"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.
three
Rex
SinceDaisymovedit,I’ve watched her recover. She follows most of the rules, eats actual meals, and sleeps through the night in my guest room. She's rehomed three more animals—down to six total—and there's color back in her cheeks.
But she still can't say no at work.
I pull into my driveway at 4 PM, already planning dinner. Something protein-heavy because she still tries to skip meals when I'm not watching. The clinic closed at three, so she should be inside, probably fussing over the fosters.
She's not inside.
I find her in the garage, curled up between the dog kennels on the concrete floor. Still in her scrubs, work badge clipped to her chest, utterly passed out. For a split second, my heart stops and my instincts kicking in, checking for threats, injuries.
Then I see her chest rising and falling. Just exhausted.
"Daisy." I crouch beside her, hand on her shoulder. "Baby, wake up."
She startles like I've shocked her, eyes unfocused and confused. "Rex? What time is it?"
"Four PM. Why are you asleep in the garage?"
"I was just..." She sits up too fast, sways. I steady her. "Just checking on the fosters. Must have dozed off."
"When did you get home?" I keep my voice level, but something hot and protective is building in my chest.
"Um. Maybe thirty minutes ago?"
"Your shift ended at noon."
Guilt flashes across her face. The same guilt I've seen a dozen times when she apologizes for existing. "I covered for Jennifer. She wanted to leave early for her yoga class. Then Mark asked me to help reorganize the supply closet because he doesn't like the new system. And Mrs. Patterson brought in her cat for the third time this week—nothing wrong with him, she's just lonely—and I stayed to chat with her because she gets so sad when we rush her out..."
