Page 29 of Her Unending Horizon

She flinched, and I hated myself a little more.

I scrubbed a hand over my face and immediately regretted it when my knuckles brushed the cut. “Look, the face… it’s nothing. I’ve been going to this place called Cappy’s.”

“I know about Cappy’s,” she said. “Big guy. Runs the boxing gym. Zarek, I grew up here too.”

“This isn’t just boxing,” I admitted, staring down at my hands. “It’s… MMA. Mixed martial arts.”

Her silence was louder than a shout.

“How long?” she asked finally.

I didn’t want to tell her. Didn’t want her to picture me face-down on a mat with some kid half my age tying me into knots. Didn’t want her to know I’d willingly climbed into another kind of fire just to feel pain I could hit back.

“Not long,” I lied. “A few weeks. I tried it. Got in over my head tonight. It’s done.”

Her breath hitched. “Done?”

“Yeah.” I forced myself to look at her. “I’m not going back. It was a dumb idea. I just… needed something.”

“You needed to get beaten up by strangers?” she demanded, anger finally sparking through the worry. “Zarek, you run into burning buildings for a living. You really thought you needed extra danger?”

“It’s not about danger.” I wished I had the words. “It’s… controlled. There are rules. There’s a ref. It’s a fight I understand.”

And it was not a hospital room where a doctor said “I’m sorry” and everything tilted sideways.

She stared at me for a long time. I could see the thoughts moving behind her eyes.

“Has this happened before?” she asked softly. “Like this? You coming home looking like this?”

I thought of JJ. Of the other guy. Of the soft tissue swelling nobody saw because I hid it under clothes and fake ease.

“No,” I lied, letting her think this was the only time. After all, I’d answered her question, it’d never been this bad.

She didn’t look convinced, but she let it drop. For now.

Instead, she glanced around the room. Her gaze moved over the spotless coffee table, the perfectly folded afghan, the vacuum lines in the carpet.

“Why is the house so clean?” she asked.

I blinked. “What?”

She gestured vaguely. “This. All of this. It looks like a model home. It’s not you. The Zarek I know doesn’t make the bed unless it’s laundry day.”

I frowned, really looking for the first time. It did look… organized. Weirdly so. The pillows lined up, everything in its place. The faint smell of lemon cleaner I hadn’t noticed earlier filling the air.

“I don’t know,” I said slowly. “I was just… keeping busy, I guess.”

“Keeping busy,” she repeated. “Like… obsessively vacuuming and lining up magnets busy?”

I bristled. “It’s not a big deal, Chloe. I just cleaned the damn house. You always said you liked it when it looked like this.”

“I liked it when we did it,” she said quietly. “On Saturdays. After you’d track mud through the kitchen and pretend you didn’t.”

That memory hit me square in the chest. I could see it—her hair up in some messy knot, music playing, her hips swaying as she wiped down counters while I pretended to complain but secretly loved every second.

I swallowed hard and looked away. “Do you want something to drink?” I asked abruptly, grasping for something normal. “Lemonade? I’ve got those bottles you like. The fancy ones with real sugar.”

I pushed up off the couch and my ribs screamed. A groan slipped out before I could stop it.