A/N: One last small installment, that I literally wrote in the space of 15 minutes tonight. I'm working on a one-shot (which may turn into a multichap) set a few years after this. It's angsty and fluffy and just generally has a lot of stuff going on in it, but that's all I'm saying for now.

In the meantime, I hope you enjoy this final little addition. I'm dedicating it to hopsjollyhigh, who's the biggest enabler I know.

He is woken by movement, and his eyes flutter open to the blurry sight of Christine, kneeling beside him and stroking his hair. Her makeup is smudged, and his heart stutters at the sudden wonder of her here before him, as if she has been plucked right from his dreams.

She brushes a kiss lightly to his forehead, and he reaches up to catch her hand, twine their fingers.

Christ, but she's beautiful.

"I have a nine o'clock lecture," she whispers, her voice hoarse from sleep, from the singing and drinking and laughing.

"What—" he has to cough to clear the gravel from his own throat, "what time is it?"

"Seven. I want to change and get something to eat. And Nan will want to see that I'm all in one piece." And she grins lopsidedly at him, and kisses his cheek. For a moment he struggles to remember who Nan is, but it is Lilly Valerius, her godmother that she lives with.

Though he has never met the woman, he feels an odd kinship with her. He, too, would want to make sure Christine was all in one piece if he had not seen her all night.

There is just one thing on his mind.

"Will I see you later?" And he brushes his lips to her knuckles.

"Are you free for lunch?"

Lunch. Did he have anything planned? No, he was going to skip it. She probably wouldn't like him skipping it. He can skip it Monday instead and it would work out the same. "I am if John Henry isn't interrogating me." Lunch with Christine will be an excellent excuse to escape the clutches of John Henry, who is going to be absolutely insufferable all morning with his knowing looks and questions. And lunch with Christine is also going to save him from Nadir, who is going to be unbearably smug. Didn't I tell you Tinder was a great thing? And you wanted to back out? Look where you are now. No, the one thing he certainly does not need is Nadir's I told you so routine.

"Then it's a date." And she kisses him again, her lips soft against his as he sighs into her mouth. Oh but he'd spend all morning kissing her if he could, and lectures bedamned.

A faint memory comes to him, of declaring his love in the early hours as she kissed him. And she said it back. She said it back and he could have died with the way his heart throbbed with feelings, and his eyes water again to think of it. She said it back. She loves him.

And he swallows, and brushes his thumb over the back of her hand, looking into her eyes. So blue. How did he never notice before how blue they are? Like the sky on a summer's day, with flecks of a darker shade like the dress she's wearing. If he could he'd capture that precise shade and wrap it around his heart forever. "I love you," he murmurs, to be sure she knows it's true, that it was not just the kissing talking, the alcohol and adrenaline of simply being with her, that he truly means it, with every single fibre of his being.

And she smiles again, a softer smile that makes his heart soar. "I love you, too."

And with one more peck to his cheek, she's gone. And his eyes water with missing her already.

He puts his phone charging, boils the kettle for tea and takes his medication with a slice of cold pizza. The remaining couple of slices he puts in the fridge for dinner. And he showers and combs his hair and half thinks he can still feel her hand smoothing through it, and inspects his cheek to be sure there's no rash coming up from the makeup being on so long. Then he rubs in some moisturiser. It can have an hour to recover before he needs to put on the makeup again.

He really needs to save up for another mask.

There is no point in trying to snatch any more sleep. He knows well he would just lie awake, dreaming of her, wishing she were back in his arms. And he cannot settle to compose, though he needs to write for her, burns to. She needs all the pieces he could ever hope to put together, deserves them all dedicated to her. He cannot capture her in poetry, has always been useless at sketching or painting or sculpting. The only tribute he can pay is to make music for her, and he is helpless to do even that now, hasn't a hope of settling to it.

He turns on his laptop, connects it to the speaker, and presses play on the playlist he's made for her. All the songs trying to capture the sheer longing within him to breathe her in and hold her forever. And with the misty morning light filtering through the blinds, he closes his eyes and wraps his arms around himself, and sways slowly, dreaming that he is holding her again.