Married to Mr. Laurent
Chapter Eight: The Bruises He Didn't Leave
~ Sometimes the worst scars aren't the ones that show ~
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It had been three days since that night.
Three days since Kairo touched him like he might break — not in rage, but in reverence. Since he whispered promises Elián didn't ask for. Since he stood trembling, vulnerable, in a dim corridor while Elián refused to say yes or no.
And now, in the quiet of their shared home, that memory lingered between them like smoke. Not thick enough to choke, but impossible to ignore.
Elián sat in the garden at the back of the Laurent estate — a place he rarely went to before. Back then, he had been a stranger in this house. A shadow trailing behind the man who only saw him when he needed someone to yell at.
But things were changing.
Slowly.
Kairo watched from the upstairs window. He didn't come down. Not yet. He'd learned now — Elián didn't want him hovering.
Didn't want his concern served like leftovers after months of indifference.
So he waited.
He waited until the sun dipped low, until the wind picked up and Elián's thin cardigan trembled against his body. Then, and only then, did Kairo step outside, a thicker coat in his hand and hesitation in his every step.
Elián didn't look at him when he approached.
"You'll catch a cold," Kairo said, draping the coat around his shoulders.
"I like the cold," Elián replied, but didn't shrug it off.
A small win.
"I made dinner."
Elián snorted lightly. "You mean your chef did."
"I helped," Kairo offered, his voice shy.
Elián turned to look at him, one brow raised. "You helped?"
Kairo rubbed the back of his neck. "I told him what not to make."
Elián laughed — not because it was funny, but because it was ridiculous. Kairo Laurent, the cold CEO with perfect suits and a personal driver, now acting like some awkward husband trying to win his partner back.
"You're trying too hard," Elián said.
"Then tell me to stop."
"...I can't."
Kairo exhaled, sinking onto the bench beside him, not too close, but not far either.
"You were right," he said softly.
"About what?"
"You don't owe me forgiveness. You don't owe me anything."
Elián looked down at his hands. "Then why are you still here?"
"Because even if I never deserve you, I want to be better. Not just for you. For myself."
That silence returned. Thick, heavy.
And then Elián whispered, "You used to hit the wall beside me so I'd flinch."
Kairo closed his eyes.
"You'd slam doors when I breathed too loud. You'd walk in with Lucien and look through me like I didn't exist."
"I know," Kairo said, his voice cracking. "And I'll hate myself for that every day."
"I don't want you to hate yourself," Elián said. "I just want you to see the damage you did… and never do it again."
"I won't."
Elián turned toward him now, eyes glossy but fierce. "Do you know what hurts the most?"
Kairo shook his head.
"It's not the bruises," Elián said. "It's the mornings after. When you acted like nothing happened. Like I was crazy for feeling broken."
"I'm not that man anymore," Kairo swore. "I swear to you."
"I want to believe you."
"Then tell me what to do."
Elián stood, wrapping the coat tighter around himself. "You don't fix people you break with apologies and flowers. You fix them by standing beside them when they're still bleeding."
Kairo followed him back inside. No grand gestures. No touches.
Just footsteps.
Side by side.
---
That night, Elián sat at the long dinner table alone. Kairo didn't join — he sent a tray to his own room instead. A silent message: I won't force myself into your space.
Elián pushed the food around his plate, appetite gone. It wasn't about the food. It was about the storm in his chest. The way his heart fought itself — one half aching to be loved, the other remembering the pain.
He got up and wandered the house, barefoot, drawn by a quiet pull toward the west wing — the only part of the mansion he'd never explored.
The door to Kairo's study was ajar.
He peered in.
Kairo was there, seated on the floor, books scattered around him. He wasn't working. He wasn't wearing a suit. Just a soft black shirt and sweatpants. A man unarmed.
He looked up.
"You okay?" he asked gently.
"I couldn't sleep."
Kairo stood slowly. "Me neither."
There was a long pause. Then Elián stepped inside.
"What's all this?"
"I wanted to redecorate this room," Kairo said. "Make it yours."
Elián blinked. "Mine?"
"You're always in the library. I thought maybe… you'd like your own reading room. Or art space. Or… I don't know. A room that's yours, in this house that used to feel like a prison."
Elián walked further in. His fingers traced a dusty shelf. His eyes caught the blueprint sketches on the table — soft colors, cozy lighting, cushions instead of stiff chairs.
"You thought of all this?"
Kairo nodded. "It doesn't change the past. But maybe it helps change the future."
Elián turned to him slowly. "Why now?"
"Because I finally realized you were never the problem."
"And Lucien?"
"Gone," Kairo said firmly. "He was never what I needed. Just a reflection of what I thought I deserved."
"And what do you think you deserve now?"
Kairo's voice broke. "A chance to heal what I destroyed."
Elián stepped closer. Their hands didn't touch. But their breaths did.
"Then stop trying to fix me," Elián whispered. "Just hold space for the version of me that still doesn't trust you."
"I will."
"You won't run?"
"Never again."
A fragile silence followed.
And then, for the first time, Elián whispered, "Good night, Kairo."
Not Mr. Laurent. Not cold bastard.
Just Kairo.
And it sounded like hope.
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To be continued in Chapter Nine – "Where Healing Hurts"