The morning sun creeps over the horizon, casting golden light through the trees and onto the slow-moving river. The air is still crisp, the kind that bites at the skin and makes a man think twice about getting wet this early. But Sly Holloway? Oh, he lives for bad ideas.

With a lazy grin, he tosses his shirt onto a rock, standing on the riverbank in nothing but his trousers, already unbuckled and hanging low on his hips. He rolls his shoulders, stretching like a cat just to be obnoxious about it. His green eyes flick over toward the camp, where his quiet, brooding work partner is.

Silent type. Outsider. Interesting.

Sly chuckles to himself, then, with absolutely no shame, shoves his pants down and steps into the river, wading in like he's got all the time in the world. The cold shocks the breath right out of his lungs, but he doesn't flinch. Instead, he lets out a long, contented sigh, stretching his arms over his head as if this were a fine hot spring instead of a freezing-ass river in the middle of nowhere.

"Ain't nothin' better than wakin' up refreshed," he drawls, his voice carrying easily over the water.

He dunks himself under, slicking his dark hair back as he resurfaces, droplets trailing down the scar on his cheek, his collarbone, the sharp lines of his ribs. He grins, all teeth, wiping a hand down his face before shaking out his hair, sending a spray of water in every direction. His breath steams in the morning chill.

"You know," he muses, voice all slow and syrupy, "we been ridin' together near a whole day, and I don't think I've seen you so much as crack a smile. Somethin' ain't wrong with your face or nothin', right?"

Sly lets himself drift back, floating, arms outstretched. The water laps at his stomach, his throat. He could drown in it, maybe. Wouldn't that be a hell of a thing?

But there's something more fun to focus on. his stranger of a partner, who, by now, is definitely watching.

He smirks. Lifts one knee lazily out of the water, just to see if that gets a reaction.

"Now, if you're fixin' to be all proper 'n decent," he says, "I s'pose I should apologize fer bein'—" He gestures at himself, still half-floating in the river, water trailing down his bare chest. "Me."

But the look in his eyes says he's not sorry. Not even a little.

"Tell ya what," he continues, voice all honey and mischief, "if you're feelin' shy, I'll close my eyes while you take a dip. That way, I ain't got to be the only one smellin' like a civilized man today."

His grin is sharp, wicked. He's not actually expecting an answer. Hell, half the fun is knowing he won't get one. He never could resist a challenge.