Page 31 of Blurred Lines

He turns, a smile playing on his lips. "You look appropriately hungry," he rumbles, his voice still rough with sleep. The sight of that smile, coupled with the way his eyes travel over me in open appreciation, sends a delicious shiver down my spine.

"I am," I somehow manage to reply, acutely aware that I am only wearing Silas's shirt.

He gestures towards the feast in progress. "Then the only reasonable thing to do is eat."

I chuckle, unable to argue the logic. If Caeleb puts half as much dedication into the culinary arts as he does into … well, everything else, this breakfast is bound to be unforgettable.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls my gaze away from Caeleb's unfairly perfect biceps. Silas and Finn enter the kitchen, a double dose of tousled hair and sleepy smiles. And … holy hotness, they're also shirtless. A deep blush floods my cheeks as the realization hits me—I've stumbled into some kind of insanely attractive breakfast club.

Silas, sleek and polished even with morning stubble, pours himself a glass of orange juice. "Well now, this is a pleasant way to start the day," he says, his voice smooth and vibrant.

Finn, all laid-back charm, chuckles and snags a piece of sizzling bacon. "Caeleb's breakfast is practically legendary around here. Consider yourself lucky."

Caeleb sets down a plate in front of me, a masterpiece of fluffy scrambled eggs, golden hash browns crisped to perfection, and those tantalizing strips of bacon. The aroma is heavenly, a swirl of salty, sweet, and savory that makes my stomach rumble once more, louder than before.

"Dig in," Caeleb says, a grin tugging at his lips as he watches me.

I do, and it's like a flavor explosion in my mouth. The eggs are light and creamy, the hash browns have a perfect hint of spice, and the bacon practically melts on my tongue. Moans of delight escape me between bites.

"This is incredible," I manage to say.

"Yeah, Caeleb," Finn teases, "You should open a restaurant."

Caeleb snorts. "Very funny."

As we eat, conversation flows effortlessly. Silas leads the charge with questions about my modeling career. "What's it like?" he asks, "to be the center of attention all the time?"

My blush fades and is replaced by the warmth I feel when I'm talking about my career. "There are highs and lows," I tell him. "Although, nothing gives me the rush of walking a ramp, knowing that I'm about to make a small piece of history."

I pause and butter a piece of toast before continuing. "If you ask me, history isn't just about the momentous occasions of the world. There are also the little things, the work done by all of us, as one connected whole. What we're doing right now, enjoying this breakfast, that's part of it."

The men watch me take a bite of the toast. Its perfect crunch gives way to a cloud-like interior, and I can't help the sigh of pure contentment that escapes me. "Honestly," I begin, swirling a finger through the leftover butter, "the clothes, the travel, those are perks. But I'm in this for a bigger reason. I want people to understand that 'healthy' isn't one standard size, that what worked for you at twenty won't work at forty …" My voice trails off, a familiar tightness in my chest.

"And even then, so long as you get your sunshine, eat well enough, and find joy, that's enough, right?" My question hangs heavy in the air.

Finn nods, a slow, thoughtful movement. "Preach," he says, his voice low. "But we forget that, don't we? Food as fuel, not some instrument of self-torture."

His words hit a little too close to home. I grab an apple from the counter, the cool weight in my palm grounding. An image flickers in my mind—me, in my early modeling days, measuring out portions of fruit like they were dangerous substances. With a sharp twist of the knife, I slice the apple, pretending the tension in my shoulders doesn't exist.

"The thing is," I say, my voice tight, "it's easy to sell beautiful young women the dream of 'better' or 'just a little more.' But there's never enough 'more,' not when the entire world profits off your desperate belief that you're not quite there yet."

The silence stretches. I hadn't meant to spill all that, but there's a strange ease in baring a sliver of that ugliness in front of these men. And then Finn speaks, his voice startlingly gentle, cutting through my spiraling thoughts.

"Hey," he murmurs, leaning forward, elbows on the table. "Eyes up here, Em. Talk to us."

I meet his gaze, the warmth in his eyes disarming. There's no pity, no judgment, just an unspoken invitation to share the burden. And so, I do.

I've been pushing the scrambled eggs around my plate, which is a sin given how good they are. "It's just …" I begin, my brows knitting. "It's not an easy thing to do, not when you're constantly afraid of scrutiny."

"Delve deeper, Emily," he says, his eyes holding mine. "We're here to listen."

I smile slowly. "It's a stupid, but very true cliché that beauty comes at a price. That sacrifice is the backstage currency." I catch a flicker of concern in Silas's otherwise cool gaze as I push on.

"We're going back to an age where diets read like torture manuals," I continue. "Pills and powders promise disappearing inches overnight. It's …" I struggle for the right word.

"Unfair," Caeleb finishes for me.

I sigh. "Can we talk about something else?"

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