I remembered his hands on me. And I remembered wanting them there.
The memory hit Elara two nights after their confrontation about the contract. She was in bed, trying to sleep, when Kairos's confession echoed through her mind: "Month six. I kissed you. You pulled back. I kissed you again anyway."
And suddenly, she wasn't in her bed anymore.
She was seven months pregnant, her body heavy and uncomfortable, sitting on the couch in the library with her swollen feet propped on pillows.
FLASHBACK: SEVEN MONTHS PREGNANT
The ache in her lower back was relentless. Elara shifted position for the hundredth time, trying to find comfort that didn't exist. Her belly was enormous, the baby active and restless, pressing against her ribs and bladder simultaneously.
"You're in pain."
She looked up to find Kairos in the doorway, tie loosened, jacket gone. It was late—past ten. She hadn't expected to see him.
"Just uncomfortable," she said, trying to smile. "Comes with the territory."
He moved into the room, his eyes scanning her face with an intensity that made her breath catch. "Have you tried elevating your feet? Heat therapy?"
"Both. Nothing helps."
Kairos was quiet for a moment, something warring in his expression. Then: "I could... would you let me try something?"
"What?"
"Massage. For your feet, your calves. It might help with circulation. Reduce swelling."
It was practical. Professional. A solution to a medical problem.
So why did his offer make her pulse spike?
"You don't have to do that," Elara said carefully. "I'm fine."
"You're clearly not fine." He moved closer, already rolling up his sleeves. "Let me help. Please."
The please undid her. She nodded.
Kairos sat at the other end of the couch, gently lifting her feet into his lap. His hands were warm, careful, achingly gentle as they wrapped around her swollen ankle.
"Tell me if anything hurts," he said, his thumb pressing into her arch.
It didn't hurt. It felt like heaven.
His hands worked methodically—finding pressure points, kneading tired muscles, easing tension she didn't realize she'd been carrying. Elara's eyes drifted closed, a small sound of relief escaping before she could stop it.
Kairos's hands stilled for just a moment. Then continued, perhaps with slightly more pressure.
"Better?" His voice was lower than before. Rougher.
"Much." She couldn't quite open her eyes. "You're good at this."
"I took a class. When I knew you'd be pregnant. Wanted to know how to help if you needed it."
The information pierced something in her chest. He'd taken a prenatal massage class. For her. Because he'd anticipated she might need this.
"That was... thoughtful," she managed.
His hands moved higher. From her feet to her calves. Firm, steady pressure that made her muscles sing with relief.
"You do so much," Kairos said quietly, his hands still working. "Carrying him. Growing him. Your body is doing something extraordinary. The least I can do is help ease the discomfort."
"It's your baby. I'm just the—" She stopped herself before saying surrogate. The word felt wrong suddenly. Clinical.
"You're not just anything." His hands had reached her knees now, thumbs pressing into the tender spots on either side. "You're... you're remarkable, Elara."
Her eyes opened at that. Found him watching her with an expression that stole her breath. Hunger. Need. Restrained desire.
"Kairos—"
"I should stop." But his hands didn't stop. They moved higher, to her thighs, the touch shifting from therapeutic to something else entirely. "Tell me to stop."
She should. Should end this before it became something they couldn't take back.
"Don't," she whispered instead.
The air between them changed. Charged. Electric.
Kairos moved, shifting up the couch until his face was level with hers. One hand cupped her jaw, thumb brushing her cheek with devastating tenderness.
"I can't stop thinking about you," he confessed, his voice barely audible. "Can't stop wanting—"
She kissed him.
Pulled him down by his collar and pressed her lips to his, seven months of tension and loneliness and desperate need pouring into the contact.
He made a sound—surprise or relief or surrender—and kissed her back. Deep, consuming, careful of her pregnant belly but hungry everywhere else.
His hands tangled in her hair. Hers pulled at his shirt. They were desperate, fumbling, trying to get closer despite the physical impossibility of her condition.
"Bedroom," she gasped against his mouth. "I can't—not on the couch—"
He scooped her up with shocking ease, one arm under her knees, the other supporting her back. Carried her down the hallway to her room like she weighed nothing.
Laid her on the bed with such reverence it made tears prick her eyes.
"Are you sure?" he asked, hovering over her, his expression tortured. "We don't have to—"
"I'm sure." She pulled him down. "I want this. I want you."
What followed was intense, careful, passionate. His hands mapping her changed body with something like worship. His mouth following, pressing kisses to her swollen belly, her breasts, her throat. Whispering words she couldn't quite hear but felt in her bones.
And when he finally moved inside her—slow, gentle, constantly checking her comfort—she felt something crack open in her chest. Something that had nothing to do with physical pleasure and everything to do with the way he looked at her like she was precious. Like she mattered beyond the contract, beyond the arrangement, beyond everything.
Afterward, he held her. Pulled her carefully against his chest, one hand protective over her belly where their son grew.
"I'm sorry," he whispered into her hair. "I shouldn't have—"
"Don't apologize." She placed her hand over his. "I wanted this. Wanted you."
"It doesn't change anything," he said, but his voice lacked conviction. "The contract still stands."
"I know." She did know. But some foolish part of her hoped anyway.
"Elara—" He sounded tortured. "I can't—we can't—"
"I know," she repeated, cutting off whatever excuse he was preparing. "It's okay. I understand."
But she didn't. Not really. Because the way he held her felt like more than sex. The way his hand curved protectively over her belly felt like more than obligation.
It felt like love.
Even if neither of them could say it.
PRESENT DAY
Elara gasped, her eyes flying open, her body shaking with the force of the returned memory.
She remembered. Remembered everything. His hands on her body. The way he'd looked at her like she was something precious. The way he'd held her afterward like letting go would break them both.
And she remembered her own feelings. The way her heart had hammered not just with desire but with hope. The way she'd let herself believe, just for that night, that maybe the contract didn't matter. That maybe he felt what she felt.
That maybe she wasn't alone in falling in love.
Her breathing was ragged, her body flushed with remembered heat and present grief. Because she'd loved him then. Had been falling in love with him even as he'd insisted it meant nothing. Even as he'd maintained boundaries she'd desperately wanted to cross.
She'd loved him. And he'd thrown her away anyway.
The betrayal felt fresh now, sharper with memory. Not just an abstract hurt but a lived experience. She could feel the ghost of his hands on her skin. Could hear his whispered apologies that had meant nothing when morning came.
Elara grabbed her phone, hands shaking, and texted before she could think better of it:
"I remembered."
His response came within seconds:
"What did you remember?"
She stared at the message. Could lie. Could say something vague. Could protect herself from this vulnerability.
She typed the truth:
"Month seven. The library. Your hands on my feet. What came after."
The typing indicator appeared, disappeared, appeared again. Finally:
"Can I come to your room?"
She should say no. Should process this privately. Should maintain distance.
"Yes."
Two minutes later, he knocked softly. She opened the door to find him in sleep pants and nothing else, his hair disheveled, his eyes wide with desperate hope and terrible fear.
"You remembered," he said, not a question.
"Yes."
"All of it?"
"Enough." She stepped back, letting him enter. Closing the door behind them felt significant. Intimate. Dangerous.
They stood in her dark room, facing each other like adversaries or lovers or both.
"What else do you remember?" Kairos asked, his voice careful. Like he was afraid of the answer.
Elara took a breath. Let herself be vulnerable. Let herself admit the truth that would either free them or destroy what fragile peace they'd built.
"Enough," she whispered. "I remember enough to know I was falling in love with you. That I wanted it to mean something. That I let myself hope it did."
His face transformed. Hope and agony warring for dominance. "Elara—"
"And you broke me anyway." The words came out hollow. "You held me that night and made me feel like I mattered. And then you threw me out like I was nothing. Like that night meant nothing. Like I meant nothing."
"It did mean something." He moved closer, not touching but close enough that she felt his heat. "That night meant everything. Every moment with you meant everything."
"Then why?" The question broke on a sob. "If it meant so much, if you felt what I felt, why did you still—"
"Because I was terrified." His voice cracked. "Because loving you meant losing everything else. And I didn't know how to choose. Didn't believe I deserved to choose you over the empire I'd built."
"So you chose the empire."
"So I chose the empire." He ran a hand through his hair, the gesture helpless. "And I've regretted it every single day since."
Elara wrapped her arms around herself, trying to hold together pieces that kept fracturing. "I remember how you touched me. How you looked at me. How your hands shook when you held our son the first time. I remember all of it now, Kairos. The good and the terrible. And I don't know what to do with it."
"Tell me what you need." His hands clenched and unclenched at his sides, clearly fighting the urge to touch her. "Tell me how to fix this."
"You can't fix it." She looked at him, this man who'd loved her and destroyed her simultaneously. "You can't undo what you did. Can't erase the fact that you chose wrong. That you broke me when I was already vulnerable."
"I know." He was openly crying now, tears streaming down his face without shame. "I know. And if I could go back—if I could choose differently—"
"But you can't." She stepped closer, drawn by something she couldn't name. "We can't go back. Can only go forward from here. From this moment. With all this knowledge between us."
"Forward," he repeated, the word tentative. Hopeful. "Does that mean—"
"I don't know what it means." She was close enough to touch him now. Close enough to see the tears on his face, the devastation in his eyes, the love he'd tried so hard to hide. "But I remember loving you. And I think—" Her voice broke. "I think I never stopped."
His breath hitched. "Even after everything?"
"Even after everything." The admission felt like jumping off a cliff. "Even knowing what you did. Even remembering how you broke me. Some stupid, masochistic part of me still loves you. And I hate myself for it."
"Don't." His hands came up, cupping her face with such gentleness it made fresh tears fall. "Don't hate yourself for feeling. For being brave enough to love despite everything. That's not weakness. That's strength I'll never have."
She leaned into his touch despite herself. Despite everything. "What are we doing, Kairos?"
"I don't know." His thumb wiped away her tears. "Building something new from broken pieces? Learning how to love each other properly this time? Trying to become people who deserve each other?"
"Do you think we can?"
"I think—" He rested his forehead against hers. "I think we have to try. Because the alternative is living without you. And I've done that for three years. I can't do it again."
They stood like that, foreheads touching, breathing the same air, caught between past pain and possible future.
"I'm still angry," Elara whispered.
"I know."
"And hurt."
"I know."
"And terrified that I'm making the same mistake. That you'll choose wrong again when it matters."
"I won't." His hands tightened on her face. "I swear to you, Elara. The next time I have to choose—I choose you. I choose us. I choose this family. Every single time."
She wanted to believe him. God, she wanted to believe him so badly it hurt.
"Prove it," she said finally. "Not with words. With actions. Show me that you've changed. That you're worth the risk I'm taking by staying."
"I will." He pressed a kiss to her forehead, chaste and reverent. "Every day for the rest of my life, I'll prove it."
"And if you can't?" She pulled back to look at him. "If you fail? If you choose wrong again?"
"Then you leave." His voice was steady despite the tears. "And I let you go. No fights. No manipulation. Just... acceptance that I had my chance and I wasted it."
The promise should have reassured her. Instead, it just made her sadder. Because she could see in his eyes that he believed failure was inevitable. That he was setting himself up for redemption he didn't think he deserved.
"Go to bed, Kairos," she said gently. "We're both exhausted. This conversation needs daylight, not darkness."
He nodded, reluctant, already moving toward the door. Paused with his hand on the handle.
"Thank you," he said quietly.
"For what?"
"For remembering. For telling me. For giving me another chance to be better."
He left before she could respond.
And Elara stood alone in her room, her body still humming with remembered touch, her heart still aching with remembered love.
She'd loved him then. Loved him now. Would probably love him through whatever came next.
The only question was whether love would be enough.
It hadn't been the first time.
But maybe—just maybe—it could be the second.