Noa stared at the contract on the table like it had personally slapped her.
"Clause sixty-nine," she muttered. "Of course it's clause sixty-freaking-nine."
Ren leaned over her shoulder, towel still draped around his neck. "Why is it in glitter font?"
The paragraph read:
**Clause 69: Should the intern engage in any scenes of implied or actual intimacy, they agree to promotional use of likeness, moaning rights, behind-the-scenes giggle reels, and optional merchandise reproduction (see: body pillows).**
Noa blinked. "We're getting turned into giggle reels?"
Ren pointed. "Look. There's even a line about 'erotic bobblehead licensing.'"
"Why does my life now involve the phrase 'erotic bobblehead'?"
Before they could burn the document, Tony Lubov—their denim-jacketed, glitter-sprinkled producer—walked in with coffee and a camera.
"Darlings!" he announced. "I brought espresso and NDAs!"
Noa raised an eyebrow. "We already signed the NDA."
"This is a supplemental," Tony purred, sliding the paper toward them. "You two were so authentic on camera. We want to feature you in our *Velvet Lovers* campaign."
Ren choked on his espresso. "Feature... how?"
Tony opened a laptop and revealed mock-ups:
- A tote bag with Noa's surprised face and the caption: **"Oops, He Slipped In!"**
- A throw pillow with Ren biting his lip, labeled: **"Soft Boy Energy: Limited Edition."**
- A mug with both of them half-naked, clinking Pocky sticks.
Noa stared in horror. "You turned us into Etsy erotica."
Tony clasped his hands. "You're naturals! The internet will ship you harder than a storm in the Pacific."
---
Back in their suite, Noa paced. "We're being turned into memes."
Ren sat on the bed, inspecting the contract. "We signed too fast. We should've read the fine print."
"Clause 69 is practically *glowing* in pink."
"And yet somehow, I missed it."
Noa threw a pillow at him. "You also missed the part that says 'optional roleplay available on Patreon.'"
Ren dodged. "We don't even have a Patreon!"
"We do now," she said, tossing him her phone.
It showed their new "fan page" profile.
**"Noa x Ren: Real Roommates, Fake Orgasms, True Love (?)"**
Ren gaped. "We're a brand."
Noa collapsed beside him. "We're screwed."
"Not yet," he said dryly.
She groaned. "Don't start."
---
Later that night, they sat across from Cherry Moon in the break lounge, sipping passionfruit smoothies from cups labeled **"Juicy, Not Just in the Script."**
"I warned you," Cherry said. "Lubov plays dirty. He owns your faces now. And maybe your toes."
"Our toes?" Noa choked.
"Look at page 11, clause 23," Cherry said. "Footage may include feet. Literally."
Ren rubbed his temples. "I wanted to be a sound designer. Not... soundbite porn."
Cherry leaned back. "You've got two choices. Ride the wave, or break the board."
Noa squinted. "What does that mean?"
"It means you either embrace the chaos," Cherry said, "or you leave before you care too much."
They went quiet.
Because both knew:
They already cared too much.
---
As they walked back to their room, Noa stopped.
"Hey. Can I ask something?"
"Sure."
"If this were real—if we weren't in Vegas, or signed to a ridiculous contract—would you still flirt with me?"
Ren paused.
"Without the camera?"
She nodded.
He smirked.
"Yeah," he said. "But probably with better pants."
Noa laughed.
"I mean, you look good in lace," he added.
She elbowed him. "Shut up."
But she smiled.
And didn't stop smiling—even after the cameras were off.
---
At midnight, she lay awake.
The printout on her desk glowed under the moonlight:
**"Scene 2: Kitchen counter, mutual teasing, optional whipped cream."**
She groaned and rolled over.
Vegas never slept.
And apparently, neither did accidental porn stars.