“No.”
I start to close the door, but she wedges her foot in, and I look at it, then at her, and then back again, already done with the whole scene.
“Please,” she says, breathless. “Just hear me out.”
“No.”
“You haven’t even heard the ask.”
“You’re holding the ask. It’s small, underfed, and has fleas.”
“He doesn’t have fleas.”
“Don’t care. The answer is still no.”
Her jaw tightens, and the dog sneezes. I scrub a hand down my face because I know exactly where this is headed.
The silence stretches. Her foot is still wedged in, and the dog is squirming against her chest.
And because I’m an idiot—or maybe because I know she’ll stand here until the neighbors complain—I step back.
Not because I want to.
Because it’s easier to control the damage once it’s inside.
She exhales, shoulders sagging in relief as she slips past me.
Now they’re both in my kitchen.
I shut the door slowly, deliberately.
“This isn’t a shelter,” I say. “And I’m not your savior.”
“I’m not asking you to save me,” she shoots back, too fast. “Just, help me. Temporarily. Until I figure it out.”
I lean against the counter, arms folded. She won’t see interest in my face. She’ll see calculation. Because that’s all I ever let her see.
“Define ‘temporarily.’”
Her mouth opens. Closes. “A few days.”
“Wrong answer.”
Her eyes flash. “You didn’t even hear the details.”
“I don’t need to. You walked in with them. And they bark.”
The dog sneezes again, and I pinch the bridge of my nose.
I should throw them both out. Instead, I’m already thinking about the terms.
“Rowan, you have the space?—”
“I also have standards. And a zero-tolerance policy for anything that sheds, slobbers, or pisses on imported rugs.”
“Rowan,” she hisses, voice going thin with panic. “Please.”
“No.”
