The sun hung low, casting amber light through the pine trees like warm syrup. Somewhere deep in the forest, far from any hiking trail or cabin, the rhythmic thwack of an axe striking wood echoed through the hush. A clearing opened like a breath between the trees, and there he was.
The werebear.
Most days, he was more man than beast — a towering figure of raw muscle and golden-brown fur, his eyes glinting with a wild intelligence. Today, though, he wore his man-form: shirt unbuttoned just enough to tease the swell of his chest, the fabric strained across his broad shoulders with every swing.
Sweat gleamed on his brow and ran down his throat, collecting in the hollow of his collarbone. The heat made the air shimmer, or maybe it was just him — this strange, beautiful creature with strength in his arms and something primal in his gaze.
He stopped, leaning the axe against the stump. One hand went to his chest, fingers tracing the line of buttons down his flannel shirt. Slowly, deliberately, he popped one open. Then another. And another.
The shirt peeled open, revealing a torso sculpted like a myth — all muscle and sinew, dusted with soft hair. He rolled his neck, letting out a low growl, half-sigh, half something deeper. The sound sent a chill down the spine of anyone lucky enough to be watching.
He knew someone was there. Hidden in the trees. Watching.
He didn’t mind.
A smirk played on his lips as he bent to lift another log. His back muscles rippled. The sweat on his skin caught the sunlight. And just for a moment, his eyes flashed gold — not quite human.
“Enjoying the view?” he rumbled, without turning.
The forest held its breath.
And the werebear kept chopping — wild, free, and just aware enough of the effect he had on whoever was watching from the shadows.
STRAIGHT! UP! GAY! 
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