She stared at me. “You’re insane.”
“Possibly.”
“I just met you.”
“Yes.”
“And you think I’m going to what—move in? Wear a ring? Smile for Christmas cards?”
“No.”
Her eyes narrowed as she examined me. I may not be clear on why I was so set this was the only way, but my mind was made up.
“This would be contractual,” I said. “Defined. Limited. You would retain autonomy.”
“And in exchange?”
“You receive insurance coverage. Immediate access to specialists. Physical therapy, if required. Housing while you recover.”
“You want me to live here?” she said, her jaw dropping open.
“You cannot sleep in a van with an injured knee.”
All the air seemed to leave her at once. Her shoulders dipped slightly, just for a second.
“You certainly have thought of everything.”
I stepped closer. My hand itched to tuck a stray lock of hair behind her ear. My arms ached to pull her close. But that is not what I was offering. I was offering safety and stability. That was all.
“I just want to help.”
She looked up at me. Eyes bright. “You don’t even know me,” she said.
“I know enough.”
“Which is?”
“You work beyond necessity. You accept additional hours without negotiation. You play a full-contact sport without insurance. You refuse assistance even when offered. You are currently in pain and pretending otherwise.”
Silence. Her breathing was steady but shallow.
“You need stability,” I said.
“And you need what?” she asked.
The question stopped me. I did not have a clean answer. Control, perhaps. Or maybe just her. Her proximity. Her safety.
“Order,” I said instead.
She studied my face like she was searching for a fracture.
“You can’t fix everything with money,” she said.
“I am not attempting to fix everything.”
“Just me.”
“No,” I said immediately. The denial felt urgent. “I’m attempting to prevent further injury. And keep the only housekeeper I’ve tolerated in recent memory.”
