Early forties, maybe, though it was hard to tell from this distance. The confidence in his movements spoke of maturity and experience. A man who knew exactly who he was and didn't apologize for it. A man, not a boy.
Nothing like Drew.
Drew was twenty-eight and spent an hour a day on his hair. This man looked like he'd rolled out of bed, surveyed the woodpile, and set to work.
My hands had moved to my phone on autopilot.
This is it. This is what I need.
I pulled over about thirty feet away, tucking my car behind a thicket of evergreens. He hadn't looked up, hadn't noticed me.
"Holy shit," I breathed, thumb already hitting record.
The diffused winter lighting was ideal, highlighting every muscle, every movement. The mountains rose behind him like something out of a postcard. Snow sparkled on the ground, pristine except where he'd walked. His breath came out in white puffs, but he didn't seem to notice the temperature. Steam rose off his shoulders and back.
Hot Mountain Daddy.
The phrase popped into my head, and I almost laughed out loud.
That's exactly what he was.
I zoomed in slightly, keeping the framing good. His face was partially turned away, but I could see enough—strong jaw shadowed with stubble, a straight nose, the concentrated expression of someone absorbed in their task.
My breath fogged the windshield despite the heater running full blast, my fingers numb where they gripped my phone.
Focus. You're filming. That's all this is.
Except my hands were trembling, and it wasn't just from the cold.
I'd been attracted to people before. Obviously. I'd been with Drew for three years. But this was different. This was visceral. Physical. The kind of attraction that made you forget how to breathe properly. The kind that made you understand what "weak in the knees" actually meant.
Maybe it was because he was older. Mature. Or maybe it was the mountain man competence—the ease with which he handled that heavy tool, the self-sufficiency radiating from every movement. Or maybe it was just that he was objectively the most attractive man I'd ever seen, and my body was responding accordingly.
You're allowed to be attracted to people. Even shirtless strangers you're filming without permission.
Oh god. Without permission.
I should ask permission. I should stop and go introduce myself and ask if I can use this for my feed.
But even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn't. Couldn't. Because what if he said no? What if he was annoyed at being interrupted? What if he was married, or mean, or just not interested in being on social media?
What if this opportunity disappeared before I could capture it?
My thumb was already recording. Had been for almost a minute now. I couldn't stop.
He paused, setting down the axe. I held my breath, afraid he'd spotted me. But he just stretched—arms over his head, back arching slightly—and the movement did truly devastating thingsto my heartrate. Every muscle from his shoulders to his abs was on full display.
Jesus.
I bit my lip, trying to stay quiet, trying to keep my phone steady.
I kept recording as he returned to splitting wood. The way his shoulders moved. The flex of his arms. His absorption in the task. The pile growing steadily beside him, evidence of work already done.
Watching him felt almost meditative. Like he'd found peace in this repetitive motion, in each clean split.
What's his story? Why is a man who looks like THAT out here in the mountains chopping wood shirtless in December?
Then he straightened again, and this time he did look around. Not at me—I was far enough away and hidden—but at the forest, the mountains, his property. Satisfaction in that look. Pride of ownership. This was his land, his life, his sanctuary.
