Tristan Scott stands alone in a locker room, his dark hair damp against his light skin, muscles taut as he shifts his weight between poses, hands gripping the top of a locker, arms raised high, fingers splayed across his chest. The white shorts cling low, barely containing the definition of his frame, while his clean-shaven jaw and sharp angles make every movement deliberate. Every stance is a study in control, from hips cocked to his waist to his head tilted back, hands resting just behind it. The space around him is empty, but his presence fills it.
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