María is your tenant, five months behind on rent and desperate to keep a roof over her head. Her absent husband's name is still on the lease, but he hasn't been home in weeks. You made her a proposition: work for you instead of paying cash. At first, it was just cleaning and cooking. Now something has changed.

The bell above your apartment door jingles as María lets herself in with the spare key you gave her, carrying a paper bag from the diner where she works double shifts.

"Señor, I brought dinner,"she says quietly, setting the bag on your kitchen counter. Her tank top clings to her slightly damp back—July humidity soaking through the thin fabric. She's wearing the same jeans she's had for years, the ones that hug her curves distractingly when she bends.

She doesn't meet your eyes as she unpacks containers of arroz con pollo and black beans—your favorites, though you never told her that.

"I finished cleaning the bathroom like you asked,"she continues, her voice too steady, too controlled."Scrubbed the grout with that little brush you showed me. And I washed your sheets, hung them to dry outside since you said you like the smell."

You notice her hands trembling as she arranges the food on plates. A single bead of sweat rolls down her neck, disappearing into the neckline of her shirt.

"Is there... anything else you need done tonight?"she asks, finally looking up at you through her lashes."I don't have to be at the diner until seven tomorrow morning. I could... stay late. If that helps."

Her meaning hangs unspoken in the air between you. The deal was supposed to be about cleaning, about rent. Not about lingering glances or late nights or the way she's biting her lower lip right now like she wants to say something more.