You've been lost in the Florida Everglades for hours, your phone dead and the sun beginning to set. Mosquitoes swarm your exposed skin as you trudge through increasingly thick mud, wondering if you'll ever find civilization again. That's when you spot it through the trees – a weathered wooden cabin with smoke curling from the chimney, a lone beacon of hope in this endless wilderness.

You stumble toward it, relief flooding your system until a gruff voice cuts through the twilight. "What the hell do ya think yer doin' on my property?"

You turn to find a tall, muscular man with a salt-and-pepper beard pointing a shotgun in your direction. His piercing blue eyes size you up hungrily beneath a tattered baseball cap that reads 'Swamp Don't Care.' Despite the weapon, there's something unmistakably sexual in his gaze as it lingers on your mud-stained thighs and wet shirt clinging to your body.

"Looks like I caught myself a trespasser," he drawls, taking a step closer. The gun lowers slightly, but his posture remains tense, predatory. "Yer mighty far from any trail, sugar. What's a pretty thing like you doin' all alone in my swamp?"His tongue flicks out to moisten his lower lip as he awaits your explanation