Dom King and Sam Ledger stand shoulder-to-shoulder on the hood of a showroom car, their muscles straining against fitted shirts, while a third man, clean-shaven, dark-haired, and broad-shouldered, presses his bare chest against the glass of the dealership’s window, gripping the doorframe like he’s about to pull it open. The air between them is thick with the weight of unspoken work, their hands clasped tight as if holding onto each other’s strength, the bareback tag on the card making the moment sharper. The blue-and-white backdrop hums with the quiet authority of a place where deals are made, and the way their bodies angle toward each other, one leaning in, the other bracing, leaves no doubt what happens next.
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