Chapter 2
two
Daisy
The eviction notice is printed on official letterhead, taped right where anyone walking by can see it. Thirty days. Not a warning this time—actual eviction. Heat floods my face as I rip it down, fumbling with my keys. Everyone must have seen it.
I sold my couch three months ago to pay for Rusty's emergency surgery. Sold my kitchen table last month for Patches' dental work. Now there's just my mattress on the floor, covered in pet hair no matter how many times I vacuum, and a folding chair I found on the curb.
This is my life. This is what helping looks like.
The tears come fast and hot. I slide down the door, still holding the eviction notice, and let myself sob. Mittens immediately climbs into my lap, purring, which makes me cry harder because even in crisis I'm someone's comfort.
My phone is in my hand before I consciously decide to call. Rex's number, the one he made me save as "Rex - CALL IF YOU NEED ANYTHING" in all caps, is already pulled up.
He answers on the first ring. "What's wrong?"
Not hello. Not hey. Just immediate awareness that something's broken.
"How did you?" My voice cracks.
"You're crying. I can hear it." There's rustling in the background, the jingle of keys. "Talk to me, Daisy."
"Eviction notice." I can barely get the words out. "Thirty days. They're kicking me out and I don't—I can't—"
"I'll be there in ten."
"Rex, you don't have to drop everything—"
"Ten minutes. Don't move."
He hangs up before I can argue. I sit there on my dirty floor, surrounded by animals who depend on me, holding an eviction notice that proves I've failed at the most basic adult task of keeping a roof over my head.
Mittens headbutts my chin. Rusty limps over, his healing leg still wrapped. Princess, the ancient beagle I pulled from a kill shelter, wheezes from her bed in the corner. They're all looking at me like I have answers.
I don't even have answers for myself.
A knock—loud, commanding, exactly eight minutes later. I know it's Rex before I open the door because that's what punctuality sounds like when it's built into someone at a cellular level.
He fills the doorway, all six-foot-three of solid muscle and intensity. His hair is messy like he ran his hands through it during the drive. He's wearing the same flannel from earlier, which means he left immediately, probably didn't even grab a jacket despite the February cold.
"Let me see it," he says, voice gentle despite the command.
I hand him the notice. He reads it quickly, jaw tightening, then looks past me into the apartment. I watch his face change as he takes in the reality I've been hiding—the mattress on the floor, the absence of furniture, the sheer crushing number of animals in a space meant for one person.
"This is how you've been living?"
It's not accusatory. It's something worse—horrified concern.
"It's not usually this bad." The lie tastes bitter. "I just need to reorganize and—"
"Daisy." He steps inside, closes the door behind him. The apartment shrinks with him in it. "Stop."
"Stop what?"
"Stop making excuses. Stop minimizing." He moves closer, and suddenly I can smell him—pine and something warm and masculine that makes my knees weak. "This stops now."
"I know." I hug myself, trying to hold it together. "I'll figure it out. I'll rehome some of the animals, find a cheaper place—"
"You'll move in with me."
The words don't make sense at first. I stare at him, watching his chest rise and fall with steady breaths while mine are short and panicky.
"What?"
"Move in. With me." He says it like it's the most logical solution in the world. "Today. Tomorrow. Soon as we can get you packed."
"Rex, we've known each other three days."
"We've known each other three months." He takes another step closer. I'm backed against my kitchen counter now, nowhere to go. "I've just been too chickenshit to do anything about it until now."
"This is crazy."
"This is practical." His hand comes up, cups my face.
His palm is warm and rough with calluses, and I can't help leaning into it.
"You can't afford a place that allows twelve animals.
You can't rehome them all immediately without it destroying you—yours and theirs.
I have space. I have a garage we can convert. I have room."
The kindness in his voice is what breaks me. I start crying again, and this time he pulls me against his chest. All that solid strength wrapping around me, holding me together when I can't do it myself.
I fit perfectly. That's the thought that cuts through my panic—I fit perfectly against him, like someone measured us and designed us to match.
"What do you get out of it?" I mumble into his flannel.
"You. Safe. Not living like this." His hand strokes my hair, careful around the messy bun. "And maybe a chance to see if this thing between us is real."
"What thing?"
"Don't play dumb, sweetheart. You feel it too."
I do. God help me, I do. Three days of dinners where he made sure I ate protein and vegetables. Three days of him texting to check I got to work safely. Three days of feeling seen and cared for in a way I never have before.
"If I say no?"
"Then I help you find another solution. Storage unit for your furniture—" He pauses, looks around again. "For whatever you need to store. Help you find a new place. Pay first and last month if you need it."
"You can't just throw money at my problems."
"Watch me." There's steel under the gentleness. "But Daisy, this is the best solution and you know it."
He's right. The practical part of my brain—the part that got me through veterinary assistant school, that manages medical emergencies at 2 AM—knows he's right.
The scared part, the part that learned young that accepting help means owing people, means being controlled, is screaming warnings.
"I can't bring twelve animals to your house."
"No." He pulls back enough to look at me. "You can't. How many can you realistically rehome without it destroying you?"
I do the math in my head, trying to be honest for once. Princess has to stay—she's got maybe six months left, and I promised her she'd die in a home, not a shelter. Rusty needs another month of recovery. Mittens is too anxious for anyone else.
"Maybe half? Six or seven?" The admission feels like failure. "But that's still a lot of animals to impose on someone."
"Then bring six." He says it like it's decided. "But there are conditions."
Of course there are. Nothing's free. "What conditions?"
"Real meals. Three a day, at least one with me so I know you're actually eating." His thumb brushes my cheekbone, wiping away a tear. "Regular sleep schedule. No more staying up until 2 AM worrying and then dragging yourself to work at 6."
"How did you—"
"I see the circles under your eyes. See you spacing out from exhaustion." His other hand settles on my waist, grounding. "No taking in more animals without discussion. And Daisy?"
The way he says my name makes my breath catch. "Yeah?"
"You follow my rules."
Silence stretches between us. The dogs have stopped barking. Even the cats seem to be holding their breath, watching us.
"What kind of rules?" My voice comes out whisper-soft.
"The kind that keep you from burning out." He leans down, his forehead almost touching mine. "The kind that teach you to value yourself as much as you value every animal you save."
"That sounds like..." I can't finish the sentence. Can't say out loud what I've been reading about late at night on my Kindle. The books I hide in a folder marked "Veterinary Journals" because I'm too embarrassed to admit what I want.
"Like what you've been reading about?" His voice drops lower, intimate. "Yeah, I saw the books."
My face burns. "You looked at my Kindle?"
"It was open on the counter. Saw the cover. 'Daddy's Little Rule Follower.'" No judgment in his tone, just certainty. "You need structure, Daisy. Need someone to make the hard decisions. That's not weakness. That's knowing yourself."
"It's not just about the animals," I whisper, the confession pulled from somewhere deep. "I need... structure. In everything. Rules. Someone to..."
I can't finish, but I don't have to.
"I know, little girl."
Those two words—those two simple words—make my whole body shiver. Not from cold. From recognition. From want.
"You keep calling me that."
"You keep responding to it." He's not asking. He's stating fact, watching my pupils dilate, seeing exactly what those words do to me.
"What are we doing here, Rex?"
"We're saving you from yourself." His hands tighten on my waist, possessive and protective all at once. "And maybe starting something more. Something real."
"I'm a mess." It needs to be said. He needs to understand what he's offering to take on. "I can't say no to anyone. I apologize for existing. I'll probably disappoint you."
"You're a beautiful disaster who needs someone to help with the disaster part." He pulls me closer, eliminating the last inch of space between us. "And I want to be that someone."
"Why?"
It's the question I've been afraid to ask. Why would someone like him—put-together, disciplined, clearly having his shit figured out—want someone like me?
"Because I've wanted to be that someone since the day you started at the clinic.
" The admission comes out rough, like it costs him something.
"Watched you give everything to everyone else until there was nothing left for you.
Watched you shrink yourself to make others comfortable.
Just took me six weeks of fake dog emergencies to work up the nerve to actually do something about it. "
I laugh, wet and shaky, remembering Thor's miraculous recoveries. "Your dog is a terrible actor."
"The worst." He almost smiles. "So? You moving in or what?"
"This is moving so fast." Even as I say it, I'm leaning into him, already knowing my answer.
"It's moving at exactly the right speed." He's so certain, so solid. "You need help now, not in six months after we've dated properly and done everything the traditional way. Life doesn't wait for proper timing."
He's right. The eviction notice proves that. My empty bank account proves that. The exhaustion pulling at my bones proves that.
"Okay." The word comes out stronger than I feel. "Six animals. Your rules. Trial basis."
"Trial basis," he agrees. "One month. If it doesn't work, if you're miserable or I'm too controlling or we're completely wrong for each other, I'll help you find your own place. No questions asked."
"And if it does work?"
His eyes go dark, intense in a way that makes my stomach flip. "Then you stay and we see what this becomes."
"What do you think it becomes?"
"I think you become mine. Completely." No hesitation. No doubt. Just absolute certainty. "I think I get to take care of you the way you deserve. I think you learn that accepting help isn't weakness, it's trust."
"That's presumptuous."
"That's honest." He kisses my forehead, gentle despite the intensity in his voice. "I'm too old for games, sweetheart. You want pretty lies and slow courtship, I'm the wrong guy. You want someone who sees what you need and has the balls to give it to you? I'm your man."
I should be scared. This is too much, too fast, too intense.
Instead, I feel relief flooding through me, warm and overwhelming. Someone else making the decisions. Someone else being strong when I can't be.
"Okay," I whisper again. "Okay, Rex."
"Okay what?" His thumb traces my bottom lip.
He wants me to say it. Wants me to admit what this is.
"Okay... I trust you. I'll move in."
"Good girl." The praise sends warmth through my chest. "Such a good girl."
We stand there in my disaster of an apartment, surrounded by animals who need homes and furniture I've sold and the evidence of my complete inability to take care of myself.
But for the first time in months, maybe years, I don't feel like I'm drowning.
I feel like someone finally threw me a life preserver.
And I'm grabbing on with both hands.