Theevictionnoticeisprinted 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.
Inside, the chaos hits me like a physical wall. Twelve animals in 400 square feet of studio apartment. The litter boxes I cleaned this morning already smell. One of the foster cats—Mittens, the calico with anxiety—has knocked over a plant. Soil everywhere. The dogs are barking because I'm home, which means Mrs. Chen downstairs is probably already calling the landlord. Again.
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 itduring 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.
