Mr. July:
July is firecrackers, sweat, and patriotism. Which makes it perfect for Brandt, who shows up to the set with aviators already on, chewing gum like it’s a personality trait.
“This isn’t a costume,” he says. “This is alifestyle.”
Brandt’s wearing a sleeveless flight suit that clings to his chest like it wants to be more than friends. The zipper is pulled down to mid-ab territory, showing off enough pec to legally qualify as a hazard. His dog tags slap lightly against his skin every time he moves. There are patches sewn on that say things likeROOSTER,CALL ME DADDY, andAUTHORIZED FOR TAKEOFF.Nobody knows where he got them. He refuses to say.
He’s oiled up and glistening, posing in front of a fog machine and an American flag, straddling a vintage motorcycle that Margaret Anne borrowed from a Korean War reenactor named Earl. She keeps adjusting the flag behind him with the same proud focus as someone watching her grandson win the Heisman.
“Is the flight suit supposed to bethattight?” Nash asks.
“Absolutely,” Brandt replies, popping his gum. “I Googled‘aviator thirst trap’and this was the look.”
McCormick whistles. “Somebody’s been jerkin’ it to Top Gun again.”
“Damn right,” Brandt says. “I’ve watched Maverick seven times. I’m method acting. Get ready for a flyby, boys.”
Margaret Anne sets down her clipboard, raising her voice. “Pharo, darling, could you get out of the shot, please?” He’s checking out the motorcycle, blocking the camera.
The photographer begs Brandt to stop biting his lip like that. Brandt refuses. He grabs the handlebars of the motorcycle and leans forward, flexing one arm and arching his back just enough to make the lighting crew collectively forget how to breathe.
West snickers, eyebrows raised. “He’s not even in character. Thatishim.”
Stiles mutters, “If he says ‘need for speed’ one more time, I’m unplugging the fog machine.”
Brandt finishes the shoot by tossing his aviators at the camera lens, blowing a kiss, and whispering, “Permission to land… denied.” He struts off, absolutely convinced this is going to unlock something for half the zip code.
Later, he asks Margaret Anne if he can have an extra print to hang in his bedroom.
Margaret Anne nods and says, “Only if you autograph one for me.”
He does. Underneath it, he writes:
BRANDT — JULY 2025 — RED, WHITE, ANDRUINEDYOU.
“Look,” West starts. “You’re smoking hot, but I’m not hanging that shit over our bed.”
“It beats the Dolly Parton pic I have hanging over my bed,” Mandy complains.
Mr. August:
Riggs is a man of few words and exactly zero tolerance for nonsense. He didn’t sign up for this calendar shoot because he wanted attention. He didn’t evenagreeto it, technically—Margaret Anne just put his name down under “August: Gym Theme” and handed him a folder with a costume, saying, “You’d be doing areal kindness, sweetheart.” And that was that.
So now he’s standing shirtless on a yoga mat in front of a ring light, arms crossed over his chest, glowering like someone told him foam rolling was a government conspiracy. He’s wearing compression shorts, gym socks pulled to the knee, and a pair of fingerless gloves that make him look like he’s about to both fix your form and snap your spine. A resistance band is looped across his thighs. He’s holding a kettlebell in one hand like it’s a prop from a hostage negotiation.
He isnotenjoying himself.
“Can you just… flex a little?” the photographer asks cautiously.
Riggs raises one eyebrow. The kettlebell creaks slightly in his grip.
“I think that’s a yes,” Stiles mutters from the sidelines.
Despite his expression—stone-faced, jaw locked, looking like he’s mentally sanding a piece of lumber—Riggs is cut like a marble statue. His body does the talking. Which is unfortunate, because Rhett is standing just out of frame, visibly sweating.
“Jesus,” Rhett whispers. “He looks like prison sex and a Bowflex had a baby. We’re keeping all of this. The gloves. The band. That mat. All of it.”
Riggs grunts. Doesn’t look at him. Doesn’t move.
