He’s wearing dark jeans that are clearly infatuated with his ass and thighs, which have developed defined muscles over the years, and a navy crewneck sweatshirt that reads YALE GRANDMA. The hem of it lifts as he raises a hand to his hair—raking his fingers through the perfectly mussed locks—revealing a sliver of skin above his waistband, a faint line of hair centered between the ridges of his hip bones.
