But the photographer gets the shot—him crouched in a low lunge, biceps flexed, head tipped forward, dripping sweat like a reluctant god of punishment. It’s intimidating. It’s terrifying. It’s weirdly hot.
As soon as they yell “cut,” Riggs stands, rolls his shoulders, and grabs his towel.
“You done?” he asks Rhett, voice low.
Rhett fans himself with a protein bar. “Absolutely not.”
Riggs sighs and walks away, mumbling something about this being the last time he listens to “that damn clipboard grandma.”
But later, when Margaret Anne slips him an envelope of proofs, Riggs tucks it into his gym bag without a word. Doesn’t throw it away. Doesn’t deny it. Just…keeps it.
And maybe—maybe—the gloves end up on Rhett’s nightstand.
Mr. September:
Rhett walks onto the set like he owns the damn airspace.
He’s wearing the leather bomber jacket Riggs gifted him, unzipped to the navel to show off a golden tan and the kind of chest that should come with a hazard warning. The sleeves are pushed up to the elbows. A pair of black aviators hang off his collar. Below the waist? A jockstrap. Nothing else. Except for lace-up combat boots that thud against the set floor with authority and at least a little sexual menace.
It’s absurd. It’s erotic. It’s American military cosplay dialed to eleven.
He just stands in the middle of the set, one hand on his hip, chin tilted slightly up like he’s waiting for you to break protocol and beg for clearance to climb aboard.
Tex walks past with a bottle of water and mutters, “Jesus Christ. You look like Maverick’s evil twin.”
Rhett smirks. “Good. That’s the vibe. Take notes, Brandt!”
West gives his partner side eye. “I swear to God, Reaper, if you get hard over him, I’ll kick your fucking ass.”
The photographer can barely speak. “Can we… can we get one where you’re straddling the duffel bag?” she croaks.
“You wanttop gun,baby,” Rhett says, easing down into a crouch, legs spread, jockstrap doingGod’swork. “I’ll give you full throttle.”
Off to the side, Riggs is watching, arms folded across his chest, jaw tight. The jacket fits Rhett too well. He’s not saying anything. But the way his eyes track Rhett’s hands, especially when they disappear behind the jacket? It’s sayingeverything.
“Y’all want this for charity,” Rhett calls out, casually slicking his hair back with one hand. “But don’t come cryin’ to me when people start demanding this be a year-roundcalendar subscription.”
Someone throws a protein bar at him. It bounces off his thigh. He doesn’t flinch.
Margaret Anne is clutching her pearls and whispering, “Oh my stars, he’s gonna need a pilot’s license forthat thing.”
The final shot is pure sex appeal: Rhett leaning against a folding chair, one boot hooked on the seat, the jacket falling off one shoulder, biting the corner of his lip. It’s indecent and iconic. And it’s going oneverylocker door in BALLS before the week is out.
Later, when no one’s looking, Riggs walks past Rhett, and says low in his ear, “You were a little too into that for my liking.”
Rhett doesn’t turn around. Just says, “You can punish me for it later.”
And Riggs… doesnotsay no.
Mr. October:
Stiles doesn’t walk onto the October set—heglides.
The fog machine’s already working overtime, curling around his boots like dark intentions. He’s wearing tight, low-slung black latex pants, a long flowing cape lined in blood-red satin, and a delicate trail of lipstick bite marks painted across his chest and neck. His lips are stained deep wine, his eyeliner is smokey, and his smirk could get a nun excommunicated.
“You look like Dracula's hotter, drunker cousin,” Nash says from the snack table.
“Iam,” Stiles replies, baring just a little fang as he tips his head back to let the light catch the glitter on his cheekbone. “I’m Stabcula.”
