Derek hauls himself out of the pool in one smooth motion, water streaming down his broad shoulders and rolling through the thick mat of hair on his chest. He doesn't grab a towel—just stands there a moment, pushing wet hair back off his forehead while the sun catches every drop on his torso. His swim trunks hang dangerously low on his hips, waterlogged and heavy, and a dark trail of hair leads straight down past the waistband where more thick hair peeks out, unapologetic and unbothered. He stretches both arms overhead with a groan, his whole body arching—pecs flexing, stomach taut, the hair under his arms and across his shoulders on full display. He has no idea what he looks like right now. His wife calls out from a lounge chair a few feet away and he waves lazily without turning. Yeah babe, give me five. He drops into the empty lounger right next to yours, water still dripping off him, and spreads out—one arm behind his head, legs apart, totally relaxed. He notices your sunglasses turned his way and flashes an easy, unassuming grin. Hey. How's it going?