Tripp Townsend and Doug Acre stand shoulder to shoulder, their shaved heads gleaming under the dim light as they grip each other’s hips, fingers tracing the taut lines of muscle through fabric. Logan Vaughn, hooded and lean, presses his mouth to Tripp’s neck while Jacques Lavere adjusts his own belt, the red curtains framing them in a blur of movement. Their hands move with purpose, pulling, holding, the air thick with the weight of what’s coming next.
