After laughing, his tone beca noticeably more cheerful, "With this ghastly appearance, what can I do to you? Do you need to be so frightened?"
Alia glared at him annoyedly, but rembering he couldn’t see, her glare was in vain, so she spoke up, "Out of the blue, you say you want to touch soone’s face, wouldn’t that startle anyone?"
"I just..." His smiling face gradually beca serious again, and his deeply set features regained their earnest solemnity as he spoke in a low voice, "I feel like it’s been too long since I’ve seen you... My mory is still of us in our teens, back then, you were bright and beautiful, pure and lovely, and countless boys in the school were vying for you..."
At this point, Alia thought of the serial novel on so website that was still being updated.
It just so happened that it was currently depicting a scene where the female lead receives love letters from other boys in school, but the male lead intercepts them publicly, forcing the pursuer to swear on the spot—that he would never harass the female lead again or else he would be expelled from the school.
Now, that would be considered outright bullying in school! He’s just like a gang leader!
Actually, if Christopher could see, and he took the effort to follow that serial novel, he would probably be able to retrieve all the lost mories.
Unfortunately, he couldn’t see.
After her thoughts fluttered for a few seconds, Alia regained her composure and said leisurely, "I am still bright and beautiful, pure and lovely now!"
"You’re a mother now."
"So what?" Alia felt a sudden displeasure at his words—it turns out, she too cared about how others perceived her.
"Are you implying that because I’m a mother now, I’ve beco old and faded, destroying the perfect image of Alia Garcia in your mind?"
Although it was all about one person, she still felt annoyed.
Christopher also picked up on sothing and said with a tone of amusent, "Alia, are you jealous of yourself?"
"Of course not!"
"Then... can I or can I not?"
The conversation circled back and Alia clutched the strap of her bag, with her delicate and radiant features showing hesitation—her heart was hesitant too.
What was their relationship, anyway?
She had always regarded this man as a friend, as the father of her child, and thus she patiently visited him to cheer him up and encourage him to co-operate with the doctor’s treatnt.
But as things continued this way, not to ntion what others thought about their relationship, even she herself felt the boundaries becoming more and more blurred.
Thinking of what Snow had said today, as if to prove sothing, she steeled her heart and refused, "No! There should be no intimacy between n and won who are not related. What are you touching?! You better rest."
Afterwards, she turned and left.
Christopher’s voice ca from behind, "Alia, are you running away? Are you afraid you won’t be able to resist forgiving , or even... fall in love with again?"
She spun around quickly, "How could that be! If you could rember what you did to before, you wouldn’t forgive yourself, so how could I easily forget? How could I fall in love with you again?"
"If you’re not afraid, then it’s just touching my face, what’s there to resist?"
"What kind of n and won ask to touch each other’s faces under normal circumstances?"
"Isn’t it because I can’t see?"
"..."
"Alia... I have to go back on the operating table tomorrow, just consider it granting a wish of mine."
Alia took a deep breath, enduring, hesitating, struggling, wanting to just leave, yet also feeling like her evasion might really signify guilt...
No, she wasn’t guilty.
Any feelings she had for this man had died five years ago.
Touch, then. What’s to be afraid of?
She convinced herself, the more openhearted, the less there is to fear.
So she turned around and returned, tossing her bag onto a chair, and walked over to the bed with a commanding presence, "How do you want to touch? Your hand can’t even move."
Seeing that she had changed her mind and co back, Mr. Hart was filled with a surge of emotions but dared not show too much on his face.
When she questioned his inability to move his hand, Mr. Hart hastened to clarify, "Who said that? My hand... look, it can move a bit."
To illustrate his point, he tried lifting his hand that rested on the edge of the bed.
Alia looked down in surprise, "Your hand can move now?"
"Yeah, but I can’t lift it completely, just like this..." He demonstrated, showing how he could lift it from the elbow.
Alia comnted, "Looks like a beckoning cat."
"..."
Since he couldn’t lift his hand all the way, Alia would have to accommodate him by leaning in.
She sat down on a chair, leaned forward, deliberately held her breath, and said in a cool tone, "Hurry up and touch..."
Mr. Hart’s beckoning hand slowly lifted.
But since he couldn’t move his upper arm, he could only move his fingers back and forth, brushing against the woman’s hair a few tis.
Alia’s hair was stroked by his fingers, eliciting an indescribable sense of awkwardness and discomfort.
After several attempts, Christopher too felt awkward, "Can’t you... help a little?"
The woman didn’t respond, only let out a particularly dissatisfied sigh, then lifted her hand to catch his palm, hesitated, and placed it against her cheek.
Christopher’s heart clenched the mont her hand reached for his, his entire body stiffening.
But as his fingers touched her soft and smooth skin, that tension seed ironed out, and he relaxed imdiately...
This was Alia...
Waking up after so many days, it was only at this mont that he truly felt the presence of the woman he loved.
All previous sounds lingering in his ears seed like intangible dreams.
Silence settled in the sickroom.
As Christopher’s fingers began to explore, inch by inch, Alia’s heart tightened, and every cell in her body seed closed off, rendered inoperative.
She tried to keep her breathing even, to keep every part of her face immobile as though the hand had never passed over it.
But heaven knows, the tickling and awkward sensation was torturing her dreadfully.
The warm touch crossed her cheek, passing her eyebrows, brushed her eyelashes, climbed her nose bridge, and then slowly descended, touching her soft lips.
Alia’s heart raced, yet she had to suppress her breathing, hoping he would finish quickly.
But Christopher was not going to rush.
He caressed as if admiring an invaluable artifact, as if wanting to touch every molecule into place, to study thoroughly—with a heart of awe and reverence, he worshipped completely.
This face had been etched into his mory for a long ti.
So even though he couldn’t see, he could judge its shape through the sensations at his fingertips.
"Soft, smooth skin... gracefully arched eyebrows... long lashes like little brushes... nose bridge... um, high and flawless... lips—"
As he studied, he also articulated the "scenery" beneath his hands, and when his fingertips touched the woman’s lips, his voice slowly ceased.
Lips...
Impossibly soft and full, as if touching the finest satin, or holding a piece of delectable jelly.
He couldn’t help but let his imagination run wild, rembering the scene of their first kiss.
"Alia... you—"
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