Theo Ross leans over a picnic blanket, his tattooed arms flexing as he shoves a forkful of food into his mouth while Kit Cohen watches, dark hair falling forward as he grips the table’s edge. The outdoor light catches the sweat glistening on Ross’s chest, his jaw clenched around the bite, while Cohen’s fingers tap impatiently against the wood. Between mouthfuls, Ross wipes his lips with the back of his hand, the movement rough and deliberate, before turning his head just enough to lock eyes with Cohen.
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