Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
I woke up to the wrong ceiling.
For half a second my brain tried to insist I was in my little Gatlinburg apartment, with its slightly stained popcorn ceiling and the faint hum of my neighbor’s television through the wall.
Then the shadows sharpened into smooth white paint and the familiar crack that ran from the vent toward the corner.
Our house.
My chest squeezed.
I lay there in the guest room, listening hard. The house sounded like it always had in the mornings—quiet, but not empty. The soft tick of the hallway clock. The faint whoosh of the fridge cycling. No clatter of dishes. No water running.
He was awake. I could feel it, the way you can feel a storm before it hits.
I stared at the ceiling another beat, then threw back the covers. The guest bed was made up with fresh sheets, like everything else in the house—too crisp, too laundry fresh.
My man had turned into a Martha Stewart, and it was up to me to find out why.
I slid my feet to the floor and tiptoed into the hallway, ears straining for any sign of Zarek.
Nothing.
Bathroom first. My bladder was not interested in emotional timing.
The hall bathroom was exactly where I’d left it in another life, but not how I’d left it. The counter was clear. No stray contacts case, no beard trimmer, no toothpaste cap abandoned in a tiny glob of minty paste. The hand towel was folded over the bar with geometric precision.
I shut the door and did my business, then turned to the sink and opened the top drawer, muscle memory leading the way.
Empty.
Second drawer. Extra hand towels, neatly rolled. Third drawer, cleaning supplies lined up like soldiers.
I stared at the pristine rows of spray bottles and sponges, then back at my reflection.
“Seriously?” I muttered. “Now you decide to be organized?”
My mouth felt gross. Yesterday’s lasagna and stress. I checked the medicine cabinet, hoping for a spare travel kit, a hotel toothbrush, something.
Nothing.
Gah. What was wrong with me?
Of course there wouldn’t be some secret stash of feminine products and spare toothbrushes. Zarek was the most faithful man on the planet.
Still. A spare toothbrush would’ve been convenient.
I cupped my hand under the faucet and finger-brushed my teeth with water like a college kid who’d forgotten her overnight bag, swishing and spitting until I felt marginally less gross.
There was a knock on the door.
“Chloe?”
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.
He wiped the spilled coffee in one smooth swipe, crumpled the towel, and tossed it. Then he reached for another one and wiped the same spot again.
“The world won’t stop spinning if you leave it alone,” I said quietly.
He paused, paper towel mid-swipe. “What?”
I took the mug he held out to me, our fingers brushing for a breath. “The counter,” I said, nodding toward the perfectly clean space. “It’ll survive a coffee stain.”
He frowned, genuinely puzzled. “I was just cleaning up.”
I didn’t argue. Not directly.
Instead, I glanced at the oven. Three dish towels hung off the handle in a tidy row—edges lined up, seams straight, no hint of a wrinkle.
I walked over, set my coffee down, and deliberately messed them up. I tugged one lower, twisted another slightly, made sure the edges no longer matched.
Behind me, I heard his inhale. His footsteps shifted. The air in the kitchen changed.
He moved like he was about to fix them.
I turned, leaning back against the counter to block his path with my body and a small, crooked smile.
“Leave it,” I said gently.
He stopped. His hand twitched. His gaze bounced from the towels to my face and back again. For a second, he didn’t look like a firefighter who ran into burning buildings or a man who’d gone three rounds with someone at an MMA gym.
He looked… lost.
“What’s going on?” he asked, voice low, almost hoarse. “With me? Because this—” he gestured at the towels, the spotless counters, the vacuum lines in the carpet visible through the doorway— “this isn’t normal.”
My heart cracked a little.
I stepped closer, careful of his ribs, and eased my arms around him. I rested my cheek against his chest, right over his heart, and pressed the softest kiss there.
“I’m not sure,” I admitted. “That’s what we need to figure out. How did it make you feel when I messed up the towels?”
He stiffened.
“For God’s sake, it doesn’t matter how it made me feel,” he snapped, pulling back. “It just proves something’s wrong with me.”
There it was. The jagged edge under the control.
I wanted to argue. To tell him nothing was wrong with him. That he was just coping.
Except that wasn’t entirely true, and we both knew it.
“Zarek,” I said softly. “You went through hell. Twice. And then you watched me fall apart on top of it. Your brain grabbed onto something it could control. Clean floors. Straight lines. Perfectly folded towels. That doesn’t make you broken.”
He shook his head sharply. “You’re healing, Chloe.
You’re drawing again. You sound… lighter.
You came here to take care of me last night and I let you see me like this.
” He waved at his bruised face, his taped ribs, the too-clean house.
His voice turned rough. “Let’s face it. I’ve got problems. I’m spiraling. ”
“Zarek, you’re not—”
“You can keep the house. I should be the one in an apartment.”
My breath caught.
There it was. The thing he’d been circling since the hospital. Since the move. Since the first time he didn’t reach for me in the dark.
I studied his face, the desolation hiding behind the stubborn tilt of his jaw. I stood up straighter and drawled, “Yeah, well, that’s just not going to happen, big guy.”
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.”
He huffed a soft laugh. “True.”
I stood, knees protesting, and held out a hand. “Come on. Coffee’s getting cold. And I fully intend to mess up something else before you can straighten it.”
His fingers closed around mine, warm and solid.
As I helped him to his feet, I realized something that made my stomach flip and my heart calm at the same time.
I wanted to fight for us.
I just wasn’t sure how to do it.
But for the first time in a long time, we were in the same room, breathing the same air, looking at the same mess.
Maybe, just maybe, that was where the fight started.