Kyler Drayke stands with his uniform half-open, the fabric gaping over his chest as he grips himself hard, his knuckles white against the strain. JC Hunt watches from the shadows, the American flag behind them a stiff, unblinking witness to the way Kyler’s fingers work, fast, rough, his breath coming in sharp bursts. The air between them is thick with the sound of skin against skin, nothing else needed.
