Ethan sat hunched over his cluttered desk in their tiny Las Vegas apartment. The faint buzz of the air conditioner struggled against the oppressive Nevada heat pressing in from outside. The walls absorbed it, radiating warmth into the cramped space despite the unit's efforts. His computer screen cast a bluish glow across the room. It painted jagged shadows over the mess of sketches, crumpled sticky notes, and half-finished designs strewn around him. He'd been wrestling with his latest freelance gig, a logo for a local taco joint, for days. He tweaked fonts and colors until his eyes burned. But earlier that afternoon, the client had gone silent. It left him with a stale mock-up and a growing sense of dread. Another job slipping away. Another paycheck he couldn't count on. He rubbed his temples. Exhaustion tangled with frustration behind his eyes. Their bank account hovered a whisper from empty. The stack of overdue bills on the kitchen counter loomed like a guillotine.
The front door creaked open, pulling him from his spiral. Mia stepped inside. Her red hair was swept into a neat ponytail that caught the dim hallway light. She wore a plain high-necked sweater and faded jeans. Her modest style stood as a quiet rebellion against the city's glitz beyond their walls. Underneath that sweater hid a body that could stop traffic, full curves she kept under wraps, a secret Ethan felt privileged to know. She was a knockout, long legs and soft lines honed by weekend yoga, yet she carried it with shy grace, like she didn't want anyone to notice. She dropped her purse onto the sagging couch with a soft thud. Then she bent to untie her sneakers, her movements deliberate, almost cautious. She flashed him a small smile, one of those tentative ones that usually softened his day's edges. Tonight, it barely pierced the fog in his head. Something was off. Her hands fidgeted as she straightened. Her fingers twisted together as she crossed the room toward him.
"Hey," she said. Her voice was low, threaded with a note he couldn't pin down, nervousness perhaps, or excitement held in check. "How's the logo coming along?"
Ethan leaned back in his chair. The springs creaked under his weight. He groaned tiredly and dragged a hand across his face. "It's not. They stopped answering my emails. I'm about ready to scrap it, draw stick figures, charge double for the 'minimalist aesthetic.'"
Mia eased onto the edge of his desk, careful not to disturb the chaos of papers beneath her. Her hazel eyes softened with a flicker of sympathy as she looked at him. The sweater stretched slightly as she shifted, hinting at the stunning figure beneath. "You'll figure it out," she said gently. "You always do." She reached for his hand, her fingers cool against his, and gave a reassuring squeeze. That touch grounded him for a moment, a lifeline in his stormy thoughts. But then her lips pressed into a thin line. Her gaze darted away, then back, hesitant and guarded. "So, I've got some news."
He arched an eyebrow. Unease prickled in his chest. "Good or bad?" His voice came out rough, sharpened by the day's frustrations.
"Good, I think." She bit her lip, that nervous habit making her seem younger, more fragile than she was. Her grip tightened, like she was bracing them both. "I got a job."
Relief hit him sharp and sudden, loosening the knot in his gut. "That's great!" he said, sitting up straighter. "Where? Doing what?" The questions spilled out fast, hungry for something solid.
She took a deep breath, her shoulders rising and falling as she steeled herself. "It's an assistant position," she said, her words measured. "At a legal brothel. Just administrative stuff, fetching coffee, filing paperwork, answering phones. Nothing weird, I swear."
The room tilted. Ethan froze. Her words crashed into him like a dry desert wind. He blinked, staring at her, his brain scrambling to process it. A brothel? Mia, his Mia, at a brothel? He opened his mouth but nothing came out, disbelief mixing with something protective and raw. "What are you talking about?" he managed. His voice was tight.
"It's not like that!" she said quickly, her hands rising to ward off his reaction. "I'm not doing anything else. It's just office work, Ethan. My friend Jess from college works there, told me they needed someone. It pays really well, like really well. We could get ahead on bills."
He stared, still reeling. Mia, who blushed at a hint of a dirty joke, who watched PBS documentaries about ancient ruins while he flipped through sci-fi reruns, was saying this? Even if it was "just administrative," the idea twisted his stomach. She didn't strut or flaunt herself. Her wardrobe of sweaters and loose jeans hid a body so stunning it was unfair, a beauty she seemed oblivious to. Her red hair framed a face that turned heads effortlessly, yet she downplayed it all with shy grace, a secret she didn't share. That softness he adored, and knowing he alone saw her true breathtaking self, now screamed danger.
"Jess got you into this?" he asked, sharper than intended. Jess, obnoxious Jess, flashed into his mind. He couldn't stand her, always getting drunk off her ass at parties, screwing random guys without a second thought, loud and crude where Mia was quiet and gentle. Their friendship yin-and-yang, opposites that somehow fit, but Ethan never got it, never trusted her influence.
Mia nodded, tugging a strand of red hair free and twisting it around her finger. "Yeah. She's been there almost a year, started as an assistant too, now she's, well, 'in the business,' as she puts it. She knows we've been struggling, put in a good word for me. Said it's a legit gig."
Ethan dragged a hand through his hair, tugging the roots to keep his temper down. "Mia, I get we need money, God knows we do, but a brothel? You don't belong there."
Her eyes narrowed, defiance sparking in them. "What's that supposed to mean?" Her voice steadied, edged with a rare bite.
He fumbled for words, haunted by images he couldn't shake. "You're just, you're innocent, okay? Shy about this stuff. You hate when I tease you about sex. Now you'll be running errands around hookers and clients?"
