A/N: I can't believe it took me just shy of a year to complete this little story, but here we are. Thanks to everyone who stuck it out while I worked through numerous personal setbacks, and thank you so, so much for your encouragement and comments on this tiny homage to a place dear to my heart.

He was still there when she awoke.

His back was to her, covers fallen away to expose the upper half: hills and valleys of sharp bone and lean muscle, bathed in the dappled light of an early-winter morning. Christine breathed in the piney smell of the sheets, taking it all in, unsure how to proceed.

A scar ran from Erik's missing ear down the length of his neck, so pale and silvery she'd scarcely noticed it before. Unbidden, her fingers stretched out to graze the puckered skin.

A broad hand was quick to cover hers, trapping it against his neck. The exposed skin there was cool, and his palm warm, and somehow the combination of the two made her shiver.

"I'm sorry," she murmured. "Does it bother you?"

He exhaled through his nose. "I'm not sure."

"Do you want me to do it again?"

There was a pause, and an almost imperceptible nod. He released her hand.

With a single fingertip, she traced the leathery corrugation where it snaked down his neck. He shuddered beneath her touch, and he rolled over.

The mask was still off. His eyes searched hers with measured apprehension.

She put a palm to his cheek, and she held it there even when he flinched. "I half expected you to leave," she confessed.

"Ah, but that would imply some measure of regret."

Warmth unfurled in her chest. "You don't, then?" she asked.

He shook his head. "And you?"

"No. Of course not."

With the tender sluggishness of early morning, he leaned in and kissed her. She relaxed into his mouth, and when a lanky arm draped over her waist, pulling her in, that eagerness gave way to quiet desperation. She wound herself around him, their bare skin warming at contact.

Erik groaned into her mouth. "Christine," he murmured, and she pulled back just enough to let him speak. "I'm afraid our only safeguard was what I purloined from Nadir's wallet last night."

Begrudgingly, she untangled herself from him to avoid further temptation. "So you are a degenerate," she teased. It was a halfhearted attempt to mask her disappointment.

His fingers twined through her hair. "You make me reckless."

Her face did fall then, her voice losing confidence. "I'm sorry for being such a disruption."

He stared at her for a long moment. "I confess," he said, "I was livid at the initial interruption. This"—he gestured to his unmasked face—"was fully intentional." He raked the callused pads of his fingers along her scalp. "I had not expected a hapless river rat."

Christine gaped in mock offense. "Hapless?"

"You nearly lost consciousness in the bathroom, and you fully succumbed on my sofa."

"You were hardly sympathetic."

"You insisted on exacerbating an injured ankle. Against my advisement, I might add."

She gave his chest a small push. "You made me think Nadir was dead."

"You endangered my chickens," he murmured. He moved in closer, as though waiting for the line that would close the distance between their respective mouths.

"You forgot to return my snacks," was all she came up with.

"You…" A broad hand framed her face, almost absently. "You changed everything."

She blinked. "I what now?"

Erik flinched, as though he hadn't meant for her to hear. His voice, when he spoke, was quiet. "I mean only that I will never shake off the image of you, with your wet hair and your bad ankle, holding an umbrella over my head as I worked." He frowned. "It was the strangest feeling, to have—dear God, how are your feet so cold?"

Beneath the covers, her feet had found his bare legs and burrowed under their warmth.

She shrugged. "I told you, poor circulation. You were saying? The strangest feeling?"

"To have someone concerned for my well-being." He paused, sighed, and added, "Someone besides Nadir, at any rate."

A dozen responses collected and dissolved at the tip of her tongue. Absent their cooperation, she squeezed his hand.

He exhaled slowly. "Perhaps we ought to face the day."

There was a clawing at her chest as he released her, and when he moved to the edge of the bed to slide on his jeans, she watched until he reached the belt buckle before turning away to dress herself.

"What about Nadir?" she asked when they'd finished. Her stomach flipped at the thought.

"Given my knowledge of his previous exploits," he replied, "he is in no position to judge." Still, she made Erik exit the room first, such that he'd bear the brunt of the staring if Nadir was, in fact, awake.

And he was. He sat in the avocado-green chair opposite the bedroom and peered up from his laptop at the sound of the creaking door, one corner of his mouth quirking back as the pair emerged.

"Not a word," Erik intoned.

A pair of dark hands shot up in deference. "None intended," said Nadir, "except that there's coffee."

Breakfast was a quiet affair, the cabin taking on an almost funereal air as Christine proceeded to pack up her belongings. Erik ducked out ahead of her to put a snowplow on his truck, clearing a path out to the main road while Christine and Nadir watched through the living-room window.

"This feels like the end of something," she said. Caesar had sprawled next to her on the sofa, his head pressed into her thigh, and she rubbed at his velvet-soft ears.

"No," said Nadir, who stood at the window with a fresh mug of coffee. His gaze followed the truck. "It feels like a beginning." He glanced back at her, his eyes bright. "The first signs of life in the ash."

Erik met Christine by the door just as she'd zipped up her coat. He looked as though he had everything and nothing to say all at once, so she was quick to speak first and spare him. "I know I have no right to ask any favors of you at this point," she began, "but—"

"Anything," he cut her off. "What would you have me do?"

The steep driveway down to the riverside cottage was blanketed in snow, and Christine was grateful for Erik's truck. She would never have been able to manage the incline in her sedan. As it was, the car was parked outside her motel, and he'd followed in order to drive her here.

It had been a good reason to ask for his company in closing up the cottage, but more than that, she needed someone to bear witness.

They stood in the yard and gazed down the sharp bank into the rippling current. She had never seen the property in the snow. Though every crunch of their footfalls echoed across the water, the scene felt emptily quiet.

"Once, when I was a kid," she said, "my dad and I were eating breakfast in there"—she pointed to the big kitchen window, trimmed with empty flower boxes—"and we saw a sopping-wet bobcat come up the steps from the river. It just sauntered off into the woods, like it had finished a leisurely swim." They both glanced at the stair landing, as though expecting a wildcat to appear.

"This is a beautiful piece of property," Erik said.

She smiled wanly. "You should see it at sunset."

He pulled her to his chest when the tears began to fall, keeping a safe and wordless embrace as she cried softly into his jacket.

He'd moved to stroking her hair by the time the sniffles subsided. "You will move forward," he assured her. Down below, the steely water gurgled as if to lead by example. Nature always forged ahead.

Spirits lifting ever so slightly, she told him about the eagle.

He ended up staying to help her close up the cottage, despite her protests. They heated up more of the frozen meals for lunch, after which the fridge was cleaned, the electronics unplugged, the chimney closed up and the water turned off. When everything was finished, she stood at the threshold and surveyed the dimly lit space.

Her whole life she'd mourned the absence of playmates there, longed for the big families she saw floating past in groups of inner tubes and canoes, their raucous laughter echoing up and down the river. Now she saw it as Erik might: a sanctuary, a quiet enclave where there was no one to judge and the snow fell softly on the pines.

Another shift in perspective, and she saw it as it had been: the summer retreat where a young Christine had learned to swim and forage and build fires and treat poison ivy, and had learned—but perhaps later forgotten—to enjoy her own company and assert her independence.

It had been, too, a place where father and daughter grew close. Things had been good between them then.

No—things had been good between them later, too. She felt it in her gut, heard it in her father's voice even as she told him she was too busy with work to see him that particular weekend. She'd allowed a lapse, yes, but she'd had no control over the disease intersecting that lapse, or his secrecy surrounding it.

Maybe, just maybe, forgiveness was attainable.

They rode back to the motel in silence. What was there left to say? All that she could muster was expressed as she and Erik shared a gentle embrace in the parking lot. "Thank you," she whispered, "for everything."

He peered down at her from his great height, eyes dark but alight. A hand cupped her cheek, and she leaned into it, closing her eyes at the press of dry lips to her brow.

And then he was gone.

It stunned her, how wholly he'd consumed her in such a short time.

As a result, her new apartment—with its bare walls and boxes half unpacked—felt even emptier upon her return. She promptly heaved her suitcase onto the bed, sank to the floor, and cried—not specifically for Erik, nor her father, nor for anything, really—except, perhaps, to mourn the passing of some part of her life she'd clung to for far too long.

She allowed herself to wallow for the better part of the weekend: copious binge-watches of overdramatized crime shows, a few orders from the Thai restaurant she'd missed so much, cutesy puzzle games that required in-app purchases to be enjoyable but that she played nonetheless.

But on Monday, she found a therapist. Nadir's words had nested in the back of her mind: The first signs of life in the ash.

She did, of course, seek out Meg and Raoul soon after. But when she wasn't with them—which was more often than not, these days—she attempted to settle into this next stage of her life. She fell into old diaries and pictures, letting the memories of her father wash over her, laughing and crying in their wake. And as she unpacked and organized and decorated, she recounted Erik's cabin, and all the things that had made it feel like a home, even in his solitude.

Meanwhile, he met her with radio silence.

She knew she ought to respect his wishes, and his privacy, so she did not prod. But she did, as a gesture of seasonal goodwill, send him a card two weeks before Christmas. In it, she wished him well and extended her greetings to Caesar and the hens. It went unanswered.

In the meantime, she was content enough to distract herself with preparations for her return to teaching after the holidays, and with the season's festivities. She put up the artificial tree and ornaments from her childhood home, and she set out her stocking, and she waited for Christmas with equal parts anticipation and dread.

Meg had insisted she join them for Christmas Day, and Christine was only too happy to accept. But when Christmas Eve arrived, she was left to her own devices to weather her first Noel without her father.

The day was uneventful, save for two dozen freshly baked cookies. When evening fell, she changed into fleece leggings and slippers and an oversized sweater that fell off one shoulder. Her hair she put up in a messy bun. She lit candles and curled up on the living-room sofa with her Chinese takeout and wine, admiring the warm glow of the tree lights as she streamed Elf not for the first time that week. And not for the first time that week, she was happy.

She missed her father so much it hurt, yet she was happy.

She hoped, distantly, that Erik was content as well.

Halfway through the movie, her phone buzzed against the coffee table. Merry Christmas, it said. Join me for a walk?

Christine paused the film and sat motionless, blinking down at the text. Her brain fired off a thousand questions at once, and she'd typed and deleted several before another message appeared.

Downstairs.

There would be time for questions later. She threw on her coat and boots and, her heart hammering the whole way, walked out to the front of her building.

There had been no snow for weeks, but now the flakes fell like confetti, dancing in the streetlight as though courting. White lights twinkled up and down either side of the avenue, wrapped around rows of barren red maples. But it was the patch of darkness against all that white that lifted her spirits most.

Everything was as she remembered: the black shell jacket, with gloved hands stuffed into the pockets; the dark jeans and boots; the surgical mask. But there was something different about those dark eyes, that rigid posture. It was as though their sharp edges had eroded.

Memory catapulted her back to when she'd last seen him standing in the falling snow: that afternoon of confrontations and revelations and snow-fighting and near-kisses.

At the sight of her, Erik swallowed. "Good evening," he said, his baritone as slick as ever. Her heart seemed to leap into her throat, where it lodged itself and fluttered erratically.

"How did you know where to find me?"

From his back pocket he produced the card she'd mailed him: a pair of deer, foraging in a twilit winter scene. "The same way I knew you were available this evening."

Her cheeks warmed. The new place is nice but not nearly as cozy as yours, she'd written. I'll be dreaming of those sweet-smelling fires when I'm home alone this Christmas Eve. It was supposed to be a compliment; she hadn't meant it as an entreaty.

Or had she?

"Shall we?" he asked.

They walked, wordlessly at first, several blocks through the quiet neighborhood and into a nearby park. The tinkle of sleigh bells sounded from farther downtown, accompanied by faint holiday music that underscored this sudden companionship of the evening.

Christine couldn't bring herself to voice the question burning at the tip of her tongue. "Who's taking care of Caesar?" she asked instead. "And the chickens?"

"Nadir and Rookheeya. I do believe I pitched it as a romantic getaway."

"Oh, it definitely is," she replied, too quickly. Her cheeks flamed.

The corner of Erik's mouth twitched. "Good to know."

Fir and oak kept silent watch over the empty park as they cut a path through it, toward the small river that ran through town. Their boots crunched in the new-fallen snow. "This is pleasant enough," said Erik as they reached the water's edge. He stopped to pick up a stray piece of fishing line, rolling it between leather-capped fingers. "I confess, I had not entirely looked forward to the trip downstate, but this is"—he hesitated—"less overwhelming than anticipated."

She balled her hand into a tense fist at his evasiveness. "You could have called," she said, more icily than she'd intended.

"And what would I have said?" he replied. "I hardly know what to say now, Christine. I just—when it comes to sentimentalities, I—" He emitted a light huff of frustration, frowning at the fishing wire. Then his eyes softened, and he stretched some of the wire taut across one hand, plucking it with a finger to create a satisfying twang.

"The thing about music," he murmured, "about pitch, is that even when distance changes, there is still a vibration." He splayed his fingers to lengthen the segment of wire, and he plucked a deeper note this time. His eyes willed her to understand, but she needed him to say it.

"And?" she whispered.

"And I…" He hesitated. "I cannot get these reverberations of you out from under my skin."

She shivered, in the best of ways. "I think I know what you mean."

"I slept better with you there. Because you were there." His gaze strayed from hers as he pocketed the fishing line and started walking again. "And when I slept better, things felt different. Less insurmountable. It made me think that perhaps…" He swallowed. "Perhaps I do not always have to be this way."

They crossed the shadow of the treeline, a dark and leering parade of many-armed creatures. Christine eyed him warily. "You weren't so optimistic a month ago."

"I was," he said. "The moment we bid farewell."

Now it was her turn to stop walking. She looked up at him, incredulous, as a wistful sort of pain lanced her stomach. "You didn't say anything," she protested. "You didn't even text."

"I nearly turned the truck around," he replied, his jaw tight. "I sought to be the best version of myself with you, Christine. I booked an appointment with a veterans therapist the very next day. Perhaps my avoidance was callous, in hindsight, but…"

"You saw a therapist?"

"Several times. A three-hour round trip, I might add, thanks to the paltry state of mental health care upstate."

She was agape. "And?"

Erik looked down at his boots. "You will be pleased to know the worst of the shed has been purged. The paranoia, I fear, still abounds." Still shrinking from her gaze, he kicked at the snow. "Though I suppose my ability to identify it as such is some measure of progress."

"You had good reason to be paranoid," she said, frowning, but he shook his head.

"Perhaps my concerns were valid half a decade ago, but I am told interest has shifted." Snow was collecting in his hair, and she resisted the urge to brush it off. "Regardless, it seems my past has had more of an effect on my waking hours than I previously cared to admit."

This was good, she told herself. This was incredible progress. This meant...what did it mean?

He was much closer all of a sudden, the gap between them narrow and shaky. "If I recall correctly," he said, peering down at her, "grief had not been so kind to you when we last spoke."

She swallowed. "And?"

"And I wanted to see you for myself. To be certain I was not...an imposition."

She straightened and faced him square on. "How do I look, then?"

"Like you could eat me alive, should I commit one more misstep." A hint of a smile played at his lips, and he brushed a stray lock of hair from her face. "Brava, Miss Daae."

Coyly, she raised an eyebrow. "I was partly inspired by your solitude, you know."

"Hardly a feat."

"It is. You're so comfortable in your own company. You don't rely on anyone."

He tilted his head just so, and his voice softened. "Ah, but who's to say that's for the best?"

She opened her mouth, but no sound emerged. He was eyeing said mouth too attentively, licking his lips, and all manner of thought ceased in her head.

He unzipped his jacket halfway and, from the inner lining, withdrew a crumpled paper bag. "Lest you think you ever escaped my thoughts," he said, and handed her the package.

Inside were the hand-carved figurines from his kitchen: bear, owl, fox. But there were new ones, too: a broad-winged eagle taking flight, and a dog, and a chicken. She ran her thumb over the dog's boxy face and looked up at Erik. "Is this—?"

"Caesar, yes," he answered. "And one of the hens. Whichever one invokes the least trauma." There was a wry curl to his mouth, but it melted into something more somber. "I thought, perhaps, a few tokens of remembrance might suffice when"—he paused, his gaze now a question—"when I'm not here."

Her breath hitched. The hand with the bag sank to her side, and she moved a step closer. "And how often will that be?"

He closed the distance even more, so that she could feel his breath as he replied, "I'm not sure, but I suspect something could be arranged." His voice had dipped so low and sultry she could barely stand it. "The drive is not so terrible, for a weekend's stay, and I do work remotely…"

She found the hem of his jacket, rolling the fabric between her fingers. "And I have summers off," she reminded him. "There's time to sort things out."

A broad palm cupped her face, its calluses dry and cool and anchoring. "You are just as lovely as I remember," Erik murmured. With his other hand, he tugged at the tie securing her bun until the whole mess of curls tumbled loose. "There," he said, snaking his fingers through the strands. "Now you look almost as you did when we first met."

His whole body tensed when her own fingers slid beneath the edge of his mask, but he put up no resistance. She pulled it over his head and stuffed it into a coat pocket, smiling as she smoothed back his newly ruffled hair. "Likewise."

There was a tug at her own hair, and he smirked. "Just run this under the faucet a few times, and we'll have a spitting image."

"Wildman," she teased, angling her face up to him.

"River rat."

His mouth fell on hers with easy abandon, and she wanted to cry and laugh and yell all at once, but instead she wound a tight grip around his neck and kissed him harder. His arms found her waist with equal strength. There would be no letting go this time.

It was only a minute later, having parted with heated lips and flushed cheeks, that Christine realized she'd dropped the figurines in the snow. She scooped up the bag before it could disintegrate against the wet ground. "Oh! I know just where to put these," she announced delightedly.

It was only after many welcome interruptions that she admired Erik's gift from afar, when she lay with him in a tangle of warm limbs beneath flannel sheets, her head nestled in the crook of his arm. "You should carve a bird next," she said. "Maybe a warbler."

The other animals peered out from their new resting place on a decorative wall shelf, one she'd already strewn with pretty river rocks and dried flowers and the previously gifted deer carving. Above it all was a large framed photo, taken from just outside the Daae cottage: the sun setting over the riverbend in a spectacular display of rose and gold.

"A warbler," murmured Erik, tracing the downy hairs of her arm, "or perhaps a nightingale."

She was home.

In loving memory of my grandmother, whose cabin on the river inspired this story.