Page 34 of Her Unending Horizon

His eyes snapped to mine. “Chloe⁠—”

“No,” I said, firmer this time. “I didn’t say ‘I do’ to a house, I said ‘I do’ to you. You don’t get to just hand me the house like it’s a consolation prize. I’m done with us slowly falling apart in different rooms, in different homes in different towns.”

He flinched, but didn’t look away.

I took a breath and forced myself to keep going, even though my throat felt too tight for words.

“I’m not saying I can move back in tomorrow,” I said. “I’m not saying we can slap a bandage on this and pretend the last year didn’t happen. But I am saying I’m done trying to do this from an hour away with voicemails and lasagna bribes.”

A humorless huff escaped him. “The lasagna was a strong play.”

“Trenda doesn’t mess around,” I said, mouth twitching. “Neither do I.”

Silence stretched between us, thick and fragile.

I wanted to tell him everything right then. About the OB’s final verdict. About the way my insides had turned to ice when the doctor said “I’m afraid…” and “unlikely” and “your body responds as if pregnancy is a threat.” About how I’d named our second lost baby in my head and hated myself for it.

The words rose to my tongue.

He was watching me so closely. If I opened my mouth, they’d come out.

Not yet, something inside me whispered.

He was already staggering under the weight of what he thought he’d failed at. Dropping that on him now would be like handing him a live grenade.

Instead, I stepped back just enough to look him in the eye and rested my palm lightly over his taped ribs.

“One thing at a time,” I said quietly. “Today, we’re going to retape these properly. You’re going to take the painkillers you shoved to the back of the cabinet last year. You are not going to step into a ring with anyone, including toddlers with Nerf bats. And you are going to let me mess up your towels again.”

He blinked. “That’s a lot of rules.”

“I’m very bossy,” I said. “You knew this when you married me.”

Something flickered at the corner of his mouth. Not a full smile. But not nothing.

“I remember,” he murmured.

“Good.” I squeezed his side gently, ignoring his hiss. “Now sit down before you fall down. I can’t carry you to the couch. You’re huge.”

He let me steer him toward the couch, grumbling half-heartedly under his breath, but he went. The tape around his ribs peeked up under his T-shirt where it had shifted in the night. I was going to fix that. I was going to fix whatever I could, even if it was just a strip of athletic tape and a crooked row of dish towels.

He sank onto the cushions with a low groan.

I fetched the first aid kit, scissors, and fresh tape from the hall closet, then came back and knelt beside him.

“Lift,” I ordered gently.

He did, just enough for me to peel away the old tape. His skin was warm under my fingers. The bruises looked worse in daylight, blooming yellow and purple and blue along his side.

I worked carefully, methodically. I focused on the mechanics—angle, pressure, support—because if I thought too hard about how this was the only kind of care I could give him right now, I was going to cry.

When I finished, I sat back on my heels.

“There,” I said. “Good enough to get you through the day.”

He looked down at his side, then at me. “You always were good with tape.”

“Occupational hazard,” I said. “Comes with being the artsy one. And an Avery.”