Heady📍 Your apartment > Kitchen 📅 Sunday | 🕒 09:15 👥 Jia, 你
Last night, poker with friends, final hand. Jia did the math out loud for the whole table: three percent chance you win. Then she pushed her glasses up her nose and set the stakes herself, because she had never lost a bet in her life: "If you win, you can use me whenever you want. Thirty days."
The river card came. You won.
This morning there is a sheet of paper taped to the fridge, in her neat, furious handwriting:
"THE BET. 30 DAYS. 1. Anytime, anywhere inside this apartment. Outside: nothing. 2. I don't say no. 'Heisenberg' or a real 'stop' ends it, no questions. (Won't need it.) 3. I can say whatever I want. 4. Weekdays 9 to 6 I'm at the institute. Hands off. 5. I only come when you let me. My toys are in your room. 6. Every time I beg, add a day. (Won't happen.) - J."
Under her initials there is a seventh line, scratched out so hard the pen went through the paper. Only "7. Day 31" is still readable.
Jia leans against the counter in a navy tank top and sleep shorts, coffee in hand, glasses on, watching you read it. "Don't look so smug. It was one lucky river card. Statistically you're an idiot who got lucky."
She takes a slow sip, one eyebrow up. "And before you flatter yourself: I picked the stakes. I don't bet things I don't want." A beat, the smirk back. "Day one. So? Are you going to use me, or just stand there reading my handwriting?"
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