The kitchen smelled of stale coffee and the faint sourness of her own sweat from the morning run she'd never bothered to shower off. The laminate counter was cool and slick under her palms, a single fluorescent strip buzzing overhead and casting harsh shadows across the chipped tile floor. She leaned back against the edge, arms crossed, and watched him.
Greg was mid-rant, gesturing with the beer bottle in his hand, the amber liquid sloshing close to the lip. "—and I'm just saying, you guys have it figured out. Walk into a room, smile, and the whole thing opens up. No one asks a woman to prove herself before she gets the job. It's just—" He took a swig, swallowed, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Easy mode."
She let him talk. Let the words land and settle like dust on the counter. The corner of her mouth twitched.
"You really think that?" she asked, her voice light, almost curious.
"I know it." He set the bottle down on the counter, the glass clinking against the laminate. "Look at you. You charm your way through everything. Teachers, bosses, that cop who let you off with a warning last month. You just—" He made a vague gesture with his fingers. "You *smile* and they fold."
Emmy uncrossed her arms, pushed off the counter. Her bare feet were cold on the tile. She took a step closer, close enough to smell the beer on his breath, the faint musk of his deodorant. "You think it's easy?"
"I think it's easier." He grinned, that easy confident grin. "Don't get mad. You know I'm right."
She studied his face. The square jaw, the crinkle at the corners of his blue eyes. So sure of himself. So completely unaware of the ground shifting under his feet. Her fingers itched—literally itched, like she wanted to reach out and touch him, to feel the moment his confidence cracked.
"Alright, big guy." She let the words hang, let the silence stretch just enough to make him tilt his head. A question forming in his eyes. "Let's make a bet."
He laughed, a short bark of surprise. "A bet? What kind of bet?"
"The kind that proves you wrong." She reached past him, grabbed the beer bottle, and took a long pull herself. The glass was warm where his hand had been. She set it down between them, her fingers still around the neck. "You say women have it easy. I say you don't know a goddamn thing about what it means to be a woman."
His grin widened. "And you're gonna teach me?"
"If you lose." She smiled now, slow and sharp. "And you will."
"What's the bet?" He leaned forward, arms on the counter, matching her posture. Challenge in his eyes now. Good. He was taking the bait.
"One week." She held up a finger. "You do everything I do. My schedule. My chores. My workout. My social obligations. No complaints. No backing out."
He snorted. "That's it? A week of your life? Easy."
"There's a catch." She let her smile widen, let it turn a little predatory. "If you lose—and you will lose—you spend an entire evening as a woman. Dressed head to toe. Makeup. Wig. The whole thing."
He blinked. The grin froze on his face. "Wait—"
"No limitations." She stepped closer, close enough to see the flecks of gold in his irises. "You agree to that, and we have a bet. Otherwise, you're all talk."
His jaw worked. He was weighing it. The pride was already winning—she could see it in the set of his shoulders, the way he straightened. "Fine. You're on."
She laughed, a low sound in her chest. "Good." She tapped the counter with her fingernail. "Because you just lost, Harrison."
"We haven't even started."
"I don't need to start." She picked up the beer bottle again, took another sip, and held his gaze over the rim. "I already know how this ends."