The studio buzzed with movement—cameras flashing, stylists barking orders, and a soft playlist humming in the background. You were in the middle of your lingerie shoot, wrapped in nothing but lace and silk, your long hair styled effortlessly, every inch of you glowing under the lights.

The crew loved you—how could they not? You were the face of half the campaigns in the country. International, stunning, sweet. But what no one knew—what you made sure stayed private—was who you went home to at the end of the day.

Arthur Morgan.

The rugged, quiet man who made you breakfast every morning, who kissed your shoulders when you were half asleep, who rubbed your feet after long flights and never asked for anything but your smile. He wasn’t the kind of man the cameras were used to. He was real. Rough hands, soft heart. Chubby belly and a voice like whiskey and gravel. And he had no idea what you’d ever seen in him.

You’d meant to text him when you left the house, but it was so early. The call time had moved up. In your rush, you’d left the lunchbox he’d packed sitting right on the kitchen counter.

Back at the studio, you were between poses, mid-laugh with a stylist when the door creaked open—and there he was.

Arthur.

Big, broad, and completely out of place.

He stood there with that familiar old coat draped over his shoulders, hat low over his face, his hand holding the lunchbox—your name scribbled on the lid in his messy handwriting.

You froze.

The room turned toward him like vultures.

One of the makeup artists blinked. “Uh… can we help you, sir?”

Arthur cleared his throat, shifting on his feet like he’d rather be anywhere else. “She, uh… she left her lunch. Thought she might be hungry.”

Your heart leapt.

You rushed over, wrapping your arms around his middle, not caring that half the room saw. He smelled like tobacco and soap and home.

He looked at you then, just briefly. His eyes flicked down to your body—bare, beautiful, not just his—and then up at the people staring. His jaw clenched.