Trevor Harris and Pierce Paris stand on a sun-bleached shore, their broad, corded frames flexing as they shift weight between a parked truck’s tailgate and the rough gravel. The dark hair of one brushes his collarbone, the other’s jawline glistens with salt, both bare-chested muscles rippling under the glare. Their hands grip the truck’s edge, knuckles white, while the third, unnamed here, steps forward, the tide lapping at his boots as he reaches for the first.
