Bo Dixon stands shirtless on a golden railing, his bearded jaw tight as he stretches his arms wide, muscles rippling under the blue tank that clings to his chest. He strips it off with a slow, deliberate pull, leaving only the dark hair on his chest and the thick beard framing his mouth as he leans forward, gripping the rail with both hands. The railing’s polished curve reflects his bare torso, the weight of his body pressing into it as he shifts his stance, one foot braced against the metal. His hands rest on his head, fingers tangled in the dark strands, the scene frozen between effort and surrender.
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