Lee Young leans against a door frame, his bare chest flexing as green vines coil around his arms, gripping the wood like living tendrils. The water ripples beneath him when he shifts, his muscles rippling as he bends low, hands braced on knees or a ledge, the vines trailing from his skin to the wall behind. Every pose, shirtless, dripping, or half-submerged, makes the vines wrap tighter, his body the only thing holding them back.
