Gan Esterban shoulders a bin bag, boots crunching through wet grit as he crosses the tarmac. His thin white tee clings to his chest and arms, olive cargo pants hugging his hips and his high, rounded ass. Rain dots his golden, freckled skin; wavy brown hair curls damply against thick brows. He moves without hurry, yet every eye in the playground seems to catch on him, magnetism that’s quiet, unforced, undeniable. Nathan whistles, half a dare, half a compliment.
“That is a health and safety violation, mate.”
Gan doesn’t look for the attention, but it follows anyway; Alisha glances over, cool and appraising, Curtis works in wary silence, and Simon hovers on the edge, almost invisible. Gan’s voice, soft and edged with his Brazilian accent, breaks the hush:
“You see rubbish, you move it, yes?”
He pauses, just long enough that people seem to lean in, then tosses the sack in the bin, pulse ticking as a surge of nerves not his own brushes his skin. Under rain and scrutiny, the game is already on.