18. New Places
CHAPTER 18
New Places
T he exhibition invitation felt impossibly heavy in my hand as I waited outside Eli's building. I'd faced him across battlefields, watched him create masterpieces in Renaissance studios, heard him play jazz in smoky Paris clubs. But somehow this moment felt more crucial than any that had come before.
When he opened the door, hair slightly mussed from what was clearly a much-needed nap, my carefully prepared speech vanished. He looked softer somehow, more vulnerable in worn sweats and an oversized shirt.
“Alex?” His surprise held no rejection, just genuine confusion. “What are you doing here? Didn't we just spend the whole day together?”
“I know, I'm sorry to just show up, but...” I shifted, feeling strangely nervous. In centuries of knowing him, this part never got easier. “I wanted to ask you something. In person.”
He studied me for a moment, then stepped back. “Come in. I was just making tea.”
His apartment felt different in evening light - less a shrine to grief and more a space beginning to breathe again. Medical journals mixed with architectural magazines on the coffee table. A half-finished painting stood on an easel by the window.
That made Alex smile since he knew that, despite everything, the artist in Eli hadn’t been lost. Maybe it had been buried—drowned beneath exhaustion and duty—but it was still there, resurfacing in slow, careful strokes of color. A quiet kind of healing.
“There's an exhibition opening at the Morgan,” I said, watching his movements in the kitchen. “Contemporary architects reimagining historical spaces. Innovative preservation techniques, adaptive reuse...”
His hands stilled on the kettle. “Sounds like something Michael would have loved.”
“Yes,” I agreed quietly. “It is. That's part of why I wanted to ask you properly.”
He turned, something cautious in his expression. “Ask me what?”
“To go with me.” I met his eyes steadily. “As a date.”
The word hung between us, weighted with possibility and fear. I watched emotions flicker across his face - recognition, interest, guilt, uncertainty.
“I know it's complicated,” I continued before he could speak. “I know you're still processing everything I told you about our past. But this isn't about that. This is about now. About who you are in this life, all parts of you.”
“Alex...” His voice held warning, but not rejection.
“You don't have to answer right away,” I offered. “The exhibition runs for months. I just... I wanted you to know that I understand what I'm asking. What it means.”
His fingers went to his wedding ring - not twisting it anxiously like he used to, just touching it thoughtfully. “I'm not ready to take it off.”
“I would never ask you to.” I stayed where I was, giving him physical space to process. “Some loves don't need to end for new ones to begin. Some hearts are big enough for both memory and possibility.”
The kettle clicked off, making us both jump slightly. Eli busied himself with tea preparations, his surgeon's hands precise even in this domestic task. I recognized his need for movement, for practical action while processing emotional complexity.
“Why now?” he asked finally, setting a cup in front of me.
“Because this isn't about the past,” I said carefully. “Yes, I've loved you through lifetimes. Yes, there are complications and dangers we'll need to face. But right now, this moment, I'm just a man asking someone he cares about to share something beautiful.”
He sank into the chair across from me, his expression thoughtful. “The exhibition... you chose it deliberately.”
“Because it bridges worlds,” I acknowledged. “Like you do. Medicine and art. Science and soul. Past and present.”
“And you think I'm ready for that?”
“I think you're ready to consider it.” I wrapped my hands around the warm teacup, anchoring myself in this moment rather than all the others we'd shared. “Ready to imagine possibility without feeling guilty for it.”
Silence stretched between us, but it felt comfortable rather than tense. Outside, Manhattan's evening lights painted patterns on his walls - not quite like temple fires or studio candles or jazz club spotlights, but beautiful in their own way.
“Friday,” he said suddenly, his voice steady. “The exhibition opens Friday, right?”
Hope bloomed in my chest, cautious but real. “Yes. But we could go another time if?—”
“Friday's good.” His smile held hints of the one I remembered from a thousand lifetimes, but also something entirely new.
“Are you sure?” I had to ask, had to give him every chance to back away.
His hands were perfectly steady as he lifted his teacup. “No,” he admitted. “But I think... I think that's okay. To not be sure but try anyway.”
Relief and joy mixed in my chest as I nodded. We sat in companionable silence, drinking tea and watching city lights paint new patterns on familiar walls. This was what I'd learned through centuries of loving him - that sometimes the quietest moments held the most meaning.
“I should go,” I said eventually, noting the fatigue around his eyes. “You need rest.”
He walked me to the door, his movements more relaxed than when I'd arrived. At the threshold, he paused. “Alex?”
“Hmm?”
“Thank you. For understanding about the ring. About... everything.”
“Always,” I replied softly, meaning it across lifetimes. “Some things don't need to be either-or. Some hearts have room for both what was and what could be.”
His smile held promise as he closed the door between us. Walking home through Manhattan's evening bustle, I felt lighter than I had in years. Centuries of loving him had taught me patience, had shown me how to navigate the delicate space between memory and possibility.
Friday stretched ahead like a door about to open. Not to the past this time, but to something new. Something that honored all the lives we'd shared while creating space for the one we were living now.
For the first time since finding him again, I felt truly hopeful.
The rest of the week passed in a blur of corporate meetings and development plans. Marcus kept giving me knowing looks every time I checked my phone, while Will's empty office seemed to watch my distraction with silent understanding. I threw myself into work, reviewing architectural plans and acquisition documents with forced focus, but my mind kept drifting to Friday, to the promise of seeing Eli in a space that wasn't bound by hospital politics or ancient magic .
I spent Thursday evening in my penthouse office, pretending to review quarterly reports while actually researching the Morgan's current exhibitions. The architectural renovation pieces would interest him, I knew, but not just because of Michael's influence. Eli had always understood the importance of preserving history while building something new – in every life, every incarnation.
Sleep proved elusive that night, memories and anticipation mixing into something that felt both ancient and completely new. When dawn finally broke, I found myself standing in my closet, putting more thought into casual wear than I ever did into business suits.
Friday arrived with unexpected speed, finding me waiting in the Morgan's elegant lobby. I'd arrived early, a habit born of centuries of anticipation, but Eli surprised me by being even earlier. He wore a carefully casual outfit that spoke of time spent choosing – dark jeans and a grey sweater that made his eyes look greener than usual.
“I hope I'm not too early,” he said, fidgeting slightly with his coat.
“Perfect timing,” I assured him, drinking in the sight of him in this space. He looked more rested than he had all week, more present somehow.
The exhibition opened before us like a carefully crafted story.
“Michael would have loved this lighting design,” he said softly, studying a model of a converted church. “The way it highlights the original architecture while creating something completely new.”
I watched him carefully, noting how his hands moved as he spoke – still a surgeon's precision, but with an artist's appreciation. As we progressed deeper into the exhibition, I noticed a subtle shift in his observations.
“Michael did something similar with that brownstone renovation,” he commented, pointing to a particular structural solution. “ Though his approach to the support beams was more traditional.”
The transition from “would have” to “did” felt significant – like he was finding ways to carry Michael's memory forward rather than being trapped in what might have been. His enthusiasm grew as we discovered each new section, his natural intelligence engaging with the technical aspects while his artistic soul responded to the beauty.
When we reached the sustainable materials display, something remarkable happened. Eli's excitement became entirely his own, untethered from grief or memory.
“Look at this integration of recycled elements,” he said, gesturing animatedly at a particular model. “The way they've preserved the historical facade while completely reimagining the interior infrastructure. It's like...” He paused, searching for words to capture what moved him.
“Like finding ways to honor the past while building something new?” I suggested gently.
Our eyes met, and suddenly we weren't talking about architecture anymore. The moment stretched between us, heavy with meaning beyond building materials and design principles.
Eli's hand moved to his wedding ring, but the gesture felt different than it had before. Less like a shield, more like acknowledgment of a foundation we were building upon. “Yes,” he said softly. “Exactly like that.”
I watched emotions play across his face – not guilt this time, but something more complex. More hopeful. “Some structures,” I offered carefully, “are strongest when they incorporate both old and new elements. When they find ways to let different materials support each other.”
He studied the model before us, but I could tell his mind was elsewhere. “I used to think moving forward meant leaving things behind,” he said finally. “That healing meant... forgetting.”
“And now?”
His smile held new warmth as he met my eyes. “Now I think maybe it's more like this.” He gestured to the exhibition around us. “Finding ways to preserve what matters while creating space for something new.”
We continued through the galleries, but something had shifted in the air between us. Eli's comments became more personal, more engaged with the present moment rather than memories of the past. He asked questions about my development projects, offering insights that bridged his medical training with surprising architectural intuition.
“It's like diagnosis,” he said, examining a particularly complex renovation plan. “Looking at the whole system, understanding how each part affects the others.”
“Finding ways to heal while maintaining structural integrity,” I agreed, loving how his mind made these connections.
We found ourselves in a quiet corner of the final gallery, surrounded by images of transformed spaces – buildings that had found new purpose while honoring their original character.
“Thank you,” Eli said suddenly. “For this. For...” he gestured vaguely, encompassing more than just the exhibition.
“For what?”
“For understanding that I needed to see this. To remember that change doesn't mean erasure.”
I wanted to reach for him, to bridge the physical distance between us the way we'd bridged the emotional one. But I knew better than to push. Some moments needed to unfold in their own time.
“There's one more place I'd like to show you,” I said as we left the restaurant, the evening stretching ahead with promise. “If you're not too tired?”
Eli's smile held new ease, warming something ancient in my soul. “Lead the way.”
My private elevator opened directly to the rooftop garden I'd spent weeks preparing. String lights created intimate spaces between carefully arranged plantings, while the city spread below us like its own exhibition of light and shadow. But what caught my attention was Eli's expression as he took it all in – not comparing it to past memories, just appreciating it for what it was.
“This is...” he started, then stopped, wonder clear in his voice.
“Different?” I offered, understanding what he couldn't quite express.
“Yes.” His relief was palpable. “Not trying to be anything except what it is.”
I guided him to a small table I'd arranged – intimate without being overwhelming, casual enough to feel natural. Marcus had outdone himself with the setup, though his muttered complaints about 'romantic nonsense' had made me laugh.
“Did Marcus arrange all this?” Eli asked, noting the perfect placement of everything.
“After three failed attempts,” I laughed, pouring wine for both of us. “You should have seen his face when the first set of lights wouldn't cooperate. I thought he might declare war on modern electronics.”
Eli's answering laugh sounded free, unweighted by memory or destiny. It made my heart skip to hear it – this new sound that belonged entirely to our present.
“Tell me about Will as a kid,” he said suddenly, settling into his chair with natural grace. “I bet he was a handful.”
“Oh god, the stories I could tell you.” I grinned, loving how he'd asked for present-life memories. “Did I ever tell you about the time he decided to 'improve' our mother's prize rose garden?”
We traded stories as we ate – normal ones, current-life ones, creating space that belonged purely to now. I told him about Marcus's disaster with the coffee machine, about Will's corporate takeover of the family holiday party, about the simple joy of building something new in this lifetime.
“Tell me about Marcus,” Eli said suddenly, wine making him bolder with questions. “There's something different about him. Something old.”
I paused, considering how much I could safely share. Marcus's story wasn't mine to tell, but Eli deserved some truth about the man who'd watched over us through centuries.
“Marcus is... complicated,” I said carefully. “He's been with my family for as long as I can remember. And before that.” I smiled at memories too numerous to count. “He's been more than just an employee. A guardian, a friend, a keeper of secrets.”
“How long?” Eli's doctor's mind was working, I could see it in his eyes.
“Longer than should be possible,” I admitted. “Though I've never asked him exactly how. Some mysteries deserve their privacy.”
“But he remembers? Like you do?”
“Differently.” I swirled wine in my glass, watching city lights reflect off the surface. “His memories are... continuous. Unbroken. He's watched over us through every lifetime, though I think sometimes he wishes he couldn't remember them all.”
Eli absorbed this, his healer's instincts picking up on what I wasn't saying. “That sounds lonely.”
“It can be. But he chose this path. Or it chose him. I've never asked which.” I remembered Marcus's face in Greece, the moment he'd made his decision. “He's carried our story through time, made sure we could find each other again when the time was right.”
“And he never told you how?”
“Some gifts come with prices too heavy to discuss.” I reached for a lighter tone. “Though his inability to master modern coffee machines suggests even guardians have their limits.”
Eli laughed at that. He didn't push for more details, seeming to sense that Marcus's secrets weren't mine to share.
When Eli laughed again, it felt like victory. Like proof that hearts could heal while staying whole .
Later, we stood at the rooftop's edge, city lights reflecting in our wine glasses.
“You know what I've learned?” I said softly, watching starlight paint patterns on the city below. “Across all these lives, all these versions of us?”
Eli turned to face me, his wedding ring catching the light. But for once, the sight didn't ache. “What?”
His free hand found mine naturally, without hesitation. The contact sent warmth through my entire being, but it felt new rather than remembered.
“That every time is different,” I said carefully. “Every love unique. What we had in Greece, in Florence, in Paris – they were all real, all precious. But they weren't this.” I squeezed his fingers gently. “This is ours, just for this life.”
Understanding dawned in his eyes – not just of what I was saying, but of what it meant. This wasn't about replacing Michael or recreating past lives. It was about building something new that honored all our stories while writing its own.
When he stepped closer, it felt like choice rather than fate. His free hand came up to touch my face with a surgeon's precision, and I let myself lean into the contact.
“I'm not ready to take off the ring,” he whispered, but the words held no apology.
“I know,” I replied simply. “It's part of who you are. Part of what makes you the person I'm falling in love with in this life.”
His smile bloomed slowly, like sunrise over ancient seas. When he kissed me, it tasted of wine and starlight and possibility – not a memory of past loves, but a promise of future ones.
Later, as we walked through nighttime streets, Eli talked about Michael's favorite buildings, about memories that had shaped him, about dreams for future projects. His wedding ring still caught streetlight, but now it felt like part of our story rather than a barrier to it.
“He would have loved the sustainable materials exhibit,” Eli said thoughtfully. “But not as much as I loved the integration of old and new elements.” The distinction felt important – honoring memory while claiming his own perspective.
I listened, understanding that love wasn't a fixed quantity but an expanding universe, always making room for more light. Each story Eli shared felt like a gift – trust given freely rather than extracted by fate.
“I don't know if I can do this again,” he whispered, but his hands reached for mine like they'd done in every lifetime. “I don't know if I'm strong enough to love and lose again.”
My fingers intertwined with his, the gesture as natural as breathing. Even now, even with all his fears, his touch felt like coming home. “We don't have to know everything,” I said softly. “Some patterns are worth the risk.”
The city stretched below us, its lights reflecting stars that had watched us find and lose each other countless times. But this felt different – not fate or destiny, but choice. Real choice, with full knowledge of what it might cost.
Eli's eyes met mine, carrying centuries of love and loss, but also something new. Something uniquely his, uniquely now. His hand trembled slightly in mine, but he didn't pull away.
“May I kiss you?” I asked quietly, giving him the power to choose, to decide, to write this story his own way.
Time seemed to pause as he searched my face. I saw the moment his decision crystallized – not forgetting Michael, not ignoring our past lives, but choosing to make room for something new alongside all of it.
His nod was slow, deliberate. When I leaned in, he met me halfway – a choice made together, a new pattern beginning.
The kiss was soft at first – tentative, like two people who had known each other across lifetimes yet were still learning each other's rhythms. It held the weight of unspoken histories, of moments remembered and forgotten, of connections that transcended time. His lips were warm, familiar in a way that defied logic, yet entirely present – anchored in this moment, this breath, this singular connection. The cool metal of his wedding ring pressed against my cheek, a reminder of complexity, of layers – not a barrier, but a part of the intricate tapestry of who he was.
I expected hesitation. A moment of restraint. But Eli kissed me harder, deepening it before I had the chance to fully register what was happening. His body pressed against mine, the warmth of him seeping through our clothes, his fingers threading into my hair like he was relearning every strand, every forgotten detail of me.
I gasped against his lips when his teeth grazed my bottom lip, a quiet, desperate sound breaking from my throat. That sound undid something in him. He let out a soft curse, hands firm as they pulled me closer, molding me against him, chest to chest, heart to heart. It wasn’t just passion—it was memory and longing and the unbearable weight of time collapsing between us.
The city stretched around us, an expanse of lights and movement, but here, on this rooftop, we existed in a quiet, suspended moment. The world below continued, oblivious, and the stars above burned with an indifference that should have made me feel small but instead made this feel monumental.
“Alex,” he whispered against my mouth, my name half a breath, half a prayer.
His hands moved, ghosting down my sides, hesitant yet determined. I knew the moment his fingers curled around my waist that we were moving past the point of no return. A quiet, slow-burning panic flickered inside me—not fear, not regret, but the gravity of what this meant. We had spent lifetimes missing each other, wanting but never reaching. Now, we were on the precipice of changing that.
I pulled back just enough to look into his eyes. They were impossibly dark, reflecting the night sky, filled with things I didn’t dare name. “Are you sure?” I asked, voice raw.
He exhaled shakily, his forehead pressing against mine. “I’m tired of feeling this way,” he admitted. “Tired of wanting and never letting myself have. I need this, Alex. I need you.”
Something broke open inside me. Maybe it was the weight of the past, maybe it was the future stretching before us, full of unknowns and second chances. But in that moment, I knew what he meant. I knew what he was asking for—what he was offering.
Our mouths crashed together again, a little desperate now, a little reckless. My hands fumbled at his shirt, pushing it up, fingers tracing the bare skin beneath. He shivered at my touch, a sharp intake of breath making my stomach clench. He was here, he was real, he was mine —at least for tonight.
We sank onto the rooftop, the rough texture of concrete under my back barely registering. Eli was everywhere—his mouth at my throat, his hands mapping the planes of my body with a kind of reverence that made my breath hitch. Every touch, every brush of his lips against my skin, was a declaration. We had spent lifetimes apart, and now he was memorizing me all over again.
I reached between us, palming him through his jeans, feeling the hard length of him straining against the fabric. He let out a sharp, unguarded groan that went straight to my gut. My own cock ached, pressing against the confinement of my pants, and suddenly everything felt too tight, too much.
“Fuck,” he breathed against my neck. “Alex?—”
I sat up just enough to reach for my pocket, pulling out the small bottle of lube I kept there. I wasn’t anticipating this—not exactly—but some part of me had always been waiting for him, hoping for this moment, however impossible it had seemed before tonight.
Eli watched me, his chest rising and falling rapidly, his lips swollen and wet. His fingers trembled as he reached for his belt, unfastening it with an urgency that made heat pool low in my stomach. I pushed my jeans down, freeing my cock, the cool night air a sharp contrast to the heat of his hands when they closed around me.
I bit back a moan, my fingers tightening on his hip. “Eli?—”
“Let me,” he whispered, eyes dark with intent.
I let him. I let him touch me, stroke me, his fingers wrapping around the base of my cock with a confidence that felt both familiar and brand new. He kissed me again, swallowing the sounds I made as his hand moved, slow and deliberate. My hips bucked, seeking more, but he was unhurried, savoring every reaction.
“You make the best noises,” he murmured, lips grazing my jaw.
I laughed breathlessly. “And you’re taking your damn time.”
He smirked but didn’t argue. Instead, he reached for the lube, slicking his fingers before pressing them between my legs, teasing at my entrance. I let out a shuddering breath as he circled my hole, the sensation making my thighs tense before I forced myself to relax into it.
“Still with me?” he asked, voice low, intimate.
I nodded. “Never left.”
He pressed in, just one finger at first, moving carefully, watching my face for any sign of discomfort. There was none. Just the slow stretch, the ache of anticipation, the undeniable rightness of this. Another finger joined the first, scissoring, opening me up. My cock throbbed against my stomach, my body alive with sensation, every nerve ending tuned to him .
“Eli,” I gasped, hips shifting, seeking more.
He understood. He always did.
He slicked himself quickly, positioning himself between my legs, his cock pressing insistently against me. I locked my legs around his waist, drawing him in, anchoring him to me. His forehead rested against mine as he pushed forward, the slow slide sending a shockwave through me.
I clenched around him, overwhelmed, overstimulated, utterly undone. He cursed softly, his breath ragged as he held still, giving me time.
“You okay?” he whispered, brushing damp hair from my forehead.
I laughed shakily. “Better than okay. Move.”
He did. Slow at first, letting me feel every inch of him, every pulse of him inside me. Then faster, deeper, our bodies moving together in a rhythm older than time. The rooftop faded, the world disappeared, until there was only this—only us.
His hands gripped my hips, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted like forever. His cock drove into me with increasing urgency, the friction, the stretch, the intensity of it unraveling me completely. My own cock throbbed, aching for release, and then his hand was between us, stroking me in time with his thrusts.
I came first, pleasure crashing through me in waves, my back arching, my breath catching in my throat as I spilled between us. The tight clench of my body sent Eli over the edge, his hips stuttering, his breath a broken gasp against my lips as he found his own release.
For a long moment, neither of us moved. Our bodies were tangled, our skin damp with sweat, the night air cooling the heat between us.
Then he laughed softly, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. “Well. That happened.”
I smiled, threading my fingers through his hair. “Yeah. It did.”
He pulled back just enough to look at me, his expression softer now, unguarded. “No regrets?”
“None,” I said. “You?”
He hesitated, then shook his head. “No. Just… hope.”
I kissed him again, slow and deep. “This time, we have a choice. This time, we have knowledge. Maybe this time, we finally get it right.”