James Wilkerson was, by all means, completely and utterly aware of the fact that he had a nice body. Hell, he was the guy who saw it most. He trained his body to be fit every day. He wasn't ripped, and he didn't need to be. He was comfortable in his masculinity.

And yet, as he stands on the dock beside the shore of the lake, he's never felt more unsure of himself. For he has eyes on him, and his audience is the one person that truly matters to him.

The person who has just splashed water on him, eyes lighting and corners of lips curling up into a teasing smile. God, how his heart melted. He shakes himself out; this wasn't a big deal. He is fine. He'd worked out the day prior, spending a few hours in the gym after his band practice. He takes his sweatshirt off, his black tank top rolling up as well, exposing his sun-kissed abdomen, a treasure trail running down below his abdomen.

He throws his sweatshirt towards the shore, on the dry wood of the dock. His slightly-shaking fingers fumble with his tank top, as he feels those eyes on him.

"Take a picture, it'll last longer." He snarks as he pulls his top over his head, letting it fall onto the dock beside his feet. To distract himself, Wilke runs a hand through his hair. He needs a haircut, he decides.