Falling In Love With You Again

3

Cheska POV

The cold morning breeze swept off the waters of Lindenhurst, New York, carrying the crisp scent of the bay as I jogged along the quiet pavement.

Besieged by the soft pitter-patter of paws, our golden retriever trotted happily alongside us. To my left was Paul Steen—my fiancé, my savior, and the gentlest soul I had ever known.

Paul came from astronomical wealth, the kind of corporate dynasty that owned glass skyscrapers and multi-million-dollar conglomerates.

But he had traded tailor-made suits for scrubs and a stethoscope, opting to live a quiet, simple life as a pediatrician in this sleepy town. He preferred the giggles of sick children getting better over the cutthroat politics of the business world.

Right now, he was wheezing with laughter at a joke so painfully corny and terrible that it somehow crossed over into being downright adorable.

"I'm telling you, it's a masterpiece of comedy," Paul wheezed, adjusting his hair as we slowed our pace to a light power-walk.

"Paul, that was objectively the worst joke told in the state of New York this decade," I laughed, my eyes crinkling as I nudged his shoulder with mine.

Two years ago, Paul had been a grieving widower. His first wife had lost her battle with cancer, and in his grief, he had taken his father's luxury yacht out near the sharp ocean cliffs to get wasted alone in the storm. Instead of finding solitude, he found a body floating near the jagged rocks. Me.

He was the one who pulled my bleeding, barely breathing body onto his deck. He called emergency services and personally led the emergency surgery that saved my life.

I had been shot in the chest, barely two inches from my heart—and was severely malnourished, weighing hardly anything at all.

For three long months, I lay in a deep coma in a private room. No one came for me. No one filed a missing persons report. I had no name, no past, no identity.

When I finally woke up, my mind was an absolute blank slate. Total amnesia. Paul reasoned I might have been a runaway, a victim of a kidnapping gone wrong, or someone thrown off the cliff to be silenced. But whoever I was before didn't matter, because I had no memory of her.

Paul took me in. At first, I worked as a clerk in his busy pediatric clinic, sleeping in the renovated storage room in the back. But the nightmares were merciless.

Night after night, I would wake up screaming, suffocating on tears from phantom horrors I couldn't explain. Seeing me drown in trauma, Paul insisted I move into his massive home.

For two years, we built a life grounded in peace, patience, and profound respect. Though we were engaged now, Paul was the ultimate gentleman; he never forced himself on me, and we still slept in separate bedrooms every night.

He introduced me to his wealthy, elegant family, a world of luxury that took me months to navigate—but we always returned home to our simple, happy routine.

Yet, despite the peace, the shadows of a past life haunted my dreams. Every night, I felt a ghost-like heartache. I dreamed of a shadow of a man hurting me, of screaming into a cold rain, of falling into a terrifying abyss.

I woke up sobbing from a painful memory I couldn't name. But Paul was always there. He would rush into my room, pull me onto his lap, and gently stroke my hair until my tears dried and the sun came up.

After our morning jog and a fresh cup of coffee, we headed into the clinic. The waiting room was already packed with restless children and parents, but today the energy was strangely chaotic. The mothers were giggled in huddles, whispering excitedly over their phones.

"Did you hear? They're filming that big action-drama just three blocks down!" one mother gushed, fanning herself with a magazine. "James McHolland is actually here in Lindenhurst!"

"Oh my god, he is even handsomer in person!" another squealed.

James McHolland. The name echoed softly in my head. I had seen his face on billboards, movie posters, and TV commercials over the last two years. The media was currently buzzing about his upcoming movie. But I paid the gossip no mind. I had patient files to organize.

Around noon, Paul popped his head into my office with a warm, boyish grin. "Time for you to go grab lunch, baseline secretary. Surprise me."

I smirked. Bringing each other surprise lunches was our favorite daily game. Paul was predictable—he loved mild, simple sandwiches, while I loved chaotic, fiery flavors. I often brought him spicy Indian or extreme Japanese curries just to watch him sweat through his meal, a decision he always regretted later.

Today, I decided to go a different route: comfort food. A few blocks away was a fantastic little Filipino restaurant inside a local market. Their chicken adobo and crispy lumpia were absolute perfection.

A few minutes later, I was walking back down the sidewalk, humming happily to the music blasting through my headphones.

In my hands, I carefully balanced the warm takeout containers. I was so lost in my music and the warm afternoon sun that I didn't notice the movie production vans parked down the street, the lingering crowds of spectators, or the stray dog darting past my ankles.

Suddenly, a rogue bicycle swerved wildly from behind a filming crew setup.

The front wheel slammed brutally into the back of my legs.

"Whoa—hey!"

I lost my balance completely, tumbling forward onto the concrete. The lid flew off the container, sending dark, oily chicken adobo flying across the sidewalk, while my precious golden lumpia rolled directly into the filthy gutter.

Pain shot up my knee, but my anger ignited faster. I scrambled up, wiping savory soy-sauce gravy off my colorful clinical blouse and my bright pink Crocs.

"WHAT THE f**k?!" I yelled, completely ignoring my headphones hanging around my neck, glaring down at the ruined lunch. "Are you out of your mind?!"

"I am so, so sorry!" a frantic voice stammered.

I whipped around, ready to chew out whoever had just destroyed my clothes and my lunch. But as my eyes met the man standing in front of me, dressed in an expensive coat, his hair styled, his face pale as a sheet, the words died in my throat.

The man stopped dead in his tracks. He dropped the bicycle he had borrowed from a crew member, his hands trembling violently. His blue eyes widened in utter, agonizing shock, as if he had just seen a ghost rising from the grave.

The handsome man stared at me as if the ground beneath us had split open and swallowed the sun whole. His face was ghastly pale, his breathing short and jagged, his eyes wide with an agony so profound it felt as though he were staring straight through my flesh and into a phantom.

I ignored his dramatic breakdown, stomping my foot in frustration as I glared at the tragedy on the pavement.

"Do you ever watch where you're going?!" I snapped, my hands hovering in defeat over the wreckage. My bright pink Crocs were splattered with dark soy sauce, and my favorite pediatric blouse—covered in smiling cartoon bears, was hopelessly stained with chicken adobo.

"Cheska...?" he stammered again, his voice cracking into a ragged whisper.

I frowned, looking from the golden lumpia currently resting in the filthy street drain back up to him.

He was tall, striking, and possessed striking icy blue eyes that sent a strange, cold shiver down my spine, a weird flick of familiarity that vanished as quickly as it came. He felt like a total stranger with a severe boundary issue.

"Can you please be careful next time? You completely ruined my food," I groaned, crouching down to angrily scoop the trash back into the plastic bag.

"Cheska...?" he repeated, his hands trembling as he reached toward me like a man trying to touch a dream. "It’s... it’s really you..."

"I’m sorry, but I’m not Cheska," I said flatly, standing up and brushing off my knees. "My name is Elena. And damn it—now I have to go buy a whole new lunch."

I whipped around, completely done with the bizarre, handsome weirdo. I stomped back down the block and pushed open the glass doors of the Filipino restaurant, the little chime above the door ringing merrily.

"I'm so sorry... please, let me pay for the meal," a breathless voice insisted right behind me.

I turned around, surprised to see he had actually followed me inside. He stood near the counter, looking at me with a terrifyingly raw intensity, his chest heaving under his tailored jacket.

"Good. 15 dollars," I said, stepping up to him and holding out my open palm without hesitation.

He froze, looking down at my hand in absolute shock, as if the concept of me demanding lunch money was a foreign language.

"Okay, fine. 14.67 dollars. Jesus," I sighed, rolling my eyes and pulling my hand back before sliding onto a nearby swivel stool at the counter.

Fumbling with his wallet, he pulled out a crisp hundred-dollar bill and held it out with shaking fingers. "Keep... keep the change. Please."

I raised a single brow, looking at the hundred-dollar bill like it was a joke. "No way." I snatched the bill, handed it to the cashier to pay for my new order, and shoved the remaining eighty-five dollars and thirty-three cents right back into his palm. "I don't take charity from bad drivers."

Ignoring his stunned silence, I pulled out my phone and dialed Paul. The moment the line connected, the tension left my shoulders, and a genuine smile spread across my face.

"Hey, dear," I said softly into the receiver, spinning slightly on the stool. "I'm so sorry, the lunch situation became a total mess. Can you wait ten more minutes?"

On the other end, Paul chuckled, saying something so painfully cheesy about how he’d wait a hundred years for me as long as there were no spicy peppers involved. I giggled, covering my mouth as warmth filled my chest.

I was so absorbed in my conversation with Paul that I completely missed the tear silently slipping down the handsome stranger's cheek as he watched me, his world shattering into a million quiet pieces right in front of the counter.