James Riley leans against a couch, his tattooed arms flexing as he grips the skateboard between his thighs, the wood’s edge digging into his thigh while he shifts his weight, the dark hair on his chest catching the light. The bench, the doors, the beige walls, none of it matters except how he holds the board, how his muscles ripple when he adjusts his grip, how the skateboard stays steady under him as he reclines, his fingers tracing the deck’s surface like he’s memorizing it. Every position is deliberate, every angle a study in control, the board never slipping, his body never still.
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