Page 30 of Her Unending Horizon

Chloe was on her feet in an instant. “Are your ribs taped?”

“What? No. They’re fine.”

She didn’t bother arguing. She just stepped closer—so close I could see the flecks of gold in her irises—and grabbed the hem of my T-shirt.

“Chloe—”

“Don’t.” Her voice shook just enough to warn me not to fight her.

She lifted my shirt carefully. Cool air hit bruised skin.

Her sharp inhale sounded like a stab.

“Well, that explains your groaning,” she murmured. “Zarek, this is bad.”

I glanced down. The entire left side of my rib cage was a mess of purpling shadows and angry red, the kind of bruising that promised I’d feel every breath for days.

“I’ve had worse,” I said automatically.

“That doesn’t make this okay,” she snapped.

I opened my mouth to tell her again that it was fine, that I’d walk it off like everything else. Before I could, she let my shirt fall and stepped back, squaring her shoulders like she’d made a decision.

“That’s it,” she said. “I’m staying.”

The words hit me like another punch. “Staying?”

“Here,” she clarified. “Tonight, at least. In the guest room.” She held up a hand when my heart leapt at the thought of her in our bed. “Guest room, Zarek. I’m not…” She swallowed. “I’m not ready for anything else. But you’re not patching yourself up alone.”

“You don’t have to⁠—”

“I know I don’t have to,” she cut in. “I want to. You’d do the same for me.”

She was right. I would. I had. Every time she’d come home from an appointment pale and shaking, every time she’d curled into me in the dark and tried not to cry, I’d held her and whispered that we’d figure it out.

Now she was standing in my too-clean living room, looking at my bruised ribs and busted face like I was the one who needed care.

I didn’t deserve it.

But I wanted it so badly it hurt.

“Okay,” I said finally, the fight going out of me. “Yeah. You can stay.”

Her shoulders loosened a fraction. “Good. Now, where’s your first aid kit? And don’t tell me it’s at the station.”

I gave a humorless huff. “Hall closet. Top shelf.”

She nodded and moved past me, the familiar scent of her shampoo trailing after her. For a second, I closed my eyes and just breathed it in.

My wife was here.

Not in a memory, not in a dream, not on the other end of a phone line I was too scared to call.

Here.

Staying the night.

To take care of me.