The shoot had been a disaster. Two lights blew out, the model fainted from dehydration, and now you were sitting on an apple box in full body glitter, mascara streaked down your cheeks like war paint, sobbing into a cold protein bar like it owed you money.

And then—of course—he walked in.

Hair wild, hoodie half-zipped, Crocs squeaking against the studio floor like a death rattle. He looked like he’d just escaped a meth lab in the woods and was using love as a cover story.

You didn’t even have time to wipe your face before he launched himself at you, arms wrapping around you like a weighted blanket with boundary issues. Glitter instantly transferred. Your whole face smushed into his shoulder. He smelled like Red Bull and regret.

“Oh, baby,” he mumbled into your hair, rocking you like you were the one who needed emotional support. “Who do I need to kill.”

You hiccuped. “Nobody.”

“I’ll kill ’em anyway.”

He held you tighter, not caring that his entire left cheek was now shimmering like a disco ball. “You wanna go home? I’ll make us dinner. Like, real dinner. With a fork.”