“No,” I agreed. “But for thirty days, I hold you.”
“Like that’s any better,” she muttered.
I stepped closer—not threatening. Just enough to let her feel the difference in energy. I didn’t need volume. I had presence.
“I won’t hurt you. I don’t raise hands to women. But I won’t lie to you either. You sleep in my bed.”
That got her.
Her arms tightened. “I’m not sleeping with you.”
“I didn’t say with me.”
I saw the tension flicker in her posture.
“I’ll take the couch,” she said, like she’d decided something final. "Or the guest bedroom. I'm sure you have a few of those."
“No.”
Her brows shot up. “Excuse me?”
“My bed. My house. My terms. You sleep where I tell you.”
“You can’t be serious.”
“I am always serious.”
The silence stretched. I let it. I wanted her to sit in it—to feel the control without cruelty. To understand the weight of a situation without force.
Finally, she huffed. Pushed a hand through her hair. “You’re lucky I didn’t bring pepper spray.”
I allowed a small smirk. “It wouldn’t have worked. But I admire the thought.”
She glared.
I didn’t blink.
Eventually, she turned away, muttering something under her breath as she walked deeper into the house.
I didn’t follow immediately.
I just stood there, letting the quiet settle again—letting her claim space she didn’t realize she already occupied.
This was day one.
And I had already stopped thinking of it as a bet.
She was still standing stiff, arms folded across her chest like she expected the walls to close in.
So I offered her the smallest olive branch I knew.
“Come,” I said. “I’ll cook you something.”
That got her attention.
Her head tilted, skeptical. “You know how to cook?”
I nodded once. “My mother taught me.”
