why did you ask me to stay with you and not simply take you to a hospital? Why did you not marry that boy? Why are you still here? Why are you doing this?"

His last question was shouted, and Christine started slightly, looking at him with wide, pleading eyes. He was going to drown in them if he was not careful, and so he continued, "I left you to your happiness a year ago! And you did not even want that. You are impossible to please. You are a selfish child who does not know what she wants."

A long pause followed, and a warm breeze flittered through the trees. He could see it blowing her curls and wondered if he would ever touch them again. Perhaps it would be his one regret before he died; that he never ran his fingers through Christine Daae's hair.

It took her several moments, but she then said, her voice trembling slightly, "I've told you what I want. I wanted you to come with me and stay in my apartment. I wanted to help you when you fell. I wanted to come on this walk with you. I want to—to hold your hand. I've told you all of this."

"Yet you still refuse to tell me the reason why."

"I think you know the reason," she replied. "You know the reason, but you won't admit it to yourself. Dr. Khan told me once that you're good at knowing what people's intentions are. So you know I'm not doing this to...to trick you or hurt you."

He was silent. Then he murmured, "No. No, you are not malicious. You have always been more than I deserve."

"Don't say that," she said.

"Why?" he said, a hard, cruel edge back in his voice. "It is the truth, and since you searched so diligently for the truth, it would be unfair to deprive you of it any longer. I have ruined you. I have committed heinous crimes against you. And yet here you are before me, too sweet and blind and trusting to recognize the truth."

"I'm not stupid, Erik," she said. "I heard everything Dr. Khan said. I know what Madeleine did to you. And...and I was the one hurt by Savino. I know what you've done. I know what you did to me last year. And it was not okay."

He clenched his jaw and turned away. Did she think he was not aware of that? Did she think he did not know perfectly well that what he had done to her was unacceptable in every sense? Did she think that it did not torment him to know this and still let himself be in her presence?

Before he could move or stop her, he felt her hand reach over and grasp his tightly, and he pulled slightly but did not break her grip.

"But," Christine continued, her voice steady, "you did more for me than anyone else. You let me go last year. You let me go. And if I hadn't asked you to stay, you would be gone. You would have let me go again. And that's more important to me than what you did to me before. That's why."

His fingers twitched, but she did not let go. Several moments of silence passed. There was honesty in her voice. Truth. Sincerity. She was not lying. And that fact was disturbing.

He finally said stiffly, "Perhaps we should return now. It is late."

She did not argue and fell into step beside him, still continuing to hold his hand. Her skin was warm, her fingertips gently brushing his knuckles. He could sense she was thinking, which unnerved him further.

After two minutes, she said, "That's why I keep asking you to stay."

His hand twitched again, but she held tight, and he could sense her desire to control this situation, to be the one speaking and to be understood. He desperately wished to know what she was thinking, what she would say, but somehow he did not want to, either.

"I always want you to stay," she said, looking up at him. He stared ahead, his jaw tight, knowing she was watching him and unable to return her gaze. When she continued to watch him, however, he at last glanced down and said quietly, guardedly:

"Pity can only get you so far, beautiful Christine."

"You know it's not pity, Erik," she said. "You know it."

His heart thudded against his chest again, and he quickly looked straight ahead. She continued to watch him, and he could feel his shoulders tighten again. He resisted the urge to look at her again, and he sensed a breathless hush in the air around them, in the space between them. Something was waiting there.

Christine stepped in front of him, holding his hand, forcing him to stop and look down at her, to meet her gaze.

"You know I love you," she said.

Every organ in his body seemed to shut down simultaneously. Air did not enter his lungs. His heart was no longer beating. His brain ceased to function. And her lovely face was swimming before his eyes, his vision blurring slightly as the words lingered around them. The words. Those words.

You know I love you. No. No, he did not know that. He had never known that. And he would never know that, because it was not true. It never could be true. No matter how insane his dreaming had gone, how twisted his ideas had become, he had never actually dared to believe that this would happen. He was still unsure whether or not she was tolerating him in her presence or if she was simply waiting for the moment to order him away. But this...this…

She was looking up at him earnestly, her clear eyes searching him, hopeful, waiting. He waited for her to take the words back, and she did not. Her hands were still grasping his. He could feel her squeezing his fingers gently, and he closed his eyes briefly.

He opened them and then said mechanically, "It is late. We should return now."

Her expression clouded in confusion. "What?"

"It is late. It has grown late in the evening. You should sleep."

She did not argue and instead fell into step, dropping his hand. The skin cooled quickly, and his hand felt empty, bereft. Silence accompanied them as they walked. The sounds around them felt muted as well. He could no longer hear the stream or the distant sounds from the highway, and there were no fairytale furry friends of hers appearing, either. There was nothing but the night air and the reality of this situation. He could sense her glancing up at him repeatedly, but he did not look down.

The horrid petit diable meowed happily and rubbed itself against his pant leg as soon as he walked in. He ignored it, narrowing his eyes slightly as she turned the light on, wishing she had left it off.

"Erik?" she said softly, stepping close to him again. She reached over and gently took hold of his fingers once again, saying, "Are you okay?"

He blinked and looked down at her. "It is late," he repeated. "You should sleep."

"I'm not tired." She smiled, but he was unyielding.

"It is late. Sleep. You need to sleep."

Her smile fell, and she dropped his hand again. "Fine."

Good. Good. He needed time to himself, time where she would not touch him and look at him with beautiful blue eyes, time where she would not tell him insane things that made no sense.

Within ten minutes, the lights were off, and she had retreated to the sofa, lying down without a word to him. She was ignoring him now. He was not unaccustomed to this treatment. She had employed it on him before when she had been upset with him, though this time he did not know why. He was not trapping her here anymore. If anything, he was the one trapped in this miserable little apartment. If she would say one word, one word to release him, he would leave, no matter how badly it would hurt. But she held him here with her laughter and her smiles, her glances, her blushes, her voice and sweet words. She held more power over him than anyone ever had, and he wished he could despise her for it, but he seemed to love her all the more. He could still feel that same adoration that had crept over him as he had sat and watched her videos for hours on end, straining to fall through the screen and simply be in her presence. Those moments seemed a lifetime away, now.

The events of the past year came sweeping back; the things he had done, the things he had said, the lies he had told to her and to himself, the fantasies and half-realized dreams. He had meant to do right by her. He had let her go, wishing for her happiness, genuinely wishing that she marry that boy and be happy. What did it matter if he were miserable? As long as she was happy, it would give him enough solace to stay away from her. And he had believed, for nearly a year, that she had been married and was living in newlywed bliss. Then the truth. About everything. Nadir, Madeleine, de Rege...her escapade around the globe, prying information from people he had never wanted her to know. All for what? For...love?

Did he let himself believe that?

But if it was not true, why would she say that to him? She was not a liar by nature. He knew this. She had lied to him out of necessity before, when he had given her no other option but to lie. But she was sweet, good-natured, kind. Everything he was not. Everything he wanted her to be.

There was a rustling sound from across the room and then a whispered, "Erik?"

He ignored it, hoping she would go to sleep. But then there was a slight creak from the sofa, and through the dimness he could see her standing, slim and radiant in the night. He sat up quickly as she approached the bed, watching her intently.

"Christine? Are you unwell?" he asked at last. "Do your fingers hurt?" She shook her head and sat down on the bed by his legs. There was a long pause. "Are you thirsty?" he pressed. "Would you like water?"

"No," she said quietly.

"Is that cat bothering you?"

She laughed softly. "No."

"It's the sofa, is it not? It is hurting your back. Here—sleep here." He made to slide out of the bed, but she leaned over and put a hand on his thigh, holding him in place with a slight pressure.

"No," she said again. "Just...stay. Please."

Tense silence filled the air, and he then said, his voice hard, "What are you doing?"

"Sitting here," she said, pulling her legs from the floor and tucking them underneath herself. He was in bed with a woman, and he immediately attempted to leave but was stopped when she once again grabbed onto his hand.

"Why do you keep running away from me?" she said, sad humor infused in her voice. "Are you afraid of me?"

He answered honestly. "Yes."

"What?" She shifted even closer. He could feel her knee pressing against his leg. "Why?"

He did not answer, staring at her slender hands still wrapped around his. Christine then said, "Is it...because of what I said earlier? Do you think that's not true? Are you afraid I was lying?"

"I know you were not," he said shortly. "That is why you are terrifying."

"You're afraid of me because I love you? Why?"

"Because you are insane to do so!" he snapped. "Wouldn't anyone be afraid of a madwoman? Oh, yes," he continued, the volume of his voice growing. He pulled his hand away from hers and stood from the bed at last, taking a few short steps away, gesticulating as he spoke, insane himself and unable to stop. "Yes. I have done it. I have driven you completely insane. What other explanation is there? Why else would you be sitting there, staring up at me so? Why else would she allow a monster to sleep in her bed? To share her table? To be in her presence?"

Her expression told him clearly that his words were hurting her, but he needed the answers. If she said nothing else to him, if she ordered him to leave, her words would haunt him into his grave. He would find no rest without knowing.

"Why do you do this?" she then said. "Why are you doing this, Erik? Will you just stop? This—this sarcasm and...bitterness. Being mean to me because you're too scared to open up. Trying to trick me by twisting my words. Confusing me because you know I'm not as smart as you. I'm trying to actually talk to you. This isn't just about you, you know! I told you that I love you, and you—!"

"Why would you say that?" he suddenly asked, his voice loud and hoarse. He turned to stare down at her, hysteria creeping into his voice. He had never felt so close to a breakdown. Nothing had terrified him as much as the girl sitting there on the bed, squinting up at him in confusion in the semi-darkness. An abusive mother, Kurdish rebel soldiers, the Italian mafia, hitmen and law enforcement and entire governments...Nothing had ever terrified him as much as this moment. "Why? Why?"

"Why did I say I love you?" she said. "Or why do I love you?" She shifted to the edge of the bed, closer to him, and he nearly recoiled. But she continued, "Well—a lot of reasons...You helped me find my music again. I'll always love you for that. You're smart. Funny. A genius. You talk to me like...like no one else. You make me feel important. When you're not so...wrapped up in yourself, I feel like you genuinely listen to me."

"But I should not—you cannot—" He was becoming hysteric, he knew. A horrific vision swam in front of his eyes; a replayed scene from his childhood, except he was his own father, now, and Christine was young, beautiful, enticing...If he allowed this to happen, if he continued to follow her, where would she lead him? If the path turned into the one his mother and father had taken, he would kill himself. He would, just as Henri had done. He would follow Henri into the only outcome of this grotesque scenario. Had he ever stood a chance against his own genetic makeup?

A brush of skin. He looked to see that she was holding his hand again, gazing up at him, her eyes earnest, her expression serene, calm, serious, and radiant.

"It's all right," she said. "I'm here, Erik. And I love you. I do. I love you."

He felt air leave his body in a shuddering, harsh breath. There was truth in her gaze. There was love.

Suddenly, he fell to his knees in front of her, and his mask was off, and he buried his horrible face into her lap, sobbing, the restrained emotions flooding him at last. How many times had he fantasized that she would say those exact words? He had envisioned how she would look, the inflection of her perfect voice, how she would touch his repulsive skin without disgust. He had gotten a glimpse of his absurd dream that night last summer. Her lips had been everything. But this was not what he had dreamed would happen. He had not envisioned himself sobbing at her feet like an infant.

"Erik, please," she then whispered. One of her soft hands came to rest on his shoulder. "Don't cry. I just—please. I love you. Is that okay? Please don't cry. Please."

He clutched at her nightgown, pressing it against his hideous face, her scent intoxicating. He could get drunk from it.

She ran her hand over his hair then, and he shuddered under her touch, wondering if she would still be there if he were to open his eyes.

"It is a dream," he whispered into her legs. "It is a dream. That is all. But she is softer than I ever dreamt. She smells sweeter than I ever imagined. How?"

"It's not a dream," Christine said, still running her fingers through his hair.

"No," he said. "No, you are right. That petit diable would not be in any fantasy of mine." He could hear it purring near them, no doubt waiting for a chance to irritate Christine. "I hate that wretched cat," he said, hearing his voice cracking slightly, and Christine laughed, the sound beautiful.

"You don't have to stay on the floor," she then said. "You should come up here, with me. Kneeling on the floor all night kills your knees. I would know."

He could feel her thigh underneath his lips. The physical feel of her skin underneath the fabric, the softness of her nightgown, the slight dampness from his tears, one hand in his hair and the other on his shoulder...It was all so different and so much better than he had ever fantasized. "Perhaps it is better than a dream," he whispered.

"Erik? Come up here, on the bed." She grabbed his arms and gave a slight pull. "You shouldn't be on the floor like that." With another pull, he came, but he could not yet see her face, could not yet be her equal and look into her eyes, and so he pressed his face into her stomach, wrapping his arms around her waist, straining to be near and yet not ready for everything at once.

She lay back on the bed, a hand still in his hair, and a soft, unavoidable moan reverberated in his throat as her fingertips brushed his scalp and the back of his neck.

"How is this real?" he said. She did not answer, but he did not feel that she needed to.

The mattress was soft and the room was quiet. Petit diable could be heard purring on the sofa, perhaps giving up for now, and he tightened his arms around her. He would not crush her, but he could not let her go. Not now. Not when he could feel the softness of her stomach, the warmth of her skin through the nightgown. Nothing could ever come close to this.

He could sense her falling asleep sometime later, and he felt her gentle breathing, the rise and fall of her stomach underneath his cheek. It made him want to weep all over again. He wished to remain this way forever. It would have been an idyllic way to die; in her bed, near her, her softness around him.

Of course, just as it had been with everything in his life, the blissful scene was interrupted. The stupid cat trotted over and jumped onto the bed, and he sat up, glaring. It meowed loudly, watching him with luminescent eyes, perhaps looking for some kind of affection. Instead he hissed at it, and it leapt off the bed and ran to the corner, where it flicked its tail at him in annoyance. He could not help but wonder yet again how long Christine would insist on keeping it. He was positive that there was a plentiful amount of old widows who were in need of some sort of feline companionship. Perhaps if Christine knew the cat would be cared for instead of given back to some sort of shelter, she would agree.

He looked at her, her expression peaceful, her breathing quiet and steady. He had seen her sleep before, yet in the faint light of the apartment, sleeping in her bed, with him beside her, she had never looked as lovely as she did at that moment.

Carefully, so as not to wake her, he lay down beside her on his back, staring at the ceiling. Thoughts crept into his brain, torturous images of her waking and shrieking at the sight of him, ordering him out of her apartment, screaming that she never wished to see him again. He swallowed and resisted the urge to slink out of the bed. If this was to be his last moment of peace, he would take it. He was selfish. A greedy monster. So he would have these last few hours.

But she woke sometime later when it was still dark outside, rubbing her eyes and giving a little grunt of displeasure. He could not move and felt her shifting next to him, sensed her eyes opening and adjusting to the darkness in the apartment. And then looking at him. He tensed slightly, bracing himself, ready to leave, but instead she moved closer to him. Closer. And draped an arm around his chest. She leaned her cheek against his shoulder. Several long, silent moments passed. She felt divine. He wondered if he was hallucinating. So he tried to speak, to break any fantasy that was playing tricks on his brain.

"The cat tried to get onto the bed," he said hoarsely. "I did not let it on the bed."

She giggled. "No cats in our bed, then, if that's what you want. Poor kitty."

He waited, wondering if she would correct herself or retract her words. She didn't, and so he ventured quietly, his heart threatening to beat its way out of his rib cage, "Our bed?"

"Hmm?" She moved even closer to him, resting her chin on his chest to see his face, and he resisted the urge to hide it. "Yeah, our bed. People who are in love usually share a bed." She gave a little simpering look, something he had never seen from her before and somehow found incredibly attractive. "Unless you want me to go back to the couch?"

"No!" He gripped her, knowing it was too tight by her little gasp and furrowed brows, and he attempted to loosen his hold just slightly. "No, you must stay here. Beside me. Forever."

She blushed. Smiled. "All right. Forever." She traced a button on his shirt. "Have you slept at all? Are you tired?"

"I do not think I shall ever sleep again," he said. "I will simply lie awake, staring at you."

"You could play with the cat," she teased.

"I will begin by whittling down its nine lives."

"Erik!"

His lips twitched slightly, and then he saw her lean up. And as she kissed him, he did not know how or why he ever deserved it. He deserved nothing from her. But she kissed him again, and she was just as he remembered. Warm, soft, breathtaking. He had no other experience, had no sort of skill set with this, and so he let her teach him. He had never wanted to learn something so badly in his life.

"I have changed my mind," he whispered as she drew back slightly to breathe. "It is a dream."

She laughed, and then he shifted closer and kissed her again.

Time slipped by. He did not want those hours to ever end, the exchanging of soft words and even softer kisses, her smiles and blushes delighting him. There was one moment of alarm sometime into this; he felt her small hand slip under his shirt, her fingertips brushing his wasted stomach, and he seized her wrist, torn between utter panic and a part of his brain that told him to let her continue touching him.

"I'm sorry," she said instantly, pulling her hand away from his grip and stroking his hair. "I'm sorry. I won't. We have time, Erik. We have so much time. Don't worry. It's okay." And she kissed him until the panic receded and there was nothing but love.

The pale rays of the sunrise eventually crept into the room, and she was curled against him again, the taste and feel of her lips and tongue still fresh and tantalizing.

"It seems there was not much sleep for either of us tonight," he said.

"I guess we'll need a long morning nap," she said, looking over to the window.

"Mm. And no cat on the bed."

"Right. No Petit diable allowed."

He laughed quietly. "We must work on your French."

She smiled, blushed, and leaned against him. "Erik?" she murmured after a few moments.

"Yes?"

She looked up at him. "Will you sing for me sometime today? It's been so long...I miss the music so much."

"Yes. Yes, I will sing. And you will sing, and we will have our music again. We must simply find somewhere to go that offers more privacy. Your little cardboard box does not have the best sound-proofing, I'm afraid."

"We can go anywhere." She smiled widely, excitement in her eyes. "We can go anywhere, Erik! We can do anything. We'll go wherever you want! I'll go anywhere with you. Back to New York, or—or London, or Vienna, or Chicago or—anywhere!"

Her cheeks were warm against his hands, and he kissed her again. "You are divine," he then said, pressing his lips to her forehead. "We will go wherever you wish—even if it is a mere whim. I will take you anywhere, and you will rule the world with your voice."

She laughed then, though he did not know why. He was serious. But he did enjoy the sound and the way her nose scrunched slightly.

"What do you think Dr. Khan will do when he finds out?" she said.

"If we are lucky, he will have a heart attack and therefore never bother us again. And you must stop calling him doctor. It inflates his already-large ego."

"Oh, yeah, like you're the one to talk about egos." She gave a little excitable gasp. "We could surprise him with a visit, though! I'll bet he'd love that. And he said London is better in the summertime. There were some things I didn't get to see when I was there last, and we could see them together!"

She continued to prattle on like this, describing the various countries they would visit, the things they would see, the music she would learn and perform, the future...Their future. Certain words made his heart skip several beats, words like 'marriage' and 'wedding.' But she continued, telling him plans for finishing her education, for furthering her career, for starting his music career. And he simply listened, unable to interrupt or contradict her, not when she was so radiant and resplendent in the morning light. She talked until the room was brightly lit and she was in his arms, her head on his chest and her words becoming slurred with exhaustion. Murmured and half-formed sentences eventually faded, and she slept.

He held her.

He held her. Christine Daae was in his arms at last, and he had not forced her there, and he had not threatened. She slept in a bed with him, peaceful. She had kissed him until he had been dizzy and dull. She had spoken of a future with him—a future in which they were together. With her there beside him, her curls brushing against his exposed skin and her scent soothing, he knew he would never let her be harmed again. He would not allow figures from his past to hurt her in any way. He would spend the rest of his life atoning for the ones that had, would do whatever it took to ensure that she was happy, successful, and content. He would not fail her.

Christine gave a little murmur, nuzzling closer to him, and he gently brushed a few curls from off of her cheek. No words from any poet could describe the feeling. But perhaps there was no need to. Perhaps he merely needed to feel. To experience. To love this odd, beautiful, gifted, brave, compassionate girl who slept beside him. And when she woke, the world would wake with her, and there would be truth at last.

Fin

And that's all! Thank you all so much for the reviews, favorites, and follows. A special thanks to everyone who took the time to review regularly and provide constructive and insightful feedback. I hope you enjoyed this final chapter. This story was so much fun to write. Thank you again so much, and let me know what you think of this last chapter!