She steps into frame wearing her Saltwater Saviors baseball cap.
“Here’s the drill,” she says, voice steady. “You’re looking for plastics, food waste, and metals. But if it’s sharp, sketchy, or could draw blood in any way?” She points. “Goes in the flagged bin. Handle it like it’s evidence.”
She scans the group, voice steady as the tide.
“These waters are littered with ghost nets. Synthetic death traps abandoned by somebody who didn’t care enough to haul them in. They don’t rot. They drift. And they keep killing marine life long after the fishermen move on.” Her gaze hardens. “You see one? Stop and call for backup. No exceptions.”
The chat is fully locked in. No more Dr. O comments. Progress.
Blaze raises his hand.
“What if, like, a baby Kraken was tangled up in one of those? But it’s not dangerous, it’s just scared, and we have to help it find its mom and dad.”
Sienna turns and looks at him. Just one sharp glance, and he closes his mouth.
Honestly, it’s masterful.
I watch her redirect back to the volunteers without breaking stride and decide:yep, I’d follow her into battle.Full girl crush. No notes. Brains. Authority. The ability to silence Blaze Tate with sustained eye contact.
Truly the complete package. Makes a girl want to take up marine biology.
So, of course, Cole’s smitten with her. And so is the chat:
Sorry ocean but I’m looking at her
HOW IS SHE MAKING TRASH SEXY
I came here for sea turtles and left with a life coach
GHOST NETS DON’T DECOMPOSE AND NEITHER WILL MY CRUSH
A dangerous thought slides in:Maybe if I looked like her? He’d finally see me.
I let the stupid fantasy sit there for one second. Then burn it to the ground.
I know what I look like. I know what I bring. These curves are mine, and I’ve made my peace with every single one of them—no. Not peace. Praise. Hard-won, and not up for negotiation.
I’m not handing that power over to anyone, not even to Cole Hartwell and his stupidly hot smirk.
I’m focusing on the only thing that matters. This promotion.
Everything else(including your bullshit, Cole)can wait or get lost.
Blaze puts his hands in the air. “YOOO—gloves ON, bags UP, let’s GET AFTER IT, beach squad! This ocean ain’t gonna clean itself!”
The excited singles spread out along the shoreline, choosing their spots. Surprisingly. Miraculously. Things are going as planned.
The donation counter ticks.
The chat scrolls: actual questions on sea lion facts, a stubborn group ofscepterweirdos who refuse to let that die, and the typical nonstop questions about Blaze’s relationship status.
Priorities.
On screen, it looks… good. Not staged. Not forced. Just a bunch of very attractive people here for environmental impact while absolutely clocking each other between pickups.
A guy in a backward cap flexes as he picks up a water bottle. A girl in a lavender sundress invents reasons to touch the arm of the tall guy beside her, and he keeps “needing” to lean down so she can reach. Two women hold hands, deep in conversation, while one of them tosses a styrofoam cup into their bag. Gotta respect the multitasking.
From the corner of my eye, an attractive man—30’s, medium build, alluring brown eyes—walks through the drone boundary and dips under the canopy.
