Zach Alexander leans on a pitchfork, his light hair catching the light as he grips the handle with a farmer’s grip, his hairy chest straining against the blue checkered shirt. He squats on the hay, his muscular frame shifting as he shifts his weight, the straw cowboy hat tilted low over his eyes, while his hands work the shovel with rough, deliberate strokes. The wooden fence behind him frames his stance, every movement deliberate, every breath measured, his body built for work, his presence unapologetically dominant.
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