McCormick is somewhere off-camera, slowly collapsing into a folding chair with his face in his hands. “I’m gonna pass out.”
“Oh, he’s gonna do more than that,” Rhett mutters, fanning himself with Stiles’s cape packaging.
The set is full gothic castle—candelabras, black silk sheets, strategically scattered rose petals, and one very questionable prop coffin. Stiles lounges across it like it’s a memory foam chaise, one knee bent, fingers trailing lazily over the lip of the open lid like he’s waiting for someone to crawl inside with him. The photographer, clearly flustered, can’t stop whispering"Oh no, he's hot."
Margaret Anne wipes a tear from her eye. “This one’s for the dark hearts. I can feel it.”
The best shot? Stiles straddling the coffin lid, cape draped open like wings, latex gleaming, fangs bared mid-laugh. It’s half Halloween thirst trap, half villain origin story, and alltrouble.
Later, when the proofs are being passed around the locker room, McCormick snatches one and stares at it like he’s just seen God.
“I want to see you straight on my bike like this,” he says.
“I’ll straddleyouover that bike,” Stiles vows.
Mr. November:
Brewer doesn’t talk much during his shoot.
He shows up in worn flannel, open down the front to show off a lightly freckled chest, abs tight and understated, and a pair of perfectly faded jeans that ride low on his hips. No puffed-up bravado. No trying to “out-thirst” anyone else. Just calm,quiet competence—and a heavy-handled axe slung over one bare shoulder like it belongs there.
“I didn’t know they made lumberjacks in lean,” Rhett mutters, watching Brewer pose beside a stack of firewood and a faux-cabin backdrop complete with vintage lanterns and fake pine.
“That’s not a lumberjack,” Riggs says gruffly. “That’s a damn forest nymph who knows how to swing an axe.”
“I promise you, Brewer has never swung an axe,” Nash swears with a chuckle.
Brewer’s smaller than the other guys—tall, yeah, but lithe. Agile. He’s not built like Pharo or Mandy or Riggs, but he moves like someone who’s used to lifting heavy things andnotmaking a fuss about it. There’s a subtle flex in his biceps when he adjusts his grip on the axe handle, a little twist of muscle in his back when he bends to split a log.
Margaret Anne fans herself with a turkey-themed napkin. “If this is the main course,” she whispers, “I’m skipping dessert.”
They snap the winning shot just as Brewer wipes fake sweat off his brow with the hem of his flannel, revealing a perfect V-line and a glimmer of sawdust in his stubble. It’s not over the top or ultra cheesy, it’s just him. And that makes it devastating.
Later, when Nash teases him—“You know they’re all gonna call you the Twig Daddy of November, right?”—Brewer just shrugs.
“If it raises money,” he says, tugging his shirt back on, “they can call me whatever they want.”
And judging by the crowd Margaret Anne’s organizing for the calendar launch party, theywill.
Mr. December:
The theme was supposed to be cozy.
Tex said, “Absolutely not.”
So now he’s dressed in the same outfit he wore to the BALLS Christmas party—if you can even call it an outfit. It’s more like a couture violation involving red velvet and someone’s Pinterest search forslutty elf lingerie.A pointed green hat perched on his blond waves, suspenders clipped to nothing but high-cut booty shorts, and knee-high socks that say “HO” in glitter across the back. His cheeks are rosy. His smile is lethal. His jingle bell necklace jingles every time he moves.
He flounces onto the set and strikes a pose against a fake chimney.
“You look like the reason Santa drinks,” Stiles calls out.
“That’s the goal,” Tex chirps. “I’ve beennaughty,and Iwanna talk about it.”
Enter Mandy—bearded, broad, and brooding, wearing the red velvet Santa suit jacket open, no shirt underneath, chest hair peeking out, pants tugged low over combat boots. A black leather belt is slung low around his hips, the thick buckle gleaming under the lights. His burn scars catch the soft glow in places, but there’s no hesitation in him now. He’s not hiding. He’s not shrinking. He’s holding a candy cane in one hand like a weapon and Tex’s jingle bell leash in the other.
“Smile, sweetheart,” Margaret Anne says. “Give ussleigh daddy realness.”
West palms his face and shakes his head, wondering where Margaret Anne picked that up.
