Page 32 of Her Unending Horizon

His voice, low and rough through the wood, sent a stupid little flare through my chest.

“Yeah?” I croaked.

“You want one of your old toothbrush heads?” he asked. “I’ve still got them. And toothpaste. Or you could just use the master bath. A lot of your stuff’s still in there.”

I closed my eyes and thunked my forehead gently against the mirror.

Of course.

“Right,” I muttered to my reflection. “Because you’re a genius, Chloe.”

Aloud, I said, “Uh, yeah. That would be great. Thanks. And, Zarek?”

“Yeah?” His voice was closer now, like he’d leaned against the doorframe.

“When I’m done showering,” I said, trying for light and landing somewhere near bossy, “I’m re-taping your ribs.”

There was a long pause.

“I know,” he said quietly. “I wouldn’t expect anything else.”

The sound of his footsteps moved away down the hall, toward the kitchen.

I watched my face in the mirror as tears crept up out of nowhere, blurring his retreating reflection in my mind. Normally, Zarek would have laughed at my threat. Made some crack about Nurse Ratchet and “gentle hands, sweetheart.” Normally, he wouldn’t have needed to get the hell beaten out of him in the first place.

What in the world was going on inside his head?

I took a breath, squared my shoulders, and cracked the door just enough to snag the spare toothbrush and toothpaste he’d left on the floor outside. He’d chosen my old electric base, with a new head still in the package. My name was written in Sharpie at the bottom in his blocky handwriting.

Possessive and stupidly tender.

I clutched it a second longer than necessary, then took it with me down the hall.

The master bedroom waited like a ghost.

I hesitated on the threshold, heart pounding. His weight had left a shallow dent on his side of the bed, the comforter already smoothed back over it. The nightstand still held my lamp, my stupid little owl coaster, the worn paperback I’d been half-reading when everything fell apart. A hair tie sat in the dish like I’d just taken it off yesterday.

I showered quickly, partly to save hot water and partly because if I lingered, I was going to fall apart. I scrubbed away the ink from my fingers and the image of his bruised ribs from behind my eyes.

When I stepped out, wrapped in one of the big navy towels he liked, I opened my side of the closet on instinct.

Most of my clothes were gone. I’d taken them with me when I left, needing the finality. But a few things remained—stragglers, forgotten pieces clinging to hangers like memories.

My hand landed on a simple dress. Soft cotton, dark blue with tiny white flowers. Nothing special.

I pulled it off the hanger and slipped it on.

In the mirror, I looked… like me. Not the wreck I’d been when I moved out. Not some polished version of myself either. Just Chloe. Hair damp around my shoulders. Eyes tired but clearer.

Maybe that was enough for this morning.

The coffee smell hit me before I reached the kitchen, and followed it like a bloodhound who’d just scented prey. Zarek stood at the counter, moving stiffly as he poured coffee into two mugs. The butterfly bandage over his eyebrow looked angrier in the daylight. The bruising around his eye had deepened into an ugly bloom.

He saw me and froze for a second.

His gaze tracked from my damp hair to the dress, and something in his expression softened, then sharpened. His hands trembled just enough that a thin line of coffee sloshed over the rim onto the counter.

“Sorry,” he muttered, reaching reflexively for a paper towel.