My mind said stranger. My body said home. I didn't know which to trust.
It started during Leo's bath time, three days after the kitchen incident neither of them had mentioned.
Elara ran the water, testing the temperature with her wrist the way mothers had done for generations. But her hand moved with more certainty than conscious thought—adjusting the tap to precisely the right warmth, adding bubbles until they frothed exactly to chin-height on a three-year-old.
"Boat, Mama!" Leo demanded, already stripping off his dinosaur pajamas.
Elara turned to the toy basket, her hand reaching automatically to the left corner where—
Where a small blue sailboat sat, exactly where her hand had known to find it.
She froze, staring at the toy in her palm. She hadn't seen Leo play with it before. Hadn't consciously noted its location. But her hand had known. Had reached for it with the muscle memory of someone who'd performed this ritual dozens, maybe hundreds of times.
"That's his favorite," Kairos said from the doorway, making her jump. "He won't take a bath without it."
Elara looked down at Leo, already climbing into the tub, reaching for the boat with eager hands. "Left corner," she murmured. "My hand just... knew."
Kairos stepped into the bathroom, leaning against the counter. Close enough to observe but not intrude. "Your body remembers what your mind forgot. The doctors said it might happen. Procedural memory is stored differently than episodic memory."
"Procedural memory," Elara repeated, watching her hands automatically soap a washcloth, knowing without thinking how Leo liked to be washed—quick and efficient, no water in his face, singing the ABC song to distract from the hair washing he hated.
She was singing before she realized it. And Leo was giggling, tilting his head back for the rinse, trusting her completely.
"You used to sing that every night," Kairos said quietly. "He wouldn't let anyone else do bath time. Only you."
The information settled over her like a weight. She'd had this. This intimate ritual with her son. This knowledge of his preferences, his fears, his joys.
And it had been stolen from her.
Or she'd been stolen from it.
"Did I—" Elara's throat tightened. "Was I good at this? Being his mother?"
"You were extraordinary." Kairos's voice was rough with remembered loss. "Natural. Like you'd been born for it. Everyone who met you commented on how in sync you were with him. How you could calm him with just a touch, make him laugh with just a look."
Elara's hands continued their automatic work—rinsing, drying, wrapping Leo in a towel with dinosaurs that he insisted on wearing as a cape. Her body knew every step. Every movement. Every small comfort that made Leo feel loved and safe.
"It feels like cheating," she admitted. "Like my body's remembering a life that doesn't belong to me anymore."
"It does belong to you." Kairos moved closer, not touching but close enough that she felt his presence like heat. "It always has. The accident didn't erase who you were. It just made you forget for a while."
"What if I never fully remember?"
"Then we'll keep doing this. Living our lives. Building new memories on top of the old ones. Until you can't tell where one ends and the other begins."
The casual intimacy of his words—our lives—made her breath catch.
LATER THAT EVENING
Dinner was supposed to be simple. Pasta, sauce from a jar, nothing complicated.
But Elara's hands had other ideas.
She found herself in the kitchen pulling out ingredients without conscious thought. Chicken breast. Lemon. Capers. White wine. Her hands moved with practiced efficiency—pounding the chicken thin, dredging in flour, heating oil to precisely the right temperature.
Chicken piccata. She was making chicken piccata.
She didn't remember deciding to make it. Didn't remember knowing how.
But her hands knew. Knew when to flip the chicken, when to add the wine, how much lemon juice to squeeze without overwhelming the delicate sauce.
Kairos appeared in the kitchen doorway just as she was plating. His entire body went still, his expression transforming into something between shock and painful hope.
"You remembered," he said, his voice barely above a whisper.
Elara looked down at the plates. At the perfectly golden chicken, the glossy sauce, the garnish of parsley her hands had added without consulting her brain.
"No," she said slowly. "My hands did."
She carried the plates to the table where Leo was already sitting, swinging his legs and coloring. Set one in front of Kairos.
He stared at it like she'd given him the world instead of dinner.
"This is—" His throat worked. "This was my favorite. Is my favorite. You used to make it every Friday night. Called it our 'date night at home' when Leo was too young for restaurants."
Date night. Like they'd been a real couple. Like their relationship had been more than a transaction.
Or maybe it had been, in the stolen moments between contract and reality.
"I don't remember that," Elara said, sitting down with her own plate. "But my hands apparently do."
They ate in loaded silence. Leo chattering about his day, oblivious to the emotional undercurrents. Kairos watching her with an intensity that made her skin prickle. Elara trying to reconcile the stranger across the table with the man her body insisted she knew intimately.
"It's perfect," Kairos said finally. "Exactly how you always made it."
"I didn't make it. My muscle memory did."
"Does it matter?" He leaned forward slightly. "Whether your mind remembers or your body does? Either way, some part of you knows me. Knows this life we had."
"Had," Elara emphasized. "Past tense."
"Or present tense." His eyes held hers. "Depending on what you want."
She didn't have an answer for that. Wasn't sure she'd ever have an answer.
But her body kept betraying her. Kept insisting this man, this place, this life was familiar. Was hers.
Even when her mind said she should run.
THROUGHOUT THE WEEK
The body memories multiplied.
Walking through the mansion, Elara's feet automatically avoided the third stair from the top that creaked. Knew which hallway light switch was temperamental. Found Leo's backup stuffed elephant hidden in the linen closet without being told where to look.
"How did you know it was there?" Kairos asked, watching her retrieve it after Leo's bedtime crisis.
"I don't know. I just... knew."
Her hands knew which cabinet held the good coffee. Which drawer had the sharp knives. Where Kairos kept his reading glasses when he took them off to rub his tired eyes.
She moved through the space like a ghost haunting her own life. Familiar but not. Home but not.
"It's disorienting," she admitted to Kairos one evening. They were both in the living room—her reading while Leo played, him working on his laptop nearby. Domestic. Comfortable. Terrifying in its normalcy.
"What is?"
"Knowing things I don't remember learning. My body has its own memories. Its own knowledge. And it contradicts everything my conscious mind tells me about you. About us."
Kairos closed his laptop, giving her his full attention. "What does your mind tell you?"
"That you're dangerous. That you hurt me. That I should be on guard."
"And your body?"
Elara's throat tightened. "That you're safe. That this is home. That I belong here."
The confession hung between them, raw and vulnerable.
"Which one do you trust?" Kairos asked quietly.
"I don't know." She looked at him directly. "My mind has logic. Evidence. Reason to be cautious. But my body—" She stopped, frustrated. "My body keeps reaching for you. Keeps finding you in doorways and hallways. Keeps responding to your presence like it's oxygen."
"Is that a bad thing?"
"It's terrifying."
"Because you might forgive me?" His voice was gentle. "Or because you already have and don't want to admit it?"
Before she could answer, Leo tugged on her hand. "Mama, help me build?"
She let herself be pulled away, grateful for the interruption. But she felt Kairos's eyes on her for the rest of the evening.
Watching. Waiting. Hoping.
THAT NIGHT
The storm rolled in just after midnight.
Thunder cracked like the sky splitting open. Rain lashed against the windows. Lightning illuminated the room in stark, terrifying flashes.
Elara woke with her heart hammering, irrational fear clawing up her throat. She hated storms. Had always hated them. Kairos had told her that, but she'd dismissed it as another lie, another detail weaponized to manipulate her.
But the terror was real. Visceral. Her whole body trembling with each thunderclap.
She tried to breathe through it. Told herself it was just weather. Just noise. Nothing to fear.
Another crash of thunder, so loud the windows rattled.
Elara was moving before conscious thought caught up. Out of bed. Down the hallway. Her feet knowing the path even in darkness.
To Kairos's room.
She knocked—barely, just her knuckles grazing wood—and the door opened instantly.
He stood there in sleep pants and nothing else, hair mussed, eyes immediately alert and focused on her. Like he'd been waiting. Like he'd known she'd come.
"Elara—"
Another crack of thunder. She flinched violently.
Kairos's expression softened. "Come here."
It wasn't a command. It was an invitation. A shelter offered freely.
She stepped into his room. Into his space. Into his arms when he opened them.
He pulled her against his chest, one hand in her hair, the other wrapped around her waist. Solid. Warm. Safe.
"I've got you," he murmured against her temple. "You're safe. It's just thunder."
"I know. It's stupid. I know it can't hurt me."
"It's not stupid. Fear doesn't have to be rational to be real."
He guided her to his bed, lying down and pulling her with him. Tucked her against his side, his arm secure around her, her head on his chest where she could hear his heartbeat—steady, calm, grounding.
Nothing sexual. No wandering hands or suggestive touches. Just... comfort. Protection. Safety in the storm.
"Sleep," he murmured, his fingers stroking her hair in soothing repetition. "I'll keep you safe."
And God help her, she believed him.
She fell asleep to the sound of his heartbeat and the rumble of his voice, humming something low and wordless that her body recognized even if her mind didn't.
A lullaby. He was humming her a lullaby.
MORNING
Elara woke slowly, pulled from sleep by warmth and the unfamiliar weight around her waist.
She opened her eyes to soft morning light filtering through unfamiliar curtains. An arm—muscled, warm, possessive—wrapped around her middle. A body pressed against her back, chest to spine, legs tangled with hers.
Kairos.
She was in his bed. In his arms. And every cell in her body was screaming that this was exactly where she belonged.
His breathing was even and slow against her neck. Still asleep. She should move. Should extract herself and retreat to her own room before he woke and this became even more complicated.
She didn't move.
Couldn't move. Because his arm tightened slightly in his sleep, pulling her closer, and her traitorous body melted into him. Fit against him like puzzle pieces designed to interlock.
This was dangerous. This was everything she'd been trying to avoid.
This felt like home.
Elara lay there in the gray morning light, feeling his chest rise and fall against her back, his arm secure around her waist, his breath warm on her neck.
And she realized with devastating clarity: she didn't want to leave.
Not his bed. Not his room. Not this feeling of safety and belonging that terrified her more than any storm.
Her body had won. Had insisted. Had led her here in the dark and now refused to let her go.
Home, it whispered. This is home.
And for the first time since the accident, since the lies, since everything—
Elara let herself believe it.