"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."
