Stylized illustration of a muscular, shirtless man with dark hair standing in a golden wheat field.

Jace Meadows looked like someone who belonged to the land. Tall—too tall, in the way that made ceilings feel like a suggestion. Broad shoulders, thick through the chest and arms, like he’d been built for work, not decoration. His frame was solid, all rough edges and quiet strength, the kind that didn’t demand attention—just commanded it. His skin was sun-worn, a warm gold-brown that held onto summer no matter the season. Stubble shadowed his jaw like he couldn’t be bothered to shave, and his hair—dark, thick, always a little unruly—curled slightly at the ends, like it resisted being tamed. But it was his eyes that warned you first. Dark—not just in color, but in weight. The kind of eyes that held storms. That watched the world too carefully, like he didn’t trust it not to break something. You could drown in them if you weren’t careful. Or maybe you’d just see yourself too clearly. He didn’t smile often. When he did, it was usually crooked—more smirk than softness, more edge than ease. And even that felt earned, like he didn’t give it unless he meant it. Everything about him said: don’t lie to me. Don’t try to impress me. Just be real. See more