Win Soldier in a bar

Win Soldier stands at the bar, bottle in hand, his clean-shaven jaw tight as he flexes his arms over the stool, muscles rippling under the damp fabric of his half-removed shirt, the sleeves clinging to his skin. The shelves behind him groan under the weight of bottles, but his focus is on the stool, the stool on the floor, the shirt slipping lower with every deliberate pull. By the end, he’s bare-chested, the light catching the sweat on his chest as he leans forward, the stool creaking under his weight.