A/N: A ficlet written to mark the 30th Anniversary of the musical.

For those wishing to explore this 'verse more, this fic acts as a sequel of sorts to another fic of mine, Twice Blessed, though it is completely unnecessary to read that to enjoy this.

She nuzzles deeper into his chest, and he wraps his arms tighter around her, cocooning her safely in his embrace. "I had a wonderful day," she murmurs, fingers caressing the back of his neck. The little hairs there, so soft, rise beneath her touch, and she cups his nape, his pulse thrumming softly against her curled fingertips.

"It was my pleasure, my dear," he breathes, kisses her forehead gently. "You deserve to be treated like that every day." He does not muse about how she is a princess, a saint, an angel. Not out loud, at least, but she has heard it enough over the years to know the flow of the words by now.

"You spoil me, Erik."

"It is my privilege to do so." He sighs, and she feels how tired he is in every line of him. It has been a long day – a long few weeks – of organisation and worry and he should not have carried her up the stairs to bed, but he would not listen to her protestations, insisting that she not overstrain herself in her delicate condition. "Did you have any favourite part?"

She lets her mind wander over every detail of the day, from the red roses he carried to her on the breakfast tray to their shadowed picnic in the Luxembourg, to their sunset walk on the Bois, to their slow dancing in the dimmed parlour, him singing softly as they swayed, two bodies pressed tight. She reached up, and kissed him as he finished the song and he commenced a second one, then a third, all the time holding her so close to him that she could feel the beating of his heart against her cheek. And when, at last, the dance was over, he slipped a jeweller's box from the inside of his jacket, and produced a magnificent golden necklace that he fashioned about her throat, tears glistening in his eyes. Beautiful, he breathed, kissing her fingers, beautiful.

After, when he carried her up the stairs, they looked in on the children. Eva slept sprawled across the bed, half of her sheets kicked off and her blazing auburn hair fanned beneath her. Christine re-covered her, kissed her forehead, and her eyes fluttered a moment, just enough for Christine to see a rim of hazel iris, before she whimpered and shifted, half-curling up and settling with a sigh. Erik stood in the doorway, the softest smile curving his lips as he watched her tend first to Eva, then to Erik-Sven, lying in the next bed and curled into a ball beneath the sheets. Their little prince didn't stir as Christine smoothed back his black curls and pressed a kiss to his cheek, and tucked the sheets more securely around him. She returned then to Erik's arms, and he hugged her close, and they stood for a long time like that, silent but for the hush of their breathing.

"All of it," she murmurs, now, listening to the beat of his heart, her wonder at the thought that this is mine all of this is mine and she is so very far away, now, from the little Swedish girl of years ago, three decades old today and tucked in safe against her husband, her children sleeping soundly in the next room, "all of it."