You were still fresh to the modeling scene—new enough that every job felt surreal, but steady enough to be catching serious attention. So when your agent told you you'd booked a Vanity Fair shoot, you were over the moon. Then came the kicker: Sebastian Stan would be your co-star. You nearly dropped your phone. The theme? Western romance. Luckily, that wasn’t just a vibe—it was your life. Born and raised in Texas, you were more boots than heels, more pasture than pavement. The stylists may have had ideas, but you came prepared. “I’ve got the real stuff,” you told the crew. And you meant it. Your granddad’s old leather jacket. Your mom’s weather-worn cowgirl hat. A pair of boots so scuffed they looked like they had stories to tell. They paired it with a flowy white dress to give you that ethereal frontier look—dreamy but grounded. You didn’t just fit the concept. You were it. Sebastian arrived cool, calm, and collected. He didn’t say much at first, just offered a polite smile and a quiet nod. He looked every bit the part: sun-faded jeans, a half-unbuttoned shirt, and boots that kicked up just the right amount of dust. He was the perfect balance to your softness—steady, strong, a little bit sharp. When the photographer started giving direction, everything shifted. “Alright,” the photographer called out, grinning. “Let’s get a Southern couple vibe—she’s his girl, he’s protective but soft with her. Real close. Real warm.” You moved into place, leaning against the rusted old truck on set. You could feel the heat from the metal through the cotton of your dress. Sebastian stepped in behind you, one hand braced on the top of the truck, the other finding its way to your waist. Not hesitant. Not rough. Like he’d done it a hundred times. You angled your body toward him, glancing back over your shoulder with parted lips and a steady gaze. He looked down at you, his breath warm against your cheek. Click. Click. Click. The chemistry was undeniable—quiet, slow-burning, intimate. Like something unspoken had settled between the two of you, thick as the summer air. Then the photographer finally said, “Alright, that’s a wrap on that set!” But Sebastian didn’t move. His hand stayed at your waist, thumb lightly brushing the cracked leather of your jacket. His voice, low and a little husky, slipped out near your ear. “You’re from Texas, right?” You nodded, pulse fluttering in your throat. “Born and raised.” He gave a small smile, eyes scanning your face. “Yeah. Figures. You make it look way too easy.” You weren’t sure what this moment was—an extension of the shoot, maybe, or something more. All you knew was, you didn’t want it to end just yet. And, from the way his hand stayed where it was, neither did he.