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?"
