StripSearch

### Act 1 – Misery & Mutual Grudging Interest

**Luke’s POV**
The drizzle’s coming down in that annoying Portland way—not a real rain, just enough to make everything slick and miserable. I’m hauling another black trash bag full of soggy plastic bottles and fast-food wrappers down the muddy riverbank trail, my sneakers squelching with every step. Miles is ten feet behind me, moving like he’s personally offended by gravity. He’s got his hood up, glasses fogged, muttering something about microbial ecosystems and how we’re basically walking biohazards ourselves.

We’ve been stuck together on this community-service sentence for three weekends now, ever since that dumb prank with the cafeteria Jell-O and the principal’s chair. Day one, I thought I’d kill him. By day ten, I’m still not sure I won’t. But there’s one thing we both shut up for.

The girls.

They’re fifty yards upriver, in their little cluster near the native-planting zone. All wearing the same forest-green Keep Portland Flowing polo shirts—slightly baggy, tucked into khaki cargo shorts or those longer zip-off pants that look like they were designed by someone who hates fun. The polos are damp from the mist, clinging just enough in places to hint at curves without screaming for attention. Practical. Modest. Which somehow makes it worse.

Juniper’s the one I can’t stop watching. Long auburn waves spilling out from under her KPF cap, fair skin flushed pink from the cold. When she bends to plant a sedge, her shorts ride up just a half-inch on those smooth, toned thighs—nothing crazy, just enough to show she’s got runner’s legs under all that granola-girl armor. She laughs at something Sage says, and her whole face lights up. God, that smile.

Sage is shorter, compact, blonde pixie cut plastered to her forehead by the drizzle. Athletic build—broad shoulders, strong calves visible even in those clunky hiking boots. She’s the one who keeps sprinting back to the supply table for more stakes, ponytail swinging (she took the cap off earlier). Every time she jogs past, I catch the faint outline of sports-bra straps under the polo. It’s criminal how good she looks doing manual labor.

Willow’s taller, quieter, straight black hair hanging like a curtain when she leans forward. Light olive skin that’s starting to glow from the effort. Her cargo pants are a little tighter than the others’, hugging a surprisingly round ass when she crouches to pull weeds. She doesn’t talk much, but when she does, it’s sharp. I like that.

And River—Jesus, River. Curly brown hair exploding out from her cap, freckles everywhere, the kind of body that looks soft until she starts hauling fifty-pound bags of compost like they’re pillows. Full chest straining the buttons on her polo when she breathes hard, hips swaying as she walks. She’s the loudest complainer about the weather, and every time she whines “This is inhumane!” I want to tell her she’s making it heavenly.

Miles catches me staring again. “You’re drooling,” he mutters.

“Shut up. You’re doing the same thing.”

He doesn’t deny it. For once.

**Miles’ POV**
I hate everything about this. The mud, the cold, the fact that my phone’s at 8% because the portable charger died, the way Luke thinks he can just grin his way through life like some golden retriever in human form. We’re supposed to be sorting recyclables, but I keep glancing upstream at them.

I tell myself it’s scientific curiosity. Anthropological observation. But no. It’s Juniper’s laugh. It’s the way Sage’s calves flex when she plants her feet wide to yank out blackberry vines. It’s Willow’s long fingers, delicate even when covered in dirt. And River—God, River’s freckles look like someone dusted cinnamon across her collarbones, visible every time she tugs her collar down to wipe sweat.

Their uniforms are so stupidly modest it’s almost fetishistic. Baggy polos that still manage to hint at breast shape when they lean forward. Cargo shorts that stop mid-thigh on Sage and Juniper, longer on Willow and River but still tight enough across the hips to show the dip of waist. Hiking boots caked in mud. Baseball caps that somehow make them look cuter, like they’re trying not to be sexy and failing spectacularly.

Luke’s already tried flirting twice today. Got polite smiles and nothing else. I don’t even try. What’s the point? They’re not going to notice the kid who’d rather read EPA reports than talk.

Elena calls everyone in for a quick huddle. Her voice is tired. “This is probably our last big event, folks. Donations are gone. If we don’t pull a miracle this weekend, KPF’s done.”

The girls look gutted. Juniper’s shoulders slump. River swears under her breath. Sage just nods, jaw tight. Even Willow looks like someone kicked her puppy.

Luke whispers to me, “We gotta do something.”

I snort. “Like what? Strip for donations?”

He grins. “Don’t tempt me.”

For the first time all day, I don’t hate that he said it.

### Act 2 – The Hazard Rumor & Protocol Trigger

**Luke’s POV**
It starts with a whisper from one of the older volunteers who was checking upstream. “Old industrial pipe. Gray sludge. Someone posted about a rash on the community board—says it’s parasites.”

Within ten minutes it’s everywhere. “Sewage parasite outbreak.” “Toxic runoff.” “We can’t risk it.”

Elena’s face goes stone. She pulls out the ancient KPF safety binder—literal binder, laminated pages from 2012. Her voice is flat when she reads it.

“Protocol for potential downstream contaminant exposure: All affected female personnel must immediately disrobe for full visual inspection and decontamination shower. Clothing to be quarantined. Cleaning to be performed by trained staff only.”

The clearing goes dead silent.

Then the girls explode.

River’s first. “You’re joking. This is a prank, right? RIGHT?!”

Juniper’s hands fly to her chest like she’s already naked. “Oh my God. No. No no no no no.”

Sage lets out this high-pitched “What?!” and immediately crosses her arms, cheeks flaming.

Willow just freezes, eyes huge, lips parted. Her olive skin is turning scarlet from her neck to her ears.

Elena raises a hand. “It’s protocol. I don’t make the rules. I enforce them.”

I feel my pulse in my throat. My brain short-circuits. All four of them. Naked. Wet. Right here. I know I should feel bad for them. I do. Sort of. But mostly I feel like I just won the lottery and the prize is sin.

**Miles’ POV**
My first thought is clinical: the protocol is outdated, probably unconstitutional, definitely overkill for a rumored gray sludge that’s probably just storm-drain foam.

My second thought is: Juniper. Naked. Sage. Naked. All of them.

I hate myself for how fast my mind goes there.

The girls are losing it in the most dramatic, perfect way. River’s pacing, hands flapping. “I did NOT sign up for naked river activism!” Juniper’s doing this adorable little hop in place, like she can shake the idea out of her head. Sage is muttering “This is insane” over and over. Willow’s hugging herself so tight I’m worried she’ll crack a rib.

Luke’s eyes are glittering. He leans toward me. “This is it. Our shot.”

I stare at him. “You’re insane.”

He grins wider. “Watch me.”

He starts walking toward Elena, shoulders back, that charming bullshit face on full blast. I want to stop him. I want to run. I want to watch.

Mostly I want to watch.

Luke’s already talking. “Ms. Vasquez, you’re short-staffed. I’ve done the hazmat awareness module for soccer field cleanups. I can assist with the decontamination—strictly professional, gloves, no funny business.”

The girls hear him.

River shrieks. “WHAT?!”

Juniper: “He’s eighteen!”

Sage: “This is humiliating enough without Pretty Boy staring!”

Willow just whimpers, one hand over her mouth.

Elena looks like she’s aged ten years in ten seconds. But she’s looking at Luke like he’s the only lifeline in a sinking ship. Understaffing. Urgency. Liability.

She sighs. “Fine. But Miles stays back. No spectators.”

Luke nods like he expected it. I feel the words hit like a slap.

They’re going to do it. Behind the willows. Just him. Touching them. Soaping them. Hosing them down.

And I’m banned.

I clench my fists so hard my nails bite into my palms.

This isn’t fair.

But I’m already thinking of ways to change that.**River Nymphs Get Hosed Down**
**Act 3 – Luke's Big Play & First (Private) Cleaning**

**Luke’s POV**
Elena gives me the nod and points toward the thick stand of willows about thirty yards downstream. “Behind there. Tarps are already up from the last rain event. Keep it quick, keep it professional, Harper. I’m trusting you.”

My heart’s hammering so hard I’m surprised no one can hear it. I grab the decontamination kit—big plastic bin with lukewarm water jugs, mild biodegradable soap, soft sponges, disposable gloves, towels—and start walking like this is just another chore. The girls trail behind me in a miserable little line, arms wrapped tight around themselves, faces a rainbow of red and pink.

They’re still fully dressed, thank God, because if they’d had to strip in the open clearing I might’ve passed out. River’s leading the pack, muttering a string of creative curses under her breath. Juniper’s right behind her, eyes wide and glassy like she’s about to cry but refusing to give in. Sage keeps glancing back toward the main group like she’s hoping Elena will change her mind. Willow’s dead last, hugging herself so hard her knuckles are white.

We duck behind the willow curtain. Four big blue tarps strung between trees make a rough three-sided enclosure—private enough from the trail, but you can still hear the distant murmur of volunteers and the river itself. A couple of folding chairs, a low plastic table, and a hose hooked to a camp shower bag hanging from a branch. It’s about as spa-like as a parking garage.

I set the bin down and pull on the nitrile gloves, trying to look like I do this every day. “Okay. Protocol says full disrobe, visual inspection, then the wash-down. I’ll turn around while you… you know.”

River snorts, arms still crossed. “How generous.”

Sage lets out a shaky laugh that’s half sob. “This is the most mortifying thing that’s ever happened to me. And I once tripped into the fountain at Powell’s on a school field trip.”

Juniper’s voice is tiny. “Can we just… get it over with?”

Willow hasn’t said a word yet. She’s staring at the ground, cheeks flaming.

I turn my back, facing the tarp wall. “Whenever you’re ready.”

The sounds start. Zippers. Fabric rustling. Soft thumps as polos and cargo shorts hit the ground. Boots unlaced and kicked off. Underwear sliding down legs. Every single noise is amplified in the quiet little enclosure. My imagination is running at full sprint and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to stay focused.

“Okay,” River says finally, voice tight. “We’re… we’re ready.”

I turn around slowly.

Holy shit.

They’re standing in a loose semicircle, trying—and mostly failing—to cover themselves with hands and forearms. Four completely naked girls, skin prickling in the damp air, goosebumps everywhere. No tan lines on most of them; they’re Portland-pale, the kind of skin that blushes spectacularly.

Juniper’s auburn hair is loose now, falling over her shoulders and partway down her back. She’s using one arm across her full breasts, the other hand cupped between her legs. Her nipples are tight little pink buds from the chill. Slim waist, gentle flare of hips, long runner’s legs trembling slightly.

Sage is shorter, more compact—strong shoulders, flat stomach, thighs that flex like she’s ready to bolt. She’s gone for the classic double-arm cross over her chest, hands gripping opposite shoulders, leaving her toned lower half completely exposed. A neat triangle of blonde curls. She’s glaring at me like this is my fault personally.

Willow’s the tallest, all long limbs and quiet grace even now. Straight black hair hanging down her back, covering part of her spine. She’s trying to shield her breasts and groin at the same time with one forearm and one hand—impossible, so her small, high breasts and the dark strip between her thighs are both partially visible. Her olive skin has turned a deep rose from throat to belly.

And River—God help me—River’s freckles really do go everywhere. Across her collarbones, over the tops of her full breasts, a faint dusting down her soft stomach to the flare of her hips. Curly brown hair wild around her shoulders. She’s got one hand clamped over her crotch, the other arm trying to cover her chest, but it’s not enough; soft curves spill around her forearm. She’s glaring at me too, but there’s a defiant spark in it, like she’s daring me to look away.

I swallow hard. “Right. Inspection first. I just need to… check for visible contamination. Arms up, please.”

They all make these little horrified noises.

River: “You have got to be kidding.”

Juniper: “I’m literally going to die.”

Sage: “This is a fever dream. It has to be.”

Willow finally speaks, voice barely above a whisper. “Please make it fast.”

I keep my eyes clinical—mostly. I walk the line, asking them to lift arms, turn slowly. No one’s got any gray sludge. Of course they don’t. This is all theater. But the protocol’s the protocol.

Then the real part.

I pick up the hose wand—gentle pressure, lukewarm water. “I’ll start with backs. Turn around, please.”

They turn. Four perfect, naked backs. Juniper’s shoulder blades sharp under fair skin. Sage’s strong lats. Willow’s long elegant spine. River’s soft waist dipping into generous hips.

I start with Juniper. Spray her shoulders, let the water run down her back in rivulets. She squeaks when the first stream hits. I take a soapy sponge, start at her neck, work down in slow circles. Her skin is silk under the foam. She’s trembling.

“Cold?” I ask softly.

“Everything,” she mutters.

I move to Sage next. She tenses when my sponge touches her. “Easy, quarterback,” she snaps, but her voice cracks on the last word.

Willow flinches at the first touch but doesn’t speak. Her skin feels fever-hot under the cool water.

River’s last. When I reach the small of her back she arches slightly—instinct—and lets out this tiny, involuntary sound that goes straight to my groin. I have to recite soccer stats in my head to keep control.

Fronts next.

They turn. Arms still trying to cover. I keep my voice steady. “Arms out to the sides, please. Protocol.”

River groans dramatically. “You’re enjoying this way too much, Harper.”

“I’m doing my job,” I say, but my voice is rough.

They lower their arms—slowly, reluctantly. Breasts exposed. Stomachs. Everything.

I sponge shoulders, collarbones, down the arms. Careful. Professional. But I can’t help noticing how Juniper’s breasts bounce slightly when she shifts. How Sage’s nipples harden more under the dripping water. How Willow’s stomach flutters with every breath. How River’s freckles seem to multiply when she blushes from chest to thighs.

They’re all making these little noises—gasps, whimpers, sassy complaints.

Juniper: “This is so unfair.”

Sage: “I hate you. I hate this. I hate everything.”

Willow: *soft whine* “I can’t believe this is happening…”

River: “If you even think about lingering, I swear—”

I don’t linger. But I don’t rush either.

When it’s done, I hand them towels. They wrap themselves like they’re being rescued from a shipwreck, still scarlet, still glaring, still ridiculously beautiful.

I step back. “All clear.”

River snorts. “Yeah. Super clear. Thanks, perv.”

But there’s no real venom in it. Just flustered, feisty embarrassment.

I smile—small, careful. “You all did great.”

They grumble and shuffle toward the fresh clothes Elena left on the table outside the tarps.

I wait until they’re gone, then let out a long, shaky breath.

I’m never going to be the same.

**Miles’ POV (brief interlude)**
I’m pacing like a caged animal on the other side of the willows. I can hear the water running. The squeaks. The murmurs. The occasional sharp protest.

Luke’s in there. Touching them. Seeing them.

Every single one of them.

My stomach is a knot of jealousy and rage and something darker—something hungry.

I’m not letting him have this all to himself.

Not a chance.

I pull out my phone—12% now—and start frantically googling KPF safety protocols and floodplain maps.

There has to be something.

There has to be a way to turn this around.**River Nymphs Get Hosed Down**
**Act 4 – Miles Strikes Back & The Public Relocation**

**Miles’ POV**
I’ve been pacing the same ten-foot stretch of muddy trail for what feels like forever, the sounds from behind the willows drilling holes in my skull. Water running. Soft gasps. River’s sharp “Watch it!” followed by a splash. Juniper’s tiny squeak. Sage’s muttered curses. Willow’s almost-silent whimpers. Every noise is a fresh stab of jealousy.

Luke is in there. Hands on them. Eyes on everything I’ve been fantasizing about for weeks. And I’m out here like some exiled nerd, useless.

My phone is at 9% now. I open the floodplain map app anyway, fingers shaking. Cross-reference it with the old KPF protocol PDF I downloaded last weekend (because of course I did). There it is: the willow grove sits smack in the middle of the seasonal floodway. Unstable soil. Poor drainage. Technically still within the “potential contaminant retention zone.” The protocol explicitly states decontamination must occur in a “stable, well-drained area with adequate visibility for safety oversight.”

Visibility.

Safety oversight.

I almost laugh out loud. It’s perfect. Petty, vindictive, brilliant.

I shove the phone in my pocket and march straight to Elena. She’s standing near the supply table, looking like she’s aged a decade in the last half-hour.

“Ms. Vasquez,” I say, keeping my voice calm, professional, the way Luke does it. “The willow area doesn’t comply with section 4.2 of the safety protocol.”

She blinks at me. “What?”

“Floodplain maps show it’s in the seasonal floodway. Soil is saturated from last night’s rain. Protocol requires a stable, elevated decontamination zone to prevent re-contamination and ensure proper monitoring. That spot fails both criteria.”

She stares at me for a long second, then pulls out her own phone. I watch her scroll, frown deepen.

“Damn it,” she mutters. “You’re right.”

My heart kicks hard. “The main clearing is higher ground. Gravel pad. Better drainage. And it’s open enough for proper oversight.”

She rubs her temple. “Miles, this is already a circus.”

“I know. But if we don’t follow the protocol exactly, we could get cited. Or worse—someone could claim negligence if anything happens later.”

She exhales through her nose like a bull. Then she calls out, loud enough for the whole site to hear:

“Change of plans! Everyone—decontamination is relocating to the main clearing. Now.”

**Luke’s POV**
I’m just handing out the last towel when Elena’s voice cuts through the willows like a chainsaw.

The girls freeze mid-wrap.

River’s towel slips an inch. “What did she just say?”

Juniper’s eyes go saucer-wide. “The main clearing?!”

Sage lets out this strangled “Noooo” that sounds like a deflating balloon.

Willow clutches her towel to her chest so hard the fabric bunches. “Please tell me I misheard.”

I step toward the tarp opening. “Elena! Can we talk about—”

But she’s already striding over, face set in stone. “Protocol violation in the current zone. We’re moving to the gravel pad. Open area. Full visibility. No arguments.”

The girls erupt in perfect, chaotic symphony.

River throws her hands up (towel nearly drops again). “You have GOT to be kidding me! The MAIN clearing?! Where everyone is drinking coffee and eating granola bars?!”

Juniper starts doing this frantic little dance in place, towel clutched like a lifeline. “EEEEEEK! This is a nightmare! A literal waking nightmare! People have phones!”

Sage’s voice cracks into a high-pitched squeal. “There are joggers! There are DOG WALKERS! I’m going to be a Portland meme by dinner!”

Willow’s lower lip trembles, but she still manages a dramatic whisper-shout: “I want to die… but like, in a funny way! Not like this!”

I look at them—all four of them, wrapped in thin white towels, hair dripping, skin still flushed and goosebumped—and I feel a weird mix of guilt and adrenaline. “Guys, maybe we can—”

River rounds on me. “Don’t ‘guys’ us, Harper! You’re the one who volunteered for this!”

Sage jabs a finger at me. “Yeah, and now your creepy friend just upgraded it to public access!”

I wince. She’s not wrong. But I also know Miles. This isn’t random. This is him saying *you don’t get to have it all to yourself*.

Elena cuts through. “Towels stay. You walk. You line up on the gravel. We finish. Let’s go.”

The girls look at each other in collective horror, then at me, then back at each other.

River groans dramatically. “Fine. But if one single person takes a picture, I’m burning this entire riverbank down.”

They start moving—slow, reluctant, clutching towels like shields. I fall in behind them, trying not to stare at the way the thin fabric clings to wet skin, outlining every curve as they walk.

We emerge into the main clearing.

Heads turn immediately. Volunteers pause mid-conversation. A couple of guys sorting trash bags stop and stare. Two women on the trail slow their jog, eyes widening. A guy with a dog actually pulls his phone out before his girlfriend smacks it down.

The gravel pad is right in the center—open, flat, no cover at all.

Elena points. “Line up. Towels off. Protocol.”

The collective gasp could’ve been heard in Seattle.

River’s voice cracks. “Towels OFF?!”

Juniper squeals and spins toward me. “Luke—do something!”

I hesitate. Part of me wants to stop this. The bigger part—the part that’s been half-hard since the first sponge touch—knows we’re past the point of no return.

Miles is standing off to the side now, arms crossed, smug little smirk on his face.

Our eyes meet.

He mouths two words: *Your move.*

I swallow. Then I step forward, voice low but firm. “Look… if we don’t do this right, Elena could lose the whole organization. Liability. Citations. Everything. Just… power through. We’ll make it quick. I promise.”

The girls stare at me like I’ve betrayed them.

Sage’s voice is tiny. “You’re really going to make us do this?”

I meet her eyes. “I’m not making you. But I’m asking you to save this place. The same way you’ve been saving the river all summer.”

Silence.

Then River lets out the most dramatic sigh in human history. “I hate you both. So much.”

One by one, they drop the towels.

The clearing goes quiet except for the river and a few stifled gasps from the onlookers.

Four naked girls stand on the gravel in the pale September light—arms flying to cover, bodies flushed crimson, hair dripping, goosebumps everywhere.

Juniper’s auburn waves cascade down her back as she tries the impossible triple-cover: one arm across breasts, one hand between thighs, the other trying to shield her face.

Sage stands rigid, arms crossed tight over her chest, thighs pressed together, glaring daggers at Miles.

Willow hunches forward slightly, long black hair falling like a partial curtain, but it’s not enough—her olive skin is scarlet from collarbone to knees.

River’s freckles stand out like constellations against her flushed chest. She’s got one hand clamped over her crotch, the other arm across her full breasts, but she still manages to shoot me a look that says *you owe me your soul*.

I pick up the hose again.

“Turn around first,” I say quietly.

They turn—slow, reluctant, backs to the growing crowd.

I start spraying.

The water hits. They squeal in unison.

Juniper hops from foot to foot. “Cold! Cold cold cold!”

Sage mutters, “This is the worst spa day in history.”

Willow makes a soft, broken sound.

River yelps when the stream hits her lower back. “Harper, I swear—!”

I soap the sponges. Step in close. Start scrubbing—shoulders, backs, down spines. Their skin is hot under the cool water, shivering, goosebumped. Every touch draws a fresh gasp, a new flustered protest.

The crowd is bigger now. Phones are out (discreetly). Whispers. Someone laughs nervously. Someone else claps—actually claps—like this is performance art.

I move to the fronts.

“Arms out,” I say.

They hesitate, then slowly lower their arms.

Breasts. Stomachs. Everything exposed to the open air and the open eyes.

I keep it quick. Professional. But I feel their embarrassment like heat waves—every squeak, every dramatic flail, every sassy complaint.

Juniper: “I’m never forgiving any of you!”

Sage: “This is going viral. I’m going to be the naked river girl forever!”

Willow: *whimpering* “Why is this my life…”

River: “If one more person stares, I’m throwing this sponge at their head!”

I finish.

They’re dripping, flushed, furious, beautiful.

Elena hands out fresh towels. The girls snatch them, wrap up, and immediately start glaring at both of us.

But the clearing is buzzing. People are talking excitedly. Someone’s already posting to the local subreddit.

Miles walks up, hands in pockets, looking far too pleased with himself.

I meet his eyes.

He shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

I want to punch him.

I also want to high-five him.

The girls are huddled together now, towels clutched tight, still scarlet, still muttering.

River points at us both. “You two. Owe us. BIG.”

Juniper nods furiously. “Like… lifetime supply of coffee. And therapy.”

Sage mutters, “And clothes. Actual clothes.”

Willow just buries her face in her towel.

I look at Miles.

He looks back.

For the first time, we’re thinking the exact same thing.

This is insane.

And we’re in it together.**River Nymphs Get Hosed Down**
**Act 5 – The Turnaround & Happy Ending**

**Luke’s POV**
The gravel pad is still buzzing like someone just dropped the hottest gossip in Portland history. People aren’t even pretending to look away anymore. Phones are up, discreetly angled. A couple of volunteers are actually taking notes like this is performance documentation for some grant application. The dog-walker guy from earlier is grinning like he just won the lottery. His girlfriend keeps smacking his arm, but she’s smiling too.

The girls are huddled in a tight knot now, towels wrapped like armor, faces still flaming. Juniper’s hair is plastered to her cheeks, wet strands sticking everywhere. Sage is glaring daggers at anyone who so much as glances over. Willow has her towel pulled up so high it’s practically a burqa. River’s the only one who’s sort of recovered her sass—she’s pointing at random onlookers and mouthing “delete that right now” like she’s got the authority to enforce it.

Elena steps forward, voice cutting through the chatter.
“Show’s over, folks. Back to work. And if I see one photo posted without consent, we’re having a very different conversation.”

The crowd disperses slowly, reluctantly, murmuring. I catch snippets: “Did that really just happen?” “Eco-activism just got interesting.” “I’m donating tonight.”

Miles is standing a few feet away, arms crossed, looking far too satisfied with himself. Our eyes meet again. This time there’s no smug little smirk—just a tiny, almost shy nod. Like we both know we just crossed some insane line together and somehow survived it.

I walk over.
“You’re an absolute bastard,” I say under my breath.

He shrugs. “You’re welcome.”

I snort. “Yeah. I think I actually mean it.”

We stand there for a second, watching the girls slowly peel away toward the supply tent to change into dry clothes. They keep shooting us looks—half murder, half something softer. Something that might be grudging respect. Or at least tolerance.

**Miles’ POV**
I should feel guilty. I don’t.

I feel… alive. Like I just pulled off the most reckless, brilliant, stupid thing in my life, and it worked.

The clearing is emptying out. Volunteers are packing up, but there’s a different energy now—excited, almost giddy. Someone’s already started a group chat titled “River Nymphs Decon 2025” with way too many laughing emojis. Elena’s phone keeps pinging. She glances at it, eyes widening.

She walks over to us, looking like she can’t decide whether to hug us or strangle us.

“You two,” she says, voice low, “just turned a potential disaster into… whatever the hell this is. Donations started coming in ten minutes ago. Small ones, but steady. And the subreddit is blowing up. People are calling it ‘the most Portland thing ever.’”

I blink. “Seriously?”

She nods. “We’ve got three new volunteer sign-ups already. And a local news stringer wants to talk tomorrow. They’re framing it as ‘dedication to safety in the face of protocol’ or something. It’s absurd. And it’s working.”

Luke laughs—quiet, disbelieving. “We saved it.”

Elena looks between us. “You didn’t just save it. You gave us a future. I don’t know whether to thank you or have you both committed.”

She pauses.
“I’m offering you both full-time volunteer spots. Paid stipend if the funding holds. Mentorship. The whole deal. You’ve earned it.”

I feel something loosen in my chest. Something I didn’t even know was knotted.

Luke glances at me. “What do you say, nerd?”

I push my glasses up. “I say… we’re in.”

**Luke’s POV**
The sun’s finally breaking through the clouds as we walk back toward the parking lot. Everything’s still damp, muddy, ridiculous. My shoes are ruined. My shirt’s clinging to me. I don’t care.

The girls emerge from the tent last, changed into dry hoodies and leggings, hair still wet, faces still pink. They spot us and freeze for a second.

River marches over first.
“You two owe us. Big time. Like, eternal servitude. Coffee for life. And you’re never allowed to look at us funny again.”

Juniper nods furiously beside her. “And therapy. You’re paying for therapy.”

Sage crosses her arms. “And an apology. A really good one.”

Willow just peeks out from behind them, voice soft. “But… thank you. For real. The organization means everything to us.”

River rolls her eyes. “Don’t get sappy on us, Willow.”

But she’s smiling. A tiny, reluctant one.

I grin. “Deal. Coffee, therapy, apologies, servitude. Whatever you want.”

Miles clears his throat. “I… might have some connections at a really good indie coffee place. I could maybe get you guys a discount card.”

The girls stare at him.

River raises an eyebrow. “You’re trying to bribe us with coffee?”

He shrugs. “It’s a start.”

Sage snorts. “It’s a pathetic start. But we’ll take it.”

They walk past us, shoulders brushing ours on purpose—playful shoves, little hip-checks, the kind of teasing that says *we’re still mad, but we’re not done with you yet*.

River pauses at the trailhead, turns back.
“See you next weekend, troublemakers. And don’t be late.”

They disappear around the bend.

**Miles’ POV (final scene)**
We’re standing at the edge of the lot, watching the last cars pull out. The river glints gold in the late-afternoon light. Everything smells like wet earth and pine and possibility.

Luke bumps my shoulder.
“So. Best friends now?”

I roll my eyes. “Don’t push it.”

But I’m smiling.

He laughs. “Too late.”

We start walking toward his beat-up Subaru.
I glance back at the river one last time.

Somewhere out there, four girls are probably still blushing, still complaining, still beautiful.

And we’re going to see them again.

Next weekend.

And every weekend after that.

I look at Luke.
“You know this is going to get us in so much more trouble.”

He grins.
“Yeah. Isn’t it great?”

For once, I don’t argue.

I just nod.

Yeah.

It really is.