CHAPTER 2 B

He turned his full attention to me, those dark eyes soft with questioning. I saw the trust there, the complete openness. It was that trust that made my hand lift. It wasn't a hard slap, but it wasn't a tap either. My palm connected with his cheek with a sharp, stinging sound.

Time stopped. I stared at my own hand, then at the red mark blooming on his perfect, sharp jawline. My breath caught in my throat. "Alex, I just slapped you. I don't know why."

He didn't flinch. He didn't even raise a hand to touch the spot. He just stood there, absorbing the shock, and a faint, knowing smile touched his lips. His eyes never left mine.

"Slap me as many times as you need," he said, his voice low and steady, filled with an ancient sort of patience. "I'll take whatever you give me. I'm not going anywhere this time, I promise."

That line. Those words. It was as if they unlocked a floodgate deep inside me. The confusion, the fear, the strange, aching familiarity—it all coalesced into a sharp, sudden pain behind my eyes. My vision blurred. A sob ripped from my chest, and then the tears came, hot and uncontrollable, streaming down my face. I couldn't speak. I could only stand there, crying in the middle of the sidewalk.

He moved instantly. In one fluid motion, he stepped forward and wrapped his arms around me, pulling me against the solid warmth of his chest. One of his large hands came up to cradle the back of my head, while the other rubbed slow, soothing circles on my back. His voice was soft, rough with his own unshed emotion, close to my ear.

"I know," he murmured, his lips brushing my hair. "I feel it too. We've been apart for too long. We don't have to be anymore."

I buried my face in the fine wool of his suit jacket, my body trembling. The scent of him—clean, masculine, with a hint of expensive cologne—was somehow as familiar as my own. "Alex," I choked out between sobs, the name a lifeline.

He held me tighter, a safe harbor in the storm of my emotions. He gently wiped the tears from my cheeks with his thumb, his own eyes glistening. He looked at me with such pure, unguarded love that it stole my breath all over again. Then he leaned in, slowly, giving me every chance to pull away. I didn't. He pressed a soft, tentative kiss to my trembling lips. It was achingly gentle, a promise.

"It's me, baby. I'm here," he whispered against my mouth, his voice thick. "We found each other again, that's all that matters. I'm never letting you go again."

The intensity of the moment was broken by the clearing of my dad's throat. The real world reasserted itself. I pulled back slightly, my face still wet, but the storm had passed. I felt raw, but clean.

"You explain it to my dad," I said softly, my voice hoarse. "Let's go home."

Alex laced his fingers through mine, a gesture that felt as natural as breathing. He turned to my father, his expression shifting to one of quiet, sincere respect. The charm was gone, replaced by a raw honesty that even my skeptical dad couldn't ignore.

"I know this sounds strange, sir," Alex said, his tone steady, his gaze direct. "But I’ll earn your trust, however long it takes. All I ask is to let me love her the way she deserves."

I looked at my dad, my eyes pleading. The wariness was still there, but I saw the rigid set of his shoulders soften just a fraction. He'd seen my tears, seen the genuine connection that transcended any logical explanation. "(｡ŏ﹏ŏ) Dad, let him," I whispered.

My dad sighed, a long, weary sound. He ran a hand over his face and finally, reluctantly, stepped aside. "Fine. But I've got my eyes on you, son."

Alex squeezed my hand, a wave of grateful relief washing over his features. A warm, genuine smile spread across his face as he leaned down to murmur in my ear, his breath tickling my skin. "See? I told you we'd get here. I'm never letting you slip away from me again, my love."

As we started walking, the three of us in a strangely peaceful silence, a question surfaced from the fog of my returning memories. "Yeah, do you still remember your last moments while dying, Alex? Do you?"

He paused, his steps slowing. A shadow passed behind his eyes, a faint, foggy memory pricking at the edges of his consciousness. I could almost see it: the cold feel of stone, the acrid smell of gunpowder hanging in the air, and a single, unwavering thought—waiting for me. He squeezed my hand tighter, bringing it to his lips to kiss my knuckles softly, a gesture of comfort for both of us.

"I remember waiting for you," he said, his voice distant for a moment before clearing. "That's all that mattered to me then, just getting to be with you again in whatever life we got."

The simplicity of it, the sheer devotion, made my heart ache. Another fragment of memory, another difference, surfaced. A vulnerability I hadn't known I was holding onto made me speak. "Last life, I was fair skin. But in this life, I've brown Indian skin. You don't mind?"

He stopped walking entirely then, turning to face me fully on the quiet sidewalk. He cupped my warm brown cheek in his palm, his touch incredibly gentle. He tilted my face up to meet his gaze, which was soft and utterly sincere. His thumb brushed slowly over my cheekbone, a caress that felt like a blessing.

"You're you," he said, each word weighted with conviction. "That's all I've ever cared about. I'd love you in any skin, any life. Nothing changes that."

The last of my resistance melted away. "Alex," I breathed, the name now a full, complete feeling.

He tucked a stray strand of my hair behind my ear, his dark eyes holding a warmth that was meant only for me. He laced his fingers through mine again, pulling me closer to his side as we resumed walking toward my home. "What is it, my love? Tell me what's on your mind. I'm listening, always."

I wasn't sure. The emotions were too big, too jumbled. "Idk," I admitted, leaning into his solid warmth.

He slowed his steps again, turning to face me fully. The street was quiet now, the evening sun casting long shadows. He placed both hands gently on my waist, pulling me just close enough that I could feel the heat radiating from his body. A soft, knowing smile played on his lips, smoothing away the last of the day's tension.

"You don't have to know anything right now," he reassured me, his voice a low rumble. "We have all the time we need to remember everything together. I'm just happy to be here with you."

His closeness, his smell, the steady pressure of his hands on my hips—it all felt so right. It sparked a memory, a sudden, clear thought that had been hovering just out of reach. "Ohh, now I remember what I wanted to say."

He tilted his head slightly, a curious, gentle smile tugging at his mouth. One thumb began to brush slow, absent circles over my hip bone through the fabric of my jeans. He leaned in just a little, his entire being focused on me, giving me his full, undivided attention. The world narrowed to just the two of us.

"Go on, my love," he encouraged, his voice barely above a whisper. "I'm listening. Whatever it is, you can tell me."

I looked up at him, at the love and patience in his eyes, and felt a surge of boldness, of playful intimacy. The words came out in a shy, hopeful whisper. "Can your hand be my permanent bra?"

A low, warm chuckle rumbled in his chest. The sound was pure affection. His large, warm hand slid up from my waist, cupping my breast gently through my shirt. He squeezed lightly, a possessive, tender pressure that sent a shiver straight to my core. He pulled me flush against his chest, until I could feel the steady, strong beat of his heart. His lips brushed against my ear, his voice thick with a desire that was intertwined with an unshakable, timeless love.

"Of course, baby. My hands were made for holding you, every part of you." His fingers flexed gently, a promise. "They’ll stay right here as long as you want them to."

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