LS Phoenix's Blog, page 8

Sweet Under the Ink - Short Story

Sweet Under the Ink – A Short Story for Every Tattoo-Loving Romance Reader

Some heroes grab you from the moment they walk onto the page. For me, Liam was one of those heroes. Tattooed from his neck to his knuckles, built like trouble, and wearing a smirk that could melt steel, he looked like the kind of man who would break your heart and not stick around to apologize.

But that’s not the story here.

When Liam meets Hanna, it’s not in a bar or on a street corner—it’s in a small coffee shop, over a chipped mug and a honey cinnamon latte. From the first conversation, there’s a spark. A little banter. The kind of quiet interest that lingers even after the customer walks out the door.

Day after day, he comes back. For pastries. For book recommendations. To fix the broken pastry case hinge without being asked. Slowly, Hanna starts to realize he’s not like the men she’s known before. He’s patient. Gentle. Protective. And completely comfortable letting her take the lead.

But when a late-night walk home turns into a run-in with her pushy ex, Liam’s calm, steady presence proves just how wrong her assumptions were. The walk back to her apartment ends with coffee, banana bread, and a conversation that peels back the layers neither of them show the world.

And then? The slow-burn catches fire.

It’s heated. It’s intimate. And it’s the moment Hanna sees that under every tattoo is a story—and maybe, just maybe, he’s ready to write the next chapter with her.

This one’s for the romance readers who love a man who looks like trouble but treats his woman like she hung the moon. The kind who’ll hold you close, keep you safe, and never let you forget just how much he wants you.

Sweet Under the Ink

Hanna

Meet-Cute at the Coffee Shop

The bell over the café door gives its usual lazy jingle, but I don’t look up right away. It’s Saturday morning rush, which means I’m already four lattes behind and running on the kind of autopilot that keeps me moving without thinking. My world is espresso shots, milk foam, and the occasional “extra caramel, please” shouted over the hiss of the steamer.

When I do glance up, it’s because something at the front window catches my attention, a man crouched low, head tilted, one big hand cupped against the glass like he’s trying to block out the glare. He’s staring at the display of mismatched mugs we keep on the little table by the window.

It’s… not the kind of guy I’d expect to care about secondhand mugs.

Dark hair, shaved close on the sides. A jawline sharp enough to cut paper. Broad shoulders under a worn black hoodie. Ink snakes down the side of his neck and disappears into the fabric.

And then there are his hands. Even from here, I notice them, big, rough, the kind of hands that could palm a basketball. And completely covered in tattoos.

He straightens and steps inside, the door swinging shut behind him.

“You like this one too?” His voice is low, a little gravelly, but not unfriendly. He’s holding the mug I’ve had my eye on for weeks, the pale blue one with the hand-painted daisies and the chip along the rim.

I blink. “Uh… yeah. It’s my favorite. Nobody ever buys it.”

He smiles, really smiles, and it changes everything. The sharpness in his features softens, like sunlight breaking through clouds. “Guess that’s because it was waiting for me.”

I should roll my eyes. Instead, I laugh, and it feels way too easy.

He brings the mug to the counter. “And I guess I’ll need something to put in it. You work here, so… what’s good?”

Most customers have very specific orders. Half-caf, soy, three pumps of vanilla, no foam. This guy? Just handed me a blank check for caffeine.

“What’s good for what?” I ask, stalling while I pretend to consider.

“Good for… starting a Saturday when you have no plans except maybe finding more mugs with little flowers on them.”

That makes me grin before I can help it. “You don’t look like the kind of guy who collects flower mugs.”

“Maybe you don’t look like the kind of girl who works in a coffee shop,” he says easily.

My eyebrow lifts. “And what kind of girl is that?”

He leans on the counter just enough that I notice how tall he is, how the shadows from his lashes fall across his cheekbones. “I don’t know yet. Guess I’ll have to come back a few times to figure it out.”

Danger, my brain warns. This is exactly how guys like him start. Smooth lines. Casual charm. The kind that fades once they get bored. I’ve met this type before, maybe not with the tattoos, but with the confidence, the teasing grin. They never stick around.

Still… there’s something different about him. Something I can’t quite name.

“Alright,” I say, tapping my fingers against the counter. “You’re getting a honey cinnamon latte. Trust me.”

“I do,” he says simply.

It’s ridiculous that those two little words make heat climb the back of my neck.

While I work, I feel his gaze, not heavy or invasive, just… there. Curious. By the time I set the latte in front of him, steam curling between us, I’m more aware of my heartbeat than I should be.

He takes a sip, then nods like I just passed some invisible test. “Perfect.”

I slide the mug toward him. “On the house. The latte’s not, but the mug is yours.”

His fingers brush mine when he takes it, warm and calloused. “Thanks. I’ll make sure it gets a good home.”

And just like that, he walks out into the morning, leaving the scent of coffee, the sound of that low voice in my ears… and the weirdest little twist in my chest.

…………

Liam 

The Daily Returns

I’m not the kind of guy who hangs out in coffee shops. Never have been. Most of my caffeine comes from gas stations or my own kitchen. But that was before I walked into this one and met her.

Hanna.

Even her name fits, simple, pretty, not trying too hard.

I tell myself I’m not going back just for her. That I liked the honey cinnamon latte enough to make the trip again. But when I push open the door the next morning and see her behind the counter, hair loose around her shoulders this time, I know I’m lying to myself.

“Back so soon?” she says, smiling like she’s not sure if she should be surprised or suspicious.

“Had to try the latte again. Make sure it wasn’t a fluke.”

Her mouth curves. “And?”

“Still perfect.”

This time, I grab one of those oversized chocolate croissants from the pastry case. She rings it up, and when I reach for my wallet, she notices the faded scar running across my knuckles. Most people look away quick. She doesn’t.

The next day, I bring a paperback I just finished, some crime novel with a twist ending, and slide it across the counter toward her. “You read?” I ask.

She tilts her head. “You’re assuming I have time.”

“Everyone has time for one good book.”

Her fingers brush the cover, and I catch that flicker of curiosity in her eyes.

Day three, the pastry case door hangs crooked on its hinge. I’m halfway through my coffee when I notice her struggling with it, muttering under her breath. I get up, squat down, and have it realigned in under a minute.

“You didn’t have to do that,” she says, watching me wipe my hands on a napkin.

“Didn’t take much. Just needed the right touch.”

Her gaze flicks to my hands, inked and rough, like I’ve worked with them my whole life, and something shifts in her expression. Less guarded, maybe.

By the fourth morning, I’m not pretending anymore. I’m here for her. I take the same seat near the counter so we can talk between customers. I make her laugh, not with big, flashy lines, but with the kind of jokes that sneak up on you.

And I notice things.

The way she keeps her nails short but painted.

The tiny silver hoop in her left ear that catches the light when she turns her head.

The way she tucks her hair behind her ear when she’s trying not to smile.

On the fifth day, I come in to find she’s already set aside a pastry for me. A chocolate croissant, wrapped in parchment, waiting next to the register.

“You’re making me predictable,” I tell her.

“Just efficient,” she says, but there’s a spark in her eyes like she’s pleased I noticed.

I’m not in a rush. I know better than to push. But every day I walk out of here with something more than caffeine or pastries, another piece of her I didn’t have the day before.

…………

Hanna 

The “Trouble” Moment

The street’s quieter than usual when I lock up for the night, the faint hum of a streetlamp the only sound as I step onto the sidewalk. My apartment’s just a few blocks away, close enough that I never bother with a ride.

I’m halfway there when I hear a voice.

“Hanna?”

I freeze before turning, already recognizing the voice. My stomach sinks.

Cal.

Once upon a time, I thought dating him was a good idea. It wasn’t. He was all charm in public, but pushy when I tried to set boundaries. We lasted two months before I ended it. Apparently, that memo didn’t stick.

“Hey,” I say, keeping my tone neutral.

“You’ve been ignoring my messages.” He steps closer, his cologne too sharp in the cool night air.

“I’ve been busy.” I shift my bag higher on my shoulder and keep walking, but his footsteps fall in beside mine.

“You can’t even grab a drink with me?”

“I don’t want to grab a drink with you.” My voice comes out sharper than I mean it to, but maybe that’s a good thing.

He laughs like I’m being ridiculous. “Come on, Han—”

“She said no.”

The voice comes from behind us, low and steady. I glance back and see Liam, hands in the pockets of his black hoodie, walking toward us like he’s got all the time in the world.

Cal bristles. “Who are you?”

Liam stops a few feet away, his gaze fixed on Cal in a way that’s somehow calm but… immovable. “Doesn’t matter. You should leave.”

Cal snorts. “You her bodyguard or something?”

Liam’s lips tilt, not quite a smile. “Something like that.”

For a second, I expect the tension to spike, for Liam to step forward or raise his voice. But he doesn’t. He just stands there, quiet and solid, like he’s not going anywhere until Cal does.

It works.

Cal huffs out a laugh, mutters something about me “overreacting,” and finally turns, heading the other way.

I let out a breath after I realized I was holding it.

“You okay?” Liam asks, his voice softer now.

“Yeah. I just…” I glance after Cal, then back at him. “Thanks.”

He shrugs like it was nothing, but I notice the way his jaw relaxes now that Cal’s gone.

“I thought you’d…” I stop myself.

He tilts his head. “You thought I’d what?”

I hesitate, feeling heat crawl up my neck. “I don’t know. Get aggressive. Make a scene.”

His brow lifts, and for the first time tonight, he actually smiles. “Not my style. I don’t generally fight people unless I have to.”

That surprises me more than it should. And maybe, just maybe, it makes me like him a little more.

…………

Hanna

The Cozy Night

“Do you want to come in for coffee?” The words are out before I can second-guess them.

We’ve just reached my apartment building, and Liam’s been walking beside me like it’s the most natural thing in the world. He hasn’t asked if I needed him to,he just did it.

His brow lifts slightly. “Coffee? At eight o’clock at night?”

“I also have tea. And hot chocolate. And leftover banana bread that’s basically an excuse for cake.”

That earns me a low chuckle, and he nods toward the door. “Banana bread sounds good.”

Inside, the space feels smaller with him in it, like the air shifts to make room for his presence. He moves carefully, as if he’s afraid of knocking something over, even though I don’t own anything fragile.

I busy myself in the kitchen, filling the kettle, slicing thick pieces of banana bread. “You want coffee or tea?”

“Tea’s fine. Whatever you’re having.”

I make two mugs of chamomile and set them on the coffee table, then sink into the couch next from him. He’s leaned back, hands resting on his knees, eyes scanning the shelves like he’s cataloging the books and plants and thrifted picture frames.

“So,” I say, cutting into the quiet. “You don’t… usually rescue women from creepy guys outside coffee shops?”

A faint smirk. “Not unless I have a reason.”

“And what was the reason?” I ask, half teasing.

His gaze meets mine, steady. “Isn’t that obvious? You are.”

I swallow, suddenly very aware of how close we’re sitting.

He picks up his mug, takes a sip, then sets it back down. “People usually take one look at me and think they’ve got me figured out. That I’m trouble. That I’m dangerous.” His voice is calm, but there’s a weight under it. “Sometimes it’s easier to let them think that than to prove them wrong.”

I trace the rim of my mug with my thumb, feeling a twinge of guilt. “I thought that about you. At first.”

His mouth tilts in something that isn’t quite a smile. “Figured.”

“It’s not fair,” I admit. “You were just… unexpected. And guys who look like you usually—”

“Act like assholes?” he finishes for me, his tone light, but not dismissive.

I laugh softly. “Yeah. That.”

“Well, lucky for you, I’m more into fixing pastry cases than starting fights.”

That makes me smile, but it also makes my chest ache a little. There’s something about the way he says it, like he’s not just talking about the pastry case.

“Why the tattoos, then?” I ask. “If people are going to judge you for them?”

His eyes drop briefly to his hands, the black ink wrapping his knuckles and fingers. “They’re… reminders. Stories I didn’t want to forget. Some good, some not. But they’re mine.”

I nod, even though I want to ask what the stories are. He doesn’t offer, so I don’t push.

The kettle’s whistle still lingers faintly in my ears, but the quiet between us now isn’t awkward, it’s warm, like the air has thickened with something I can’t name.

“Thank you,” I say suddenly.

“For the tea?”

“For tonight. For… not being who I thought you were.”

His gaze holds mine for a long moment. “Guess you’ll just have to keep finding out who I am.”

And for the first time in a long time, I think I might actually want to.

…………

Hanna

The Kiss

He’s still watching me, one arm resting on the back of the couch, the other curled loosely around his mug. The lamplight catches the ink along his forearm, intricate lines and shading I want to trace just to see if they feel as sharp as they look.

There’s a shift in the air between us, something subtle but unmistakable. My fingers tighten around my mug, and I can’t help glancing at his mouth.

His gaze drops to mine, then to my lips, and he leans in just a little, enough that I can feel his warmth across the space between us. It might as well be miles wide, but somehow, he closes the distance without moving more than a few inches.

I don’t breathe.

“Hanna,” he says softly, like my name is something he’s been holding in his mouth for a while.

It’s all the invitation I need. I lean toward him, and when our lips meet, it’s slow at first, soft, testing, like neither of us is sure we should be doing this but neither of us can stop.

His hand comes up, cupping my cheek, thumb stroking lightly against my skin. For a man who could probably lift me without effort, he’s unbelievably gentle.

But then I shift closer, and his patience fractures. The kiss deepens, heat sparking between us. His other hand finds my hip, steady but not pulling, it’s like he’s holding himself back.

And then, just when my pulse is climbing into dangerous territory, he breaks away, breathing hard.

“We should stop,” he murmurs, forehead resting against mine.

I can still feel the imprint of his mouth, the way it set something loose inside me. “Why?”

His lips twitch. “Because if I don’t, I’m not going to.”

I don’t even think about it. I slide my hands into his hoodie, fisting the fabric and tugging him back to me. “Then don’t stop.”

The sound he makes is low and rough, like I just cracked something open. His mouth crashes back to mine, hungrier this time, and the rest happens in a rush, me straddling his lap, his hands gripping my thighs through my leggings, the press of his body telling me exactly what I’m doing to him.

It’s all heat and friction, his tongue sliding against mine, my fingers digging into the back of his neck where the hair is just long enough to grab. Every kiss, every touch is a little more desperate than the last, like we’re both starving and finally found the thing we’ve been craving.

His hands roam, not greedy but certain, mapping the curve of my back, the dip of my waist, the swell of my hips. I can feel his restraint, he’s letting me set the pace, but I can also feel how close he is to losing it.

When his mouth leaves mine to trail along my jaw and down my neck, I gasp, tilting my head to give him more.

“Hanna…” It’s a warning and a plea all at once.

“I don’t want to stop,” I whisper, and it’s the truest thing I’ve said all night.

…………

Liam

No More Holding Back

Her whisper, ‘I don’t want to stop’ burns straight through me.

I’m trying to be careful. I’ve been careful since I walked in here, but the way she’s looking at me now… there’s no coming back from that.

I grip her hips and pull her tighter against me, and the sound she makes nearly undoes me. She’s warm and soft in all the right places, her thighs bracketing mine, moving just enough to have my jaw locking hard.

She kisses like she means it, like she’s been holding back too, and now we’re both done pretending. My hands slide under her shirt, fingers splaying against bare skin, feeling every inch like I’m starving for it. She arches into me, nails scraping lightly along the back of my neck, and I swear under my breath.

“Tell me to stop,” I rasp against her mouth.

“Not a chance,” she breathes, and then she’s tugging my hoodie over my head, tossing it aside. Her palms skim over my chest, lingering over the ink there like she’s reading every mark.

No one’s ever touched me like that, like they see more than the lines and shading.

By the time I lift her and lay her back on the couch, I know there’s no going halfway. She’s got me, completely.

Her legs tighten around my waist as I stand, her body fitting against mine like she’s been there before, like she belongs there. The sound that slips past her lips when I lower her onto the couch is soft but wrecking, one of those sounds that digs straight under my skin and takes root.

I brace one hand beside her head, the other sliding over her side, following the curve of her waist to her hip. Her shirt rides up, and my palm finds warm, bare skin. Smooth, soft. My fingers flex just to feel more of her.

She’s looking at me like I’m the only thing in the room that matters. Like she can see past every mark on my skin, every scar, straight to whatever’s underneath. No one’s ever looked at me like that.

When I lower myself over her, she fists her hands in my T-shirt and drags me down into another kiss. It’s hungry this time, all heat and need, her tongue sliding against mine in a way that makes my stomach knot tight. She moves under me, hips shifting against mine, and I feel it—how much she wants me. My restraint doesn’t just crack; it shatters.

I strip her shirt off, my hands skimming over the lace beneath, tracing the edges before I cup her through it. She gasps into my mouth, and the sound is like gasoline on a flame. I kiss down her neck, tasting the faint salt of her skin, breathing her in like I could get drunk on it.

Her nails drag over my shoulders, down my arms, like she’s mapping me the same way I’m mapping her. Every touch lights me up, makes me ache in a way I haven’t in years, not just in my body, but deep, where wanting her starts to feel dangerously close to needing her.

I push her back into the cushions, my mouth claiming hers again as my hands work at the waistband of her leggings. She lifts her hips without hesitation, letting me slide them down along with her panties in one slow, deliberate pull. The sight of her bare and flushed beneath me sends a bolt of heat through my veins so sharp it’s almost painful.

I strip off my shirt in a rough tug, kick out of my jeans until nothing separates us but the thin lace on her body. My palms smooth up her thighs, spreading them, feeling the warmth radiating from her. She’s wet, soaked, and the first stroke of my fingers against her draws a sound from her throat that makes me want to hear it again and again.

I kiss down her neck, between the swell of her breasts, unclasp the bra with a practiced flick. She gasps when I take one nipple into my mouth, teasing until she’s squirming, her hands in my hair, urging me closer.

I pull back just enough to meet her eyes, my chest heaving. “Condom?”

Her answer is a quick, breathless “Yes.”

I reach into my back pocket, finding the foil packet I’ve carried for years more out of habit than expectation. Tearing it open with my teeth, I roll it on fast, my eyes never leaving hers. The few seconds it takes have my pulse pounding harder, the anticipation stretched so tight it’s almost unbearable.

When I finally line myself up and push into her, the world narrows to nothing but the tight, hot clasp of her around me. My breath leaves me in a ragged groan. She’s so warm, so slick, and she takes me in like she was made for me. Her legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I sink all the way in until I’m buried inside her.

“Liam…” My name leaves her lips like a prayer and a curse all at once.

I move slowly at first, letting us both feel every inch, every drag. She’s gripping me, holding me so tight it’s almost unbearable, but the way she looks at me, her eyes wide, lips parted, keeps me from losing control too soon. I set a rhythm, steady and deep, and her moans match each thrust, soft and broken.

The way she clings to me, physically, like she can’t get close enough, and with something in her gaze I can’t name, makes my chest ache even as my body burns for more.

There’s no going halfway. She’s got me, completely.

Some people see the tattoos and think they’ve already read the story. But right now, buried deep inside her, feeling her grip me like she’ll never let go, I know, the sweetest chapters are the ones written under the ink.

The End

Copyright © by LS Phoenix

No portion of this story may be reproduced in any form without written permission from the publisher or author, except as permitted by U.S. copyright law.

Published by LS Phoenix

New Hampshire, USA

https://linktr.ee/authorlsphoenix

First Edition: August 2025

Cover Design by LS Phoenix

Reader Confession

I’ll admit it—if the hero is tattooed, looks dangerous, and secretly has a heart so soft it could undo me, I’m already halfway in love before I’ve even finished the blurb.

There’s just something about the contrast that makes these heroes unforgettable. Maybe it’s the way they surprise you. Maybe it’s the quiet way they put your needs before their own. Or maybe it’s how they’re written to embody loyalty, gentleness, and passion all at once.

Whatever it is, I can’t resist them. Who’s your all-time favorite cinnamon roll hero with an edge? I’m taking notes.

He’s Trouble… Until He’s Yours

To the rest of the world, he looks like trouble. The tattoos, the stare, the quiet confidence—it’s enough to make people step aside when he walks into a room. But to you? He’s the safest place you’ve ever been.

That’s the beauty of the tattooed cinnamon roll hero. He doesn’t soften for the world, but for you? There’s nothing he wouldn’t do. He’s protective, devoted, and impossibly tender in a way that makes you feel seen and cherished.

Who’s your favorite fictional man who looks like he could break your heart but would never dream of it? Share your recs below—I want my TBR to overflow.

The Plot Twist

You see him and assume he’s the grumpy, broody bad boy who will push everyone away. The tattoos, the quiet intensity, the sharp edges—they’re all part of the first impression. But then the story peels back the layers, and you realize you were wrong.

Underneath that ink is a man who will drive three hours in the rain to make sure you’re okay. The one who shows up with soup when you’re sick, and who remembers the little things you didn’t even realize you told him.

That’s why I will always click on a tattooed cinnamon roll hero. They’re the unexpected twist we never get tired of. What’s a trope you’ll never skip, no matter how many times you’ve read it?

The Look vs. The Heart

There’s something irresistible about a hero who looks like trouble but treats you like treasure. Tattooed cinnamon roll heroes have that perfect contrast—the tough, inked exterior that makes people second-guess them, paired with a heart so sweet it could melt steel.

These are the heroes who’d rather carry your groceries, remember your coffee order, and keep your secrets than live up to the “bad boy” image strangers project onto them. They prove that kindness is never weakness and that the softest hearts often come wrapped in the boldest packaging.

Who’s your favorite tattooed cinnamon roll hero in romance? Drop your recs—I’m always looking for more book boyfriends to fall for.

Writing the Trope That Always Turns Heads

There’s something about writing a supermodel x normal person romance that just clicks—a blend of fantasy, tension, and high-stakes heartache that practically writes itself.

Except… it doesn’t. Not always.

I love this trope because it’s layered. You get to play with the extremes: glamor vs. normalcy, public image vs. private emotion, fantasy vs. reality. And when it works? It really works. The heat is explosive. The vulnerability is gutting. The emotional payoff is everything.

But writing it comes with a few surprises.

There’s a balance to strike between the fairytale and the real world.

Too much fame, and the love story feels distant.

Too little consequence, and the conflict falls flat.

So I anchor the story in what really matters—emotion.

I ask:

What does this person hide from the world?

Who are they when no one’s watching?

What does it cost them to fall in love with someone who sees them entirely?

That’s where the story lives—in the stolen glances, the cracked armor, the whispered fears.

Here’s a peek from one I’m working on now:

“You know what’s funny?” he says, voice low, eyes locked on mine. “You’re the only one who’s never asked for a picture. And the only one who’s ever made me want to stay.”

So… would you fall for the model—or would you run screaming in the other direction?

Meet-Cutes, Runways, and Real Life

The only thing better than a supermodel romance?

A meet-cute that makes us believe it could happen to us.

One second you’re minding your business in the produce aisle, the next you’re arguing with a six-foot-two, sunglasses-wearing stranger over the last ripe avocado—only to realize later he’s the face of Calvin Klein’s latest campaign. Oops.

This trope shines when it leans into fun, unexpected first meetings that crash two worlds together.

A few faves we can’t get enough of:

The accidental run-in: Elevator stalls, spilled coffee, wrong hotel room. Yes, please.

Forced proximity: Shared vacation homes, travel mishaps, snowstorms… nothing says love like being stuck together with no escape.

Mistaken identity: They don’t know who the model is—or they know too well and pretend not to care.

The charity event clash: One’s working the room, the other’s there under protest… until sparks fly mid-auction.

What we love most? That moment where attraction meets chaos and neither one sees it coming. That spark. That tension. That what just happened feeling that sets everything in motion.

So let’s have some fun:

💘 What’s your favorite meet-cute scenario for this trope—or one you’d love to see?

Off Camera - Short Story

Okay, I got carried away with this one guys! Phew! this took on a life of its own and who knows…maybe somewhere down the line this will become a book! 

Meet Wren and Luca from Off Camera!

About the story:

She’s just the quiet neighbor across the hall—the one who wears oversized sweaters, reads in the hallway while doing laundry, and blushes whenever he says hi. She doesn’t fawn, flirt, or ask for selfies. She’s never once acted like she knows who he is.

That’s why he notices her.

That, and the fact that she’s not like everyone else in his world.

But when a last-minute casting crisis hits a major fashion shoot and his team begs him to help find someone—anyone—with the right look to sub in, he casually throws out her name. She’s stunning in a way she doesn’t seem to realize, and for once, he wants to see what happens when she’s seen.

What he doesn’t expect?

That she’ll say yes.

Or that she’ll be so good at pretending she doesn’t want him… right until they’re alone.

Happy Reading! 

Off Camera

Wren

The Neighbor Next Door

The hallway smells like takeout and someone’s bad cologne, and I’m not in the mood for either. My shoes are pinching, my tote bag is digging into my shoulder, and the paper sack holding my dinner feels like it’s seconds away from giving up on life.

Naturally, that’s when I nearly walk face-first into my neighbor.

“Oh… sorry,” I mumble, stumbling back a step.

He’s standing just outside his door, one hand braced on the frame like he either came out to grab the mail or scowl at the world. Probably both. He’s shirtless…again, and barefoot, with gray sweatpants riding low on his hips and damp hair like he just stepped out of the shower. His entire existence screams accidental cologne ad, and here I am in wrinkled clothes and end-of-day exhaustion, holding a rapidly deteriorating bag of lo mein.

He doesn’t say anything right away. Just looks at me with that same unreadable expression he always has. Calm. Watchful. Like he’s sizing me up and not in a creepy way, just… curious.

“It’s fine,” he says eventually, voice low and rough like he hasn’t used it all day. “You okay?”

“Long day,” I say, adjusting my bag and hoping I don’t smell like the bus. “Just trying to get inside before I drop dinner all over the hallway.”

He nods once but doesn’t move. Still blocking half the path to my door with that tall, bare-chested body like some kind of obstacle in a very weird dream.

I shift to the side and just as I reach my door, the keys slip from my fingers and hit the floor with a loud metallic clatter.

Perfect.

I crouch automatically, but he’s faster. He’s already there, hand brushing mine as he picks up the keys. My skin jumps under the contact, and I yank back like I’ve been shocked.

His brows lift slightly, but he doesn’t say anything about it.

“You always come home this late?” he asks, holding the keys out between two fingers.

“Sometimes,” I say. I reach for them. His fingers graze mine again, on purpose this time. Warm. Slow. Full of confidence.

I flinch anyway. Not because I don’t like it. Because I do.

He smirks. Not a full smile, but it’s the closest I’ve seen.

“You know,” he says, voice dipping even lower, “you walk past me every day like I’m invisible. Kind of refreshing.”

I blink. “I don’t—”

“I’m not complaining.” His expression softens, just a little. “It’s nice.”

My heart starts beating in places it has no business beating. I stare at him for a second too long, then drop my eyes and clutch the keys like they might anchor me to the floor.

“I’m not trying to be rude. I’m just… bad at neighbor small talk.”

“Me too,” he says, finally letting go of the keys. “But you’re not rude. You’re… quiet.”

I can’t tell if that’s meant to be a compliment or an observation, but something about the way he says it makes my skin warm. Like he’s been watching. Not in a stalkery way. Just… noticing.

“Well. Thanks for the save.”

“Anytime, neighbor.”

The way he says neighbor, teasing, amused, just a little flirty, sends something warm curling low in my stomach. I nod, mutter some sort of awkward goodnight, and flee into my apartment before I do something stupid like ask if he wants to split my lo mein or me for that matter.

Inside, it’s dim and quiet. I kick off my shoes, drop the bag on the counter, and lean back against the door like it can hold me up.

That man. That voice. That look.

I’ve seen him around for months. Quiet. Gorgeous. Mysteriously shirtless far more often than is socially acceptable. I always figured he was some kind of trainer or lowkey influencer. He’s way too pretty to work in tech. Whatever he is, he has no business looking at me like that.

And yet… he did.

…………

Luca 

The Photoshoot Proposal

Across the hall, I lean against my doorframe, arms crossed, still staring at her door.

Hmm…

She doesn’t know who I am.

Not the ads. Not the campaigns. Not the hundreds of billboards with my face selling suits, watches, cologne I don’t wear.

She just sees the guy across the hall. And for the first time in a long time…

I kind of like being invisible.

Until now.

My phone buzzes in my hand, screen lit up with a dozen new messages from my agent, the creative director, and the team group chat that’s one espresso away from full-blown meltdown.

Model’s out. Food poisoning. Or maybe it’s her new boyfriend again. Either way, she’s not showing.

Ari [9:42 PM]

LUCA. We need a replacement. Stat.

She bailed. Again. I’m gonna scream.

Do you know anyone? Like, anyone?

I exhale through my nose and glance back at her door. My neighbor. Wren.

She doesn’t know she’s beautiful. That’s the first thing I noticed. She moves like she’s trying to disappear but her eyes are sharp, her mouth soft, and there’s something about the way she avoids being seen that makes you want to look harder.

She’s not the type they usually cast.

Which is exactly why I send the message.

Luca [9:44 PM]

I might have someone.

Give me ten minutes.

…………

Wren

There’s a knock at my door just as I’m shoving leftover lo mein into the fridge.

I pause, confused. It’s late. No one ever knocks on my door. And I definitely don’t open the door without checking the peephole.

So I look.

It’s him.

Hot Neighbor. Shirted this time, thank God, but still unfairly gorgeous, holding his phone in one hand and wearing that expression I don’t know how to read.

“Hi,” I say, awkward. My voice sounds like a cartoon character swallowed a frog.

“Hey. Sorry to bother you, but—” He stops. Rubs the back of his neck. “Okay, this is going to sound weird.”

My eyebrows go up.

He exhales. “I need a favor.”

I blink. “Do you… need sugar? Or…”

“No. No sugar. I—” He hesitates, then laughs quietly. “So, I’m a model.”

“Oh.”

“I know,” he says, smirking. “Shocking.”

I laugh before I can stop myself. He smiles like that was his goal.

“There’s a shoot tomorrow. The lead model dropped out, and the team’s scrambling. It’s a lingerie campaign. Classy. Nothing gross.”

I blink harder.

“And I was thinking…” He pauses, watching me like he’s trying to gauge whether I’ll slam the door in his face. “You’d be perfect for it.”

I open my mouth. Close it. Open it again. “Is this a prank?”

“Nope.” He pulls up the email chain on his phone, flashing logos and frantic messages I barely register. “It’s real. You have a look they’re dying for, natural, unfiltered, soft.”

“You mean not a size two.”

“I mean real. And stunning.”

That derails me completely. I stand there, half in the doorway, trying not to melt.

“I just lost my job,” I blurt, because apparently I’ve given up on boundaries tonight. “So I’m a little emotionally unstable right now.”

He grins. “Perfect. You’ll fit right in.”

I snort. It’s a weird sound. He doesn’t seem to mind.

“It’s one afternoon,” he says gently. “One camera. No pressure. You can walk the second it feels wrong.”

I hesitate, staring at him. He looks… hopeful. But not pushy. Just waiting.

God, I’m going to regret this. “Fine,” I say. “I’ll do it.”

He blinks. “Yeah?”

“You said I can bail if I hate it.” I shrug.

“Absolutely.” He runs a hand through his hair. “I’ll send over the address. Noon. You’ll be amazing.”

“I’ll be terrified.”

He grins. “Then you better give me your number so I can make sure you don’t chicken out.”

“Oh… right. Um, hold on.” I backpedal into my apartment. My phone’s on the floor near the couch, exactly where it fell out of my bag when I dropped everything earlier.

I bend to grab it, and when I turn back around, Luca is still standing there, expression unreadable, jaw tight.

His eyes snap to mine like I caught him staring ass.

Maybe because I did.

He blinks once, slow, then smiles like nothing happened. “Got it?”

I hold up my phone, cheeks hot. “Got it.”

“Same thing,” he says, and then he’s gone, walking back to his apartment like this is totally normal and not some absurd fever dream.

I close the door, lock it, and lean back against it for the second time tonight.

What the hell did I just agree to?

I’m standing in front of the mirror in my bedroom twenty minutes later.

Still in my wrinkled work clothes. Messy bun slipping sideways on top of my head and my eyes seem extra tired.

I don’t know what I’m expecting by staring at myself, some kind of epiphany maybe? A flash of confidence? Hell, even a hint that I belong in front of a camera?

But all I see is me.

And yet… he looked at me like he saw something else. Something I’ve never let myself believe I could be.

I stare a little longer, like maybe if I look hard enough… I’ll see it too.

…………

Wren 

On Set Tension

I don’t belong here.

That’s my first thought when I step into the studio, bare brick walls, floor-to-ceiling windows, and a black-and-white color palette that somehow makes everything feel expensive. Minimalist. Intimidating.

Everyone looks like they stepped out of a fashion magazine. The makeup artist is wearing heels I couldn’t stand in. The guy holding a clipboard has better eyebrows than I do. And Ari, Luca’s manager, is… stunning. Tall. Graceful. Dressed in a silk blouse that probably costs more than my rent.

But she smiles when she sees me, eyes warm. “You must be Wren.”

“Hi.” My voice cracks. Great.

“I’m Ari.” She glides over, then surprises me by wrapping her hands gently around mine. “Don’t worry. You’re going to kill this. And we’ll take care of you every step of the way.”

Ari gives my hand one last squeeze, then nods toward a rack of black robes and lace. “Go ahead and head to wardrobe, sweetheart.”

Before I can blink, I’m ushered into hair and makeup, where a kind-eyed woman brushes my cheeks with something that smells like vanilla and roses and tells me I have perfect skin. I want to believe her.

The lingerie is… not subtle.

Two piece of black lace. Delicate straps. A sheer robe I didn’t even know counted as clothing.

“You okay?” Ari asks gently when I step out of the dressing room.

“No,” I admit.

She smiles. “That’s normal. Luca’s already on set. He’ll walk you through it.”

Right. Luca. The reason my pulse won’t settle.

When I finally step onto the set, my breath catches.

He’s already in position. Shirtless again, of course.

But this close, this real, he doesn’t look like a poster or a magazine ad. He looks like a problem I don’t have the tools to solve.

His skin is golden under the lights, smooth and taut over sculpted muscle, a broad chest, defined abs, the kind of cut lines that look like they were carved, not built. Every movement makes them flex, slow and effortless. And then there’s that V.

The one that dips below the waistband of his low-rise black briefs, drawing the eye exactly where it shouldn’t go.

I try not to look.

I absolutely look.

His hair is a mess in the way only a professional can pull off. Disheveled, damp, like someone just dragged their fingers through it while he was doing something he shouldn’t.

And his eyes, those sharp, unreadable eyes, lift to mine and widen the second I appear.

Like he can’t believe what he sees.

And just like that, I forget how to walk.

“You made it,” he says, straightening.

“Barely.”

His mouth quirks. “You look…”

I raise an eyebrow. “Careful.”

He laughs. “Beautiful.”

I flush instantly.

The photographer, someone named Theo, waves us over, mumbling something about light and framing and contrast. I try to focus, but Luca steps in behind me, placing a hand on my hip, and suddenly the whole world narrows to that one point of contact.

“Relax,” he murmurs, low and close to my ear. “You’ve already got it. Just lean into me.”

So… I do.

His hands are warm and steady as he adjusts my posture, tips my chin up with one finger, slides a palm across the small of my back. My skin buzzes everywhere he touches. And even though there are four people watching, it feels like it’s only us.

We pose. Shift. Pose again. There’s a rhythm to it, his body guiding mine, his breath against my neck. I forget to be self-conscious. I forget to be anything but aware of him.

Then Theo says, “Let’s get a few in the matching set,” and I realize I’m about to stand next to Luca Moretti in lingerie designed for someone with fewer hips and more confidence.

Yeah, once he said he was a model, I immediately googled him to check him out. The man is an International Super Model! How in the fuck did I not know that? Am I that introverted?

“Wren,” Luca says softly, noticing what he thought was hesitation but in reality was my own inner monologue. “You’re doing amazing. Just breathe.”

My fingers find the belt of the robe, hesitating for just a second before tugging. The soft fabric loosens, then slides from my shoulders like a sigh—slow, weightless, pooling at my feet in a whisper of silk.

His eyes follow every inch of it falling.

He doesn’t blink. Doesn’t move.

Just watches, like the whole damn room disappeared and I’m the only thing left standing.

His eyes linger. Not leering, just… intense. Focused. Like I’m not wearing scraps of lace in a room full of people, but something meant just for him.

Theo clicks. Again and again.

“You two are magnetic,” he mutters. “Don’t move. That’s gold.”

I don’t dare.

Luca doesn’t break eye contact. His hand brushes my thigh, then settles on my waist. Everything inside me feels stretched tight, like I’m holding my breath, waiting for something to snap.

I tilt my head, just slightly, and his gaze drops to my mouth.

Then I hear it.

Voice low. A whisper behind me, not meant for my ears.

“Bet she’s the rebound. He always finds someone after he and Sofia break up then goes right back to her. Poor fool.”

The words hit me like a slap.

And I know who they mean.

When I googled him, her face was everywhere. Her name, too. Sofia. There were so many pictures of them together. Not just from shoots or campaigns, but real-life, grainy, stolen moments. Candid laughs. Tangled hands. Late-night exits from cars that cost more than I make in a year.

The internet says they are on-again, off-again lovers. Fashion’s golden couple.

And me?

I’m the accidental stand-in. The girl-next-door replacement. The one no one will remember.

She’s the kind of woman people stop traffic for. The kind who belongs beside someone like Luca, who looks airbrushed in real life and knows exactly how to own a room. I can’t compete with that. I was never supposed to.

My stomach knots. Heat flushes my skin, but not the good kind.

I shift, just slightly, enough for Luca’s hand to fall away from my waist. I don’t look at him. I can’t. Because suddenly the robe slipping off my shoulders feels wrong. The lace feels too tight. My thighs feel too soft. My body  too much in a room where I was only ever meant to be invisible.

My fingers curl at my sides. My mouth goes dry.

“Wren?” Luca’s voice is quiet, but it slices through the moment.

I force a smile I don’t feel. “I just… need a second.”

I step back. Away from the lights. Away from him. Every eye in the room feels like it lands on me.

I don’t wait for anyone to stop me. I don’t even bother grabbing the robe.

I just turn and walk away quickly.

…………

Wren

The Breaking Point

I don’t wait for someone to stop me.

I grab the fuzzy robe off the dressing chair, tug it on with shaking hands, slip my feet into my sneakers and shove open the back exit before I can think twice. No cameras. No eyes. Just cold air and the sound of my heart beating too loud in my chest.

Someone calls my name behind me, but I keep walking.

The city air hits like a slap—cool, damp, full of car horns and exhaust and people who don’t know I’m coming apart at the seams.

I should’ve known.

I knew.

Of course it was about the rebound. Of course he picked the quiet neighbor.

I was just the easy option.

The placeholder.

He wanted sex and figured I’d be too stunned to say no.

I’m two blocks from the studio when I hear footsteps. Heavy ones. Fast.

“Wren,” Luca says, voice sharp with breath and something too raw to name. “Wait.”

I don’t.

“Wren,” he says again, louder this time. “Talk to me.”

I spin on him, heat flaring under my skin. “Was this all just some rebound fantasy for you?” I notice he was smarter than me, he threw on jeans, a t-shirt and shoes.

He stops short. Blinks like I slapped him. “What?”

“Sofia,” I bite out. “I heard them.”

His jaw tics. “That wasn’t—”

“Don’t lie.”

“I’m not.” He runs both hands through his hair like he wants to rip it out. “It’s not like that, okay? Maybe I thought putting someone else in front of the camera would make it easier to forget—”

I flinch.

He sees it. Curses under his breath. Then—

“But it stopped being about her the second I saw you.”

I freeze.

There’s traffic in the background. Laughter from a bar down the street. My heart beating way too loud in my chest.

“You’re so full of shit,” I whisper.

“I’m not.”

“You don’t even know me.”

“But I want to.” His voice lowers, rough with honesty. “I’ve been watching you for months, Wren. Every time you walk past me it’s like I’m no one, like I’m normal. Every time you didn’t ask for a picture or a favor or a fucking story to tell your friends…”

His gaze burns. “I’ve never wanted someone more.”

I shake my head, swallowing hard. “You don’t get to say things like that.”

“Why not?” He frowns.

“Because it’s not real,” I say. “None of this is. I’m not a model. I’m not the girl who walks into rooms like I own them. I’m the girl who eats lo mein on the floor and cries at dog food commercials.”

Luca steps closer.

“And I want her.” His eyes never leave mine. “That’s the version I’ve been picturing since the first day I laid eyes on you.”

I hate that my eyes sting. Hate that I believe him just a little. Hate that I want to.

“I don’t want to be someone you forget,” I say, voice cracking.

“You won’t be.”

“I don’t want to be a headline. Or a phase. Or a fucking rebound, Luca.”

“You won’t be. You’re not.”

I look at him, furious and hurting and so goddamn tired of trying to figure out if this means something.

And then I kiss him.

Hard.

It’s messy. Desperate. Angry. A crash more than a kiss. My fingers fist in the front of his shirt, and he stumbles back a step, dragging me with him, like he’s been waiting for this just as long.

He kisses me back like he’s starving. Like he’s sorry and wants to convince me of every word he just said.

And for one second, I let him.

…………

Wren

Off the Record

“My place, now.” He says pulling back from the kiss. I don’t have any words, so I just nod. He grabs my hand and pulls me in the direction of our apartment building.

We don’t talk on the way there. We don’t need to.

The second the door closes behind us, we crash into each other like we’re starving. His hands find my hips. My fingers tangle in his hair. He kisses me like he’s been holding back for too long, and I kiss him like I never want to stop.

We stumble backward, mouths never parting, until I feel the edge of his kitchen counter press into my back. He lifts me onto it like I weigh nothing, and I gasp when his hands slip under the hem of my robe.

I’m still in the lingerie. I forgot.

He didn’t.

His eyes darken as he leans back just enough to look at me. Really look. I’ve never felt so exposed. So seen.

But I’m also shaking.

“I don’t…” My breath hitches. “I don’t look like the women you’re used to.”

His gaze snaps to mine. Sharp. Steady.

“Good,” he says, voice like gravel. “They’ve never undone me like this.”

Then his mouth is back on mine, hot, demanding, unapologetic. His hands slide over my thighs, up my sides, slipping beneath the lace bralette. I arch into him without thinking, and he groans low in his throat.

“You’re killing me, Wren.”

“Then do something about it.”

That’s all it takes.

He lifts me again, hands on my ass, carrying me toward his bedroom like he already knows the layout of my body by touch. I clutch his shoulders, dragging my mouth across his jaw, his neck, the shell of his ear.

“You’re too pretty to be this strong,” I whisper.

He huffs a laugh. “You’re too innocent to say things like that with your legs wrapped around me.”

“I’m not innocent.”

“Prove it.”

…………

Luca

She does just that.

The second we hit the mattress, she pushes me back and straddles my hips, her hair falling into her face, her cheeks flushed with something halfway between nerves and hunger.

She looks down at me like she’s not sure this is real.

So I help her believe it.

“You’re gorgeous,” I say, hands sliding up her thighs. “I’ve wanted you like this since the day you dropped your keys.”

She laughs, breathless. “You’re ridiculous.”

I sit up, mouth grazing her collarbone. “And you’re going to be the reason I lose my mind.”

She gasps as I find the clasp at the back of her bralette and undo it slowly, intentionally, letting the lace fall between us. I smooth my hands over her bare skin, my thumbs brushing the soft curve of her breasts.

“You feel like heaven,” I murmur.

“Then touch me like you mean it.”

“Oh, I plan to.”

I flip her gently onto her back, dragging my mouth down her body as I go. Her stomach rises and falls with every breath, her thighs shifting restlessly under me. And when I reach her hip, I see it, just the faintest stretch of scarred skin. Silvery. Real.

I kiss it.

She goes still.

“This,” I whisper against her skin, “this is real.”

…………

Wren

I think I might actually break.

No one’s ever touched me like this, like they’re memorizing me instead of taking what they want. Like I’m not just allowed to be soft, but meant to be.

He kisses lower. Hands spreading my thighs, his voice nothing but gravel and sin.

“You want my mouth, angel?”

“Yes.”

“You gonna ride it?”

“Yes.”

I lose sense of all reality after that.

There’s his mouth. His hands.

His voice in my ear telling me I taste perfect, feel perfect, and sound like every dirty dream he’s ever had.

He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t hold back.

He kisses down my stomach, spreading my thighs with his hands like he owns them, like he’s wanted to from the start.

Then his mouth is on me.

Hot. Slow. Devastating.

He licks a lazy stripe over my center, then flattens his tongue and groans like I’ve ruined him. His hands pin my hips in place, keeping me wide open while he works me apart, circling, teasing, sucking until my spine bows off the mattress and I’m grabbing for his hair, moaning his name like a prayer I don’t deserve.

He doesn’t look away. Not once.

His eyes stay locked on mine while his tongue drags an orgasm out of me like it’s personal.

I’m still panting, legs trembling, when he finally pulls back, his mouth shiny, his expression undone.

He crawls up the length of my body, slow and sure, like he’s savoring every inch. His skin is hot against mine, his muscles tense with restraint. When he kisses me, I taste myself on his tongue, and something about that makes me moan all over again.

Then he pulls back, breathless, eyes dark.

“Hold that thought,” he says, voice rough as sin.

I watch as he stands beside the bed, dragging his jeans and briefs down his thighs with one hand, slow and unbothered, like he knows I’m looking. Like he wants me to. 

And God… I am.

Then reaches behind his head with one hand and pulls off his t-shirt.

Every inch of him is carved and golden, but it’s the thick, heavy line of his cock that steals the air from my lungs.

He catches my reaction and smiles, hungry, smug, starved.

Then he’s back over me, lowering himself until I feel the weight of his body against mine, and there’s nothing between us now.

Then he reaches between us.

Runs the head of his cock through my slickness, slow and deliberate, coating himself in everything he just took from me.

“You ready for me, baby?” he rasps, voice wrecked.

I nod, but it’s not enough.

“Say it.”

“Yes,” I breathe. “I want you inside me.”

He groans, low and filthy, then notches himself at my entrance. One hand finds mine, fingers lacing tight.

By the time he slides into me, slow and deep, I’m shaking again. But not from nerves.

From need.

His forehead presses to mine. “Look at me.”

I do. I can’t not.

“You feel so fucking good,” he growls. “Tight, warm, soaking wet just for me.”

I moan. He swallows it with a kiss.

His hips roll deeper. He angles just right. My back arches, and his hand slides under to pull me closer. Skin to skin. Heart to heart.

We move like we were made for this.

Like we already know how to come apart together.

…………

After, we lie tangled in his sheets. His arm draped over my waist. His chest slick against my back. I don’t want to move. Don’t want to breathe in case it ruins the quiet.

“I’ve never felt wanted like this before,” I whisper.

His lips brush the back of my shoulder.

“That’s the only way I’ve ever seen you.”

…………

Wren

Off Camera

We must’ve passed out after round four.

Rebound stamina like that should be illegal.

I wake up deliciously sore in his apartment the next morning, sunlight spilling through the windows and warming the leg I’ve got sticking out from under the sheets. It smells like coffee and him, something dark, rich, and a little addictive.

I’m in his oversized T-shirt, brushing my teeth with the toothbrush he casually mentioned was waiting in the bathroom. He didn’t ask me to stay.

But he didn't have to, he made it pretty damn easy.

I glance into the hallway mirror as I leave the bathroom, hair wild, skin flushed, lips still kiss-swollen, and something soft tugs in my chest.

I should feel awkward. Out of place.

Instead, I feel… safe.

When I step into the kitchen, he’s standing at the counter in nothing but sweats, pouring coffee like this is any other day. Like we are any other thing.

But then he looks up.

And it’s not just any look.

It’s the kind that sees everything. Me. The bare-faced, bed-headed version of myself no one ever asks to keep around.

“Hey,” I say, voice still scratchy from sleep.

He grins. “Hey, yourself.”

He holds out a mug. I take it. Our fingers brush. The contact zings all the way down.

“You good?” he asks, eyes still scanning my face.

“Yeah,” I say. Then I take a sip and add, “Sore. But good.”

He laughs, low and warm. “Worth it?”

I blush as I sip my coffee.

Pointing at me and smiling, “I’ll take that as my answer.”

We settle into a comfortable silence. If anything, it’s easy. Like we’ve done this a hundred times before. Like the chaos of yesterday is already starting to fade.

Still, the question itched all night, and now it demands air.

I take a breath. “So… what happens now?”

He doesn’t look surprised. Doesn’t flinch.

He just shrugs, casual and devastating. “Now I keep looking at you like you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen. On-camera or not.”

My heart skips. Stutters.

I don’t even try to hide the smile spreading across my face.

“Smooth,” I say.

“Not trying to be.”

“Really?”

He crosses the room, takes my mug, and sets it aside before caging me in against the counter.

“I’ve had cameras on me since I was nineteen, and I’m 26 now,” he says softly. “But last night? That was the first time I ever felt seen.”

I swallow hard. “Even when I ran?”

“Especially when you ran. You didn’t let me hide either.”

I don’t know what to say to that, so I just nod, my throat too full to risk words.

He kisses my forehead. My cheek. The corner of my mouth. “Stay,” he murmurs.

I wrap my arms around his waist and lean into him.

“I was already planning to,” I whisper.

The End

Not Just a Pretty Face – Let’s Talk Depth

The best supermodel characters don’t just pose—they surprise us.

Sure, they’re beautiful. It’s part of the trope. But what really makes them unforgettable is what’s underneath the surface. The pressure, the hidden passions, the unexpected depth that peeks through once the lights go down.

We love a character who flips the script. Who’s been underestimated their whole life and still comes out swinging. Who’s used to being seen but never understood.

Here are a few model characters—across media—who broke the mold:

Maddie Bowen (fictional example): The face of a billion-dollar beauty brand… and a trauma survivor building a safehouse for women behind the scenes.

Zeke King (fictional): Catwalk royalty, but his secret? He paints—quiet, intimate portraits no one knows exist.

Gia Rossi (TV/film): Known for her bold persona, but off-camera she struggles with anxiety and finds solace in baking bread at 3 a.m.

Trey Miller (romance novel): The underwear model with a reputation—until a small-town girl finds out he’s secretly raising his teenage sister alone.

In my own stories, I love turning that spotlight around. Taking someone who seems untouchable and peeling back the layers until all that’s left is something raw and real.

Because sometimes, the prettiest faces hold the deepest stories.

So tell me:

✨ What’s your favorite “celebrity” character who had way more depth than you expected? I’m always looking for recs!

The Ugly Side of Beauty

Falling for a supermodel might sound like a dream—but in fiction (and let’s be real, in life), fame has a price. And when one half of the relationship lives in the spotlight, the cracks show fast.

This trope thrives on tension.

Because loving someone the world already claims as theirs? That’s messy.

Suddenly, it’s not just two people trying to figure each other out. It’s two people, plus:

Paparazzi on every corner

Tabloids twisting private moments into headlines

Social media strangers with opinions on your relationship

The weight of comparison, insecurity, and the pressure to look “worthy” next to someone who graces magazine covers

Fame magnifies everything—a missed call becomes a rumored breakup, a fight turns into scandal, a kiss caught on camera goes viral before either person can even process it.

And for the “normal” person, the emotional toll can be brutal.

How do you compete with a world that already adores them?

How do you survive knowing you’ll always be the before photo in a world that worships the after?

That’s why the angst in this trope hits. It’s not just about love—it’s about resilience.

Still, not everyone wants the drama. Some readers love the fluffier takes: a model who walks away from fame for a simpler life, or a couple who manages to stay private and sweet. And there’s space for both.

So tell me:

💔 Do you love the messy, angsty drama of this trope—or do you prefer the softer, swoony side of the story?