Page 118 of Pets in Space 10

Idrop the box onto the worn rug of my room with a thud, the sound muffled by layers of dust and history.

This room. It’s seen every phase of my life — soccer trophies gathering dust on the shelves next to I.A.

training manuals, faded band posters peeling above the crack snaking across the ceiling, the familiar scent of old wood and lavender.

It’s small, cluttered, and like the rest of this house, slowly surrendering to gravity and time.

Yet, despite the drafts and the dodgy wiring, it’s mine. My sanctuary, my quiet corner in the often-loud Kimura universe. I’d been saving, slowly, patiently, waiting for my name to crawl up the Yamato housing list. An apartment of my own, freedom, independence. It felt close only a few weeks ago.

Now? Jobless and anchored by a bad knee, moving out seems like a fantasy from another lifetime. Looks like I’m staying put, destined to witness the final, creaking demise of the Kimura estate from the inside.

Great. Another thing falling apart around me.

“Mission accomplished.” Raimei’s voice floats up from the bag slung over my shoulder. “Did we successfully retrieve the remnants of your professional life, or did we leave behind any stray paperclips of self-worth?”

“We got the paperclips,” I mutter.

I ignore him, leaning my forehead against the cool, cracked plaster wall.

The silence presses in, amplifying the frantic thoughts still ricocheting around my skull.

Jobless. Single. Betrayed, both by my own emotions and by people I trust. And now I’m back in this house that feels like it is sinking into the ground, mirroring the state of my life.

A floorboard creaks down the hall. Footsteps come closer and closer, slow and hesitant.

I brace myself. Demi appears at my open door, pausing when she sees me.

Her expression is guarded. The air between us crackles with unspoken accusations and the raw wound of her confession, the meddling, the disregard for my wants and desires.

“You’re back,” she states, the words flat.

“Nowhere else to go,” I reply, my voice devoid of warmth. I push off the wall, the movement sending a fresh stab of pain through my knee. This fucking knee just won’t quit. “Don’t worry, I won’t track my unemployment despair onto the good rugs.”

“Don’t.” Demi’s voice softens. She takes a hesitant step into the room. “Don’t say that. I hate seeing you like this.” She gestures to the box. “Losing your job… it’s awful, Rosa. Truly. I know how much it meant to you.”

I don’t respond, just stare at the peeling paint on the windowsill where the ants used to march. They seem to have found a better offer elsewhere.

“And… and Rhys,” Demi continues, stumbling over his name.

“Look, I know I messed up. I’m so sorry about last year.

I never wanted to hurt you. I saw how happy you were after that first date, and then I heard things, rumors about him and Chloe, and I panicked.

I thought I was protecting you from getting hurt worse later.

” She twists her hands together. “Maybe I made it worse. I don’t know.

I just hate that it didn’t work out, and he hurt you. Again.”

“You think he hurt me?” I glare at her, the bitterness sharp on my tongue. “Or did you just ensure it wouldn’t work out from the start, Demi? Deciding what’s best for me, like always.”

“That’s not fair,” she whispers, her eyes pleading. “I wanted you to be okay. I wanted you to have someone who wouldn’t just… disappear.”

“Right,” I say, turning away again. “Protection.” The word is hollow, meaningless.

Before Demi can respond, a sharp rap echoes from the front door. We both walk down the hall and freeze, looking at it, then at each other. Nobody just shows up here unannounced unless it is family, or...

Demi approaches the door and peers through the peephole. Her body relaxes, and a small smile tugs at her lips. She shoots a glance back at me, her eyes bright with excitement. Uh oh.

“It’s Rhys.” Her voice is lighter than I expected.

My stomach flips. Rhys? Here? Now? And why does Demi look... happy about it?

Before I can process this bizarre turn of events, Demi pulls the door open, her smile widening.

“Hi, Rhys.” She steps back to let him in. “Perfect timing.”

Rhys enters and leaves his shoes in the foyer. His eyes find mine, and relief washes over his face. “Rosa. Hey.”

I stare between him and Demi, confused by this unexpected dynamic. “What’s... going on?”

Rhys runs a hand through his hair, the familiar nervous gesture that somehow still makes my heart skip. “Demi came to see me this morning. At the studio.”

“You did what?” I turn to my sister, incredulous.

Demi lifts her chin with a defiance I recognize all too well. “I went to apologize. For interfering last year. For everything.” She glances at Rhys, then back to me. “It was the right thing to do.”

“I told you not to get involved anymore.” The heat has drained from my voice, replaced by bewilderment.

“This wasn’t interference,” Demi insists. “This was me fixing my mistake. Owning up to it.” She takes a deep breath. “I also might have mentioned that you cleaned out your desk today. That you might... want to see him.”

I stare at her, torn between lingering anger and a reluctant appreciation for this unexpected act of... what? Atonement? Support?

“I know I’ve been overprotective,” Demi continues, her voice softening. “But I never meant to hurt you, Rosa. I just... I wanted to make it right.”

The sincerity in her voice catches me off guard. This isn’t the defensive Demi I expected. This is... growth? An actual apology?

“Thank you,” I say. Wow, my sister has matured. I wasn’t expecting that. “For apologizing to him. It means a lot.”

Rhys steps forward, his gaze steady on mine. “I told her we’d been talking. That we were... figuring things out.” He hesitates. “I hope that was okay.”

My mother, Lea, appears in the doorway to the kitchen. She’s wiping her hands on an apron and holding a bulky, official-looking packet in her hand.

“Rosa, dear, this just arrived for you. Hand-delivered from the I.A..” Her brow furrows as she takes in the three of us standing in her entryway. “Everything all right?”

“Yeah. Everything’s fine.” I take the packet. It feels heavy, important, though it’s probably just a copy of my termination papers. Sigh. I don’t want to deal with this now. I want to deal with my suddenly apologetic sister and the guy who showed up at my door.

My fingers tremble as I tear it open, pulling out a thick sheet of official letterhead. I scan the typed words, my heart doing a frantic drum solo against my ribs.

…deeply impressed by your impassioned advocacy… valuable perspective on personnel wellness… regret the necessity of recent restructuring… offer of a contractual consultancy… part-time basis… focus on mental health outreach initiatives… potential for future full-time reinstatement…

Consultant? Part-time? Potential full-time?

What the hell is this? I just left there two hours ago. They didn’t think to tell me this while I was there?

Deep breath, Rosa.

Hope, sharp and unexpected, pierces through the fog of despair.

It isn’t my old job, not exactly, but it is…

something. A lifeline. Recognition. Vindication, almost. Then comes the anger, hot on its heels.

First, they fire me, deem me ‘non-core,’ throw my life into chaos, and now they want me back part-time because I made a scene? The whiplash is infuriating.

“What is it?” Rhys asks, seeing the conflict on my face.

“They… they offered me a contract. The I.A.. Part-time consultant.”

“Rosa, that’s wonderful!” Demi exclaims, genuine happiness lighting her face.

“Is it?” I ask, but there’s less bite in my voice than I expected. “Or is the Agency covering its ass? Yesterday I was disposable. Today I’m a valuable consultant?”

“It’s recognition,” Rhys says, nodding. “Of your worth. Of what you bring to the table.” He steps closer, his voice dropping. “You stood up for yourself, Rosa. For what you believe in. That matters.”

Huh. I spoke my truth, consequences be damned. And now... now there’s this. Not perfect, not what I had, but... something. A possibility.

“Can we talk?” Rhys asks, his eyes searching mine. “About... everything? The studio offer is still on the table, Rosa, and I’m ready to say no. I want to stay. I want to see where this goes.” He gestures between us. “If you still want that, too.”

The studio. Right. The escape hatch he was considering. But he’s saying no, and he wants to stay if I want it too?

I do. I want that.

I clutch the letter, the crisp paper a solid anchor in the swirling chaos. It’s one thing, one concrete thing, that I can decide on. And it can be the first of many things I’m in charge of.

“Okay,” I say, the word cutting through the tension.

But it’s not just an agreement to talk. It’s the sound of a switch flipping inside me, the click of a decision locking into place.

The swirling chaos — the job offer, Demi’s unexpected apology, Rhys’s presence, the crumbling house, my aching knee — coalesces into a single point of focus.

Me. My choice.

I turn to face Rhys, my gaze locking with his, holding him steady, demanding his full attention.

“Yes, Rhys.” Strength settles into my chest, my body, my soul. “I want to try this. Us. I want to go on actual dates, figure out if this connection is real, if we can build something from the wreckage. I want you to stay. I don’t want you to sell your studio and run because things get complicated.”

I glance at Demi, who watches us with a mixture of hope and lingering guilt.

“And I appreciate you apologizing, Demi. Really. It means a lot that you went to him, that you owned your mistake.” I take a deep breath.

“But I need you to understand. My life, my choices, my mistakes — they are mine to make. Whether it’s my job or my relationships or how I handle my recovery. I decide.”

Demi nods, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I know. I’m learning.” She offers a watery smile. “You’re stronger than I give you credit for. Always have been.”

The simple acknowledgment, the recognition of my autonomy, is a gift. Maybe we can rebuild from here, find a new balance, a relationship based on respect rather than protection.

Mom watches our exchange, a slow, knowing smile spreading across her face. It’s a look that says, Finally. She places a comforting hand on my arm before turning to Rhys, her smile widening into genuine warmth.

“Rhys,” she says, her voice calm and welcoming, cutting through the residual tension like a warm knife through butter. “It’s lovely to meet you, despite the… circumstances. You’ll stay for dinner, won’t you? I made too much stew.”

Rhys blinks, looking dazed by the whirlwind of the last five minutes, but relief floods his features. He glances at me, a silent question in his eyes, seeking confirmation.

I give him a small, weary nod. Stay.

“I’d love that, Mrs. Kimura.” His voice has regained its steadiness, a genuine smile reaching his eyes. “Thank you.”