Morning light had barely reached my tiny Portland apartment when

"Logan! Open up!"

A heavy fist hammered against the wood of my apartment door, rattling the cheap chain lock so violently I thought the screws would snap.

Rebecca froze, her breath catching in a sharp gasp. She backed away from the door until her spine hit the edge of the kitchen counter, her eyes wide with unadulterated terror.

"They found me," she whispered, her voice shaking so badly she could barely form the words. "Oh God, they found me."

"Stay in the kitchen," I hissed, holding up a hand.

I crossed the living room on silent feet, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. I didn't think it was Lawson's men—not yet. It had only been a few hours since dawn, and even a billionaire's private security wouldn't sweep residential walk-ups in this neighborhood so fast unless they had an exact GPS ping. But as I reached the door, another heavy thud shook the frame, accompanied by a voice that made my stomach drop into my shoes.

"Logan! I know you're in there! Open this door before I kick it off the hinges!"

It wasn't Marcus. It was Todd.

Todd Miller was the owner of the brick building, a notoriously aggressive landlord who hadn't replaced a leaky roof in a decade but never missed a single opportunity to scream at tenants about late rent or unauthorized guests.

I exhaled a shaky breath, unlocked the deadbolt, and pulled the door open before he could turn his threats into property damage.

Todd was standing there in his greasy leather jacket, his face flushed a violent shade of crimson, a folded piece of paper clutched in his thick, ink-stained fingers. He looked past me immediately, his eyes darting into the dim interior of the apartment.

"Who the hell is screaming in here?" Todd barked, spitting tobacco juice dangerously close to my welcome mat. "Mrs. Higgins from downstairs called me five minutes ago saying she heard shouting and crying like a domestic dispute in progress. I don't run a halfway house, Logan!"

"There's no domestic dispute, Todd," I said, blocking his view of the kitchen by planting myself squarely in the center of the doorway. "Just dropped a glass. Everything's fine."

"Yeah? Looks to me like you've got company," Todd snarled, trying to peer around my shoulder. "And your rent was due on the first. Today is the fifth. Where's my check?"

"I'll have it by Monday, Todd. You know good and well the café paycheck clears on Friday—"

"I don't care about your café checks!" Todd shouted, stepping forward and shoving a thick finger into my chest. "Prices are going up, taxes are going up, and I've got people lined up who'll pay double for this unit without whining about the plumbing! You give me the check right now, or I'm slapping an eviction notice on this door before noon."

Behind me, I heard the soft, hesitant scuffle of bare feet against the linoleum. I didn't dare look back, praying to every god I didn't believe in that Rebecca had the sense to stay out of sight.

"Todd, look at me," I said, lowering my voice and gripping his wrist to push his finger away from my chest. "You'll get your money on Monday, plus the late fee. Just give me seventy-two hours."

Todd stared at me, his beady eyes narrowing as he weighed his options. He knew as well as I did that dragging out an actual legal eviction through the Portland housing courts would take months and cost him more in legal fees than my back rent was worth. He huffed out a foul-smelling breath of stale cigarettes and coffee, his face twisting into an ugly sneer.

"Monday morning, Logan," he spat, shaking the eviction warning paper in my face before dropping it onto the floor at my feet. "Or I bring the dumpster crew and throw your pathetic little life out onto the curb myself."

With that, he spun around, cursing loudly as he stomped back down the metal exterior stairs, his heavy boots echoing into the gray morning air.

I waited until the downstairs exterior door banged shut before I closed my own door, sliding the deadbolt home with a metallic click. I leaned my forehead against the cool wood of the door, letting out a long, shuddering sigh.

When I turned around, Rebecca was standing at the edge of the kitchen, her arms wrapped tightly around her waist.

"I'm sorry," she whispered, her voice thick with guilt. "I'm the one causing all of this. Your landlord, the money, the rent... if I hadn't shown up on your doorstep, you wouldn't have to deal with any of this."

"My landlord is an asshole whether you're here or not," I muttered, walking over and picking up the eviction notice from the floor. I crumpled it into a tight ball and tossed it toward the trash can, missing by a mile. "And the rent was already tight. That's just the background music of living in this city."

Rebecca walked over, her bare feet making no sound on the floor, and stopped a few feet away. She looked at me with an intensity that made me feel entirely transparent.

"You're in trouble," she said flatly. "Real trouble. Not just 'behind on rent' trouble. If you lose this apartment because of me—"

"You didn't cause this, Rebecca," I interrupted, my voice firm. "I chose to bring you in out of the rain. I chose to help you. My father taught me a lot of things I disagreed with, but he was right about one thing: you don't get to regret doing the right thing just because it gets complicated later."

Rebecca looked down at the floor, a muscle working in her jaw as she fought back a fresh wave of emotion. When she looked back up, the fear in her eyes had been replaced by something much sharper, much more dangerous—the cold, calculating resolve of a woman who was done running and ready to fight.

"Okay," she said softly. "You help me get to California. And once I'm safe... I'm going to make sure my father pays every single cent of your back rent, plus interest."

I let out a short, incredulous laugh. "Right. And I'll hold my breath until billionaire industrialists start funding my coffee shop."

"I'm serious," Rebecca said, stepping closer, her amber eyes locking onto mine with absolute conviction. "You think my father owns this city? He doesn't own everything. And once I have my inheritance trust released—which legally happens the day I turn thirty, which is next month—I'll have more money than I know what to do with."

Before I could figure out whether she was delusional or simply manifesting a very expensive future, the phone on the kitchen counter chimed with an incoming text message.

I glanced over. It was an alert from my banking app.

Direct Deposit Received: Juniper Street Café.

I picked up the phone, unlocked the screen, and stared at the balance. My stomach dropped straight through the floor.

The deposit wasn't for forty hours of minimum-wage shift work. It was for five thousand dollars.