Camp Meriwether Secrets

by BJCS

Chapter 5

Sandcastles and Showers

The sound of Eugene Park's bugle call slices through the canvas door of the minidak, signaling another day at Camp Meriwether. I groan inwardly, already anticipating mystery meat sausage at breakfast. Garrett, predictably, is still a lump in his blue REI sleeping bag. I nudge him with my elbow after getting out of my bunk. "Hey, Sleeping Beauty, time to rise and shine."

He grumbles something unintelligible and rolls over, sinking his head into the hood of the mummy bag. I sigh and start getting dressed, pulling on my dark blue Patagonia shirt under my scout uniform. I glance at Garrett's lump, trying not to replay last night. But I can't help it, Holland, Garrett, the way we all collided,

Finally, Garrett stirs, yawning widely. "Five more minutes," he mumbles.

"No can do. Oliver will have our asses if we're late for roll call." I pull on my olive-green uniform socks and sit on the doorstep to the minidak, waiting. Garrett eventually emerges, pulling on his fade-patterned board shorts. "Another day, another questionable breakfast," he mutters, running a hand through his sleep-mussed hair.

As we walk to the parade ground, I can't stop thinking about last night. The sight of Holland taking all of Garrett in and his muffled sounds around my dick. It's a messy web of desire and secrets, and I'm unsure how long we can keep it between us.

We join the rest of Troop 165 for roll call. Oliver barks out orders, ensuring Badger Patrol is lined up and accounted for. Ben, acting as SPL in Thomas's absence, makes quick announcements and surveys the troop.

"Badger Patrol all present!" Oliver shouts.

As Ben dismisses the patrols for breakfast, I notice Wade intercepting Griffin. Wade's expression is condescending as he pulls Griffin to stay behind, away from the rest of Panda Patrol.

I nudge Garrett. "What's that about?"

Garrett shrugs, ever nonchalant. "Probably just Wade being Wade."

But a feeling of unease settles over me. Is Wade acting on behalf of Bryan, ready to discipline Griffin for sneaking out after lights out with Gizmo? How much does Wade know?

"Go on, I'll catch up," I tell Garrett, my mind in a whirlwind. "I want to see what's going to happen."

Garrett raises an eyebrow, a hint of worry in his deep blue eyes. "Don't get involved, Walker. It's none of our business."

"Maybe," I concede, but my curiosity is piqued. I linger near the edge of the parade ground, pretending to adjust my compass while watching Wade and Griffin from a distance. The discussion could have implications for our whole troop as well as Troop 737, given the secrets simmering beneath the surface.

"Walker, aren't you coming to eat breakfast?" Jacob limps by, and almost pulls me away from my thoughts.

"Jacob, do you know what is happening to Griffin?" I ask, knowing that as Panada's APL, he might be privy to whatever Bryan told Wade.

Jacob shifts his weight uncomfortably, glancing toward Wade and Griffin. His lips press into a thin line before he mutters, "I think Bryan caught Griffin and Gizmo doing something. I overheard Wade telling Ben that he'd deal with Griffin."

"What exactly were they doing?" I press him.

Jacob hesitates, his dark brows knitting together. "You already know, don't you?"

"I have my guesses."

Jacob exhales sharply, eyes flicking toward Wade, who's leaning in close to Griffin now, his voice too low to hear. "Gizmo convinced Griffin to sneak out after lights out. Pretty sure they went down to the beach."

A slight sigh of relief washes over me. "And Bryan was the one who caught them?"

Jacob nods. "Someone must've seen them and alerted him. Maybe another adult leader. Maybe staff. Either way, Wade is going to make an example of Griffin.'

I glance back at Wade. His posture is aggressive, shoulders squared, and Griffin looks like he's doing his best to shrink into himself.

"Crap," I grin. "What about Gizmo?"

Jacob sighs. "Bryan and Paul are talking to him now because, well, you know Ben is just an acting SPL, and he's even older than Ben."

I shake my head and turn toward the dining hall with Jacob. While I'm glad it wasn't us that was caught in my minidak, I still feel sorry for Griffin, especially since he agreed to keep my secret with Garrett to himself.

Things are back to normal at breakfast as I spot Holland back eating with his troop before I sit down with Garrett. Wade and Griffin finally saunter in and sit at a table with Jacob and Panda Patrol, Griffin seemingly keeping to his quiet self.

The first morning merit badge session is for the Fish and Wildlife Management Merit Badge, and when we break off into groups to observe wildlife around the camp, I poke Griffin from behind. "Hey, Griff, wanna team up with Garrett and me for this?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant. "The more eyes, the better, right?"

Griffin looks back, a hint of surprise in his eyes. "Sure, Walker, looks like Jacob and Declan already have a group."

I wave Garrett over, and the three of us quickly start to head away from the rest of the merit badge session. Wade shoots a piercing glance at the three of us as we depart, but he doesn't make any effort to stop us.

Garrett jokes as we walk past the Discovery Lodge toward the water, "So, Griff, are you being dragged into doing the MTG tournament tonight?" Griffin blushes but doesn't reply.

We reach the bluffs overlooking the beach, a quiet escape from the bustle of camp, when I spot it, soaring above the waves. "Hey, check that out! Is that a falcon?"

Garrett wastes no time, pulling his binoculars from his pack. "Whoa! That's awesome. I didn't think they'd be this easy to spot here!"

As he focuses on the bird, I take my chance and turn to Griffin. Keeping my voice low, I ask, "Hey, Griff… seriously. What happened last night? Are you okay?"

Griffin clears his throat, scuffing his boot against a loose pebble. "It's… complicated," he mutters.

I don't push too hard, but I don't back off either. "We heard Bryan yelling. First at you, then at Gizmo. What actually happened?"

Griffin sighs, finally meeting my gaze. "Look, I don't want to make this worse than it already is. We got lucky, Bryan didn't tell Paul and Ben the whole story." He hesitates, his face flushing slightly.

I nod understandingly. "I get it. And don't worry, I won't say anything about what we heard. I owe you that much for keeping quiet about Tuesday morning."

Griffin's lips twitch into a small grin. "Thanks, Walker. You're a good friend."

I nod back, then turn as Garrett lowers his binoculars, still grinning. "So? Was it a peregrine?"

"You betcha," he confirms.

Griffin chuckles. "Well, that's one down. Twenty-four more to go. C'mon, I think I remember where to find some frogs I saw earlier this week!"

We follow Griffin inland a little ways, where he points out the marshy edge of a seasonal pool shaded by alders and tangled salal. We don't have to wait long, Garrett's the first to spot a Pacific tree frog clinging to the edge of a rock, its skin dappled in pale green and brown.

"Nice catch," I say, scribbling it into my workbook. It's not the rarest species at Meriwether, but it's the first amphibian we've documented today.

By the time we head back toward the main area of camp, we've jotted down three more frog sightings, two feathered predators, and even caught a glimpse of small fish darting upstream in the creek. Garrett guessed they were young salmon, but I wasn't so sure. Spawning season isn't until late summer or fall, not July.

Still, it felt like progress.

Lunch is grilled cheese with thick tomato soup, the kind that sticks to the roof of your mouth. The dining hall is its usual blur of tray clatter, ketchup packets, and overlapping voices. Garrett and I finish early and slip outside, finding a shaded log bench near the side entrance to stretch out and digest.

"I think I'm actually gonna miss this place," Garrett says, brushing crumbs from his lap. "Not the food. But like… everything else."

I smile faintly, but my head's elsewhere.

That afternoon, the sun finally burns through the coastal haze, turning the beach into a shimmering battleground for the Sandcastle Showdown and a bearable ocean swim. Garrett and I carve out space for our masterpiece while Jacob from is already deep in his patrol's project nearby, except instead of a castle, he's building an army of arched bridges and sand pillars that loop across a massive footprint in the sand.

"Are you seriously building a Roman aqueduct?" Garrett asks, shading his eyes.

Jacob grins, using a Nalgene bottle to carefully pour water through one of the channels. "Technically, several. This one's based on the Pont du Gard."

Garrett mutters under his breath, "Nerd," to me, but I give him a look back because it's Jacob of all people.

We continue to dig in, literally, carving out moats and piling up driftwood for battlements. Our fortress is more enthusiasm than engineering, but Garrett insists on naming it "Fort Titanic" anyway. Half an hour in, we're covered in sand and sunburned across our knees.

"It's ugly," Garrett declares, flopping down beside me, "but it's ours."

"Like our minidak," I reply.

He laughs, and for a second, I laugh too.

Then, from down the shore, I catch a glimpse of someone familiar in the waves.

I shield my eyes to get a better look. It's Holland.

I wait until Garrett gets distracted collecting shells for our parapets, then slip away from my troop, weaving between damp towels and Nalgene bottles warming in the sun.

Holland is just emerging from the surf, water sheeting down his chest and shoulders in the afternoon light. His hair is slicked back, clinging to his temples, and his black swim trunks hang low on his hips, heavy with saltwater. My pulse stutters.

When he spots me, he tilts his head. "Didn't think I'd get to see you during the swim, everyone's out here now."

I glance around to make sure no one's listening. "We need to talk. Just for a sec."

He walks a little closer, water still dripping from his elbows. "What's wrong?"

I lower my voice. "There's too much heat on our site after last night. Wade's watching Griffin like a hawk. Bryan's still tense. I think it's too risky for you to come over tonight."

Holland blinks, frowning. "So that's it? We can't do anything tonight?"

I hesitate. I want to be smart. Safe. But I also don't want this to end here.

"I'll try to figure something out," I say.

He studies me, then, as if seeing the concern in my expression, he asks. "Is everything OK? Did you guys get caught for being up?"

"No, but both Gizmo and Griffin are in deep shit," I look back toward Garrett and he's still scanning the beach for accents, and probably still hasn't noticed I left. "We just have to be sure we don't get caught, too."

"All right, Walker," Holland sighs. "I trust you."

A breeze kicks up, and he wraps his towel around his shoulders, casting one last glance back as he walks away.

I watch him disappear into the beach crowd, already rehearsing excuses and exits in my head.

Whatever happens tonight... It's our last shot.

By the time I make it back to Fort Titanic, Garrett's added a driftwood flag and a moat wide enough to trap a raccoon. Jacob has finished his aqueduct system as well; he's even got two younger scouts helping ferry water from the ocean.

When the camp staff comes around to judge, there's a lot of praise for "creativity" and "historical reference," but the bragging rights end up going to the troop from Houston for their massive, sculpted replica of the Alamo: complete with stick muskets and a tiny Davy Crockett made of kelp.

"Total bull," Garrett mutters. "That thing didn't even have a functional drawbridge."

I shrug. "They brought five shovels and even had cannons. We never stood a chance."

Dinner is uneventful: spaghetti, garlic toast, and jugs of bug juice in every shade of red. Garrett makes some attempt to cheer me up, nudging me in the ribs and stacking breadsticks like Lincoln Logs, but my mind keeps drifting.

Toward Holland.

Toward what will probably be our last night together, with the closing ceremony on Friday.

After trays are cleared, the dining hall transforms into a makeshift karaoke lounge. The camp staff pulls out an old laptop, TV, and a mic on a stand with a speaker system that looks like it was borrowed from a church. Someone's strung battery-powered fairy lights along one of the windows, and a few scouts push chairs into a rough two rows of a semicircle facing the front. It's low-budget... and kind of perfect.

The first victim is Vincent, the Camp Program Director, a lanky 38-year-old from Beaverton with a sunburned nose and a 'Camp Meriwether Staff' shirt two sizes too big. He grabs the mic like it owes him money.

"Alright, scouts! Let's see those hands!"

The opening piano chords of Sweet Caroline blare out, but the speaker cuts in and out, turning Neil Diamond's anthem into a glitchy robot remix. Vincent doesn't care. He belts the first verse like he's at Fenway Park, not a dining hall full of teenagers who've just downed three servings of bug juice.

"Sweet Caroline…….BAH BAH BAH!"

Half the room groans, and three CITs in the front row chant, 'Vinny! Vinny!' Like this was his tenth summer murdering Neil Diamond classics. Vincent's voice cracks on "good times never seemed so good," but he milks the pause before the chorus like he's on Broadway, arms wide in full surrender.

Garrett leans over to me, grinning. "This is the corniest thing I've ever seen. I love it."

The next few acts are mostly troop dares: two Second Class scouts scream 'Livin' on a Prayer,' someone tries to rap 'Lose Yourself' and gives up halfway through. I'm only half-watching when I hear Vincent say, "Holland Jamison, Troop 737".

I sit up straighter in my chair.

He walks up calmly, in his uniform shirt unbuttoned at the collar and a fresh Totin' Chip patch stitched on his pocket flap. His hair is still slightly damp from the earlier swim and rinse, but now combed neatly into place. His olive green scout shorts are crisp. He doesn't look nervous, just focused.

The intro chords start.

"Just a small-town girl…"

At first, a few kids chuckle. But then the room quiets.

Holland doesn't oversell it. He just sings, clear, steady, and somehow effortless. The words land not because he's performing, but because he means them. There's no posturing. Just a scout in uniform, singing like it's the only honest thing he can do right now.

By the time he hits "Strangers waiting…", most of the room is locked in, either swaying along or mouthing the lyrics under their breath.

Garrett looks at me with a smirk. "You okay, Walker? Your cheeks are redder than a Swiss-Army knife."

I don't reply. I'm too focused, enthralled by Holland, watching the way he closes his eyes on the chorus, how he doesn't look for applause, doesn't need it.

"Don't stop believin'…"

It echoes through the rafters like a benediction.

He finishes, lowers the mic, and steps back. A pause.

Then applause erupts, loud and ragged, but earned.

Holland doesn't smile, he just grins and looks up, and finds us across the room.

Just for a second, our eyes meet.

And I know he's still hoping I'll find a way.

The next performer steps up, one of the kitchen staffers, probably in her early twenties, wearing a tie-dye Camp Meriwether apron over her staff polo. She grabs the mic with the wild-eyed confidence of someone who has either done this before… or definitely shouldn't.

The screen flashes: "Friends in Low Places - Garth Brooks."

She launches into the first verse with no hesitation, way too loud and wildly off-key. A ripple of groans spreads through the dining hall.

Garrett leans back, smirking. "How does anyone not have self-awareness?"

By the chorus "'Cause I got friends in low places…" at least four kids are clutching their heads like they're in pain. A few staffers start swaying ironically, trying to salvage the vibe.

I laugh, but my eyes flick toward the back wall. Holland is still standing up, slipping toward the doors that lead outside.

My pulse spikes.

"Be right back, bathroom break," I mutter.

Garrett's too caught up watching the trainwreck to notice me go.

I catch up just as Holland pushes open the door. He looks back as I follow him out into the cool air behind the dining hall.

"I figured that was you," he says, voice low, the vestibule light humming above us.

"We have to be quick," I say. "I've got a plan."

His ears perk up.

"Meet me at the north shower house. The one closest to your site. I'll go in first, leave the stall door unlocked. You follow."

Holland leans casually against the stainless-steel hand washing station, his face suddenly serious. "What time?"

"9:38."

He tilts his head. "That's an oddly specific time."

"Plenty of time before lights out at 10:30. And if anyone sees us, it won't look planned. Just weird."

A pause. The light buzzes above us. Far off, Garth Brooks' chorus warbles through the walls.

Then, his hand grazes mine.

Just a flicker of touch. Gone as quickly as it came. But enough to prick up the hairs on my arm.

"I'll be there," he says softly and turns to the sink to wash his face.

I step back into the dining hall, blinking as the light and noise rush over me again.

The kitchen staffer is just finishing up, still off-key, but ending strong with a dramatic fist-pump that earns scattered applause and ironic cheers.

As I slip along the wall, weaving back toward Garrett, I nearly run straight into Rob, the Head Commissioner, who's balancing a clipboard and a half-empty can of A&W root beer.

"Easy there, son," he says, steadying me with one hand. He's got his staff jacket open over his belly, and a radio clipped into a side pocket.

"Sorry, sir," I mutter, stepping aside quickly.

He squints at me for a second, not suspicious, just tired like a man who's had to deal with one too many lost hats and merit badge reschedules this week. Then he nods and lumbers toward the back of the hall.

I exhale and slide back onto my chair next to Garrett, who's now holding up an invisible lighter and swaying dramatically along with a staffer doing a shaky version of 'Let It Go'.

"Took you long enough," he says without looking. "Did you fall in?"

"The line was long," I say.

"He shrugs, still riveted by the disaster unfolding. "You missed nothing. Unless you consider Troop 88's line-dancing massacre some kind of backwoods America's Got Talent audition."

I nod, trying to calm the rhythm of my pulse, then glance at the clock on the dining hall wall.

9:14.

Another scout finishes a breathy, off-rhythm version of 'Take Me Home, Country Roads,' and I can feel the energy in the room fading fast after two lifeguards duet 'Summer Nights'. The mic's been passed around too many times. People are yawning now, half-hearted claps echoing through the rafters.

Time to move.

I nudge Garrett. "Hey, I'm gonna head back to the minidak, grab some stuff before lights out."

He frowns. "What stuff?"

"Just my towel. I haven't showered since the beach, and I'm feeling gross. Figured I'd sneak one in before they get busy with people brushing their teeth."

He shrugs. "All right. I'll see you back at the minidak?"

"Yeah. I might be a bit. If I'm not there when you crash, don't wait up."

He watches me for a second longer. "And Holland?"

"I told him not to come by after what Griff and Gizmo did."

He doesn't say anything to that. Just gives a tired nod and turns back to one of the last acts of the night, a camp staffer humming 'Mr. Brightside' like he's alone in his bedroom.

I slip out the side door into the dark, cut across the main path, and jog lightly down the hill toward the minidak. I push open the flap quietly, grab my towel, and unzip my duffel.

A flashlight. Body wash. Deodorant. Pajama Pants. My last clean t-shirt. Just in case.

Then I slip back out, towel over one shoulder, and head toward the north shower house, heart thudding louder with each step.

The gravel crunches softly under my slides as I approach the north shower house, a row of modest tan enclosures with green metal doors, each leading to a private stall. A lone security light hums overhead, throwing wide shadows across the concrete slab.

I spot Holland immediately standing a few feet away, leaning against the wooden post of the overhang in the blue adidas jersey, his arms crossed like he's just waiting to brush his teeth.

He doesn't look at me.

I don't say anything.

I shuffle past him quietly, count three doors down from the end, and tug open one of the metal handles. It groans slightly.

Inside: a narrow concrete stall with a plastic bench, a few metal hooks, and a faded "Keep It Clean" poster on the back of the changing area. A forgotten green bottle of Pert Plus, missing its cap, sits in one corner.

I shut the door behind me and take a breath.

My hands move quickly, untucking my uniform shirt, unfastening my belt, slipping out of my scout shorts with my underwear, and rolling them neatly onto the bench. My towel is draped over one shoulder, the air cool against my skin.

Then I pause at the door handle.

Do I lock it?

I hover for a beat, then quietly turn the latch just enough so the bolt doesn't click. I leave the door slightly ajar, just an inch, like someone didn't shut it all the way.

9:38. The numbers glow on my watch face before I undo the strap and put it on top of my clothes.

I step back toward the shower curtain, pull it closed, and wait.

For a moment, there's nothing, just the hum of the water in the pipes of the other showers.

Then, soft footsteps crossed the concrete pad outside.

A gentle creak.

The edge of the door opens just a little wider.

Then closes behind him.

I hear the door lock outside the curtain, then the quiet scuff of rubber on concrete.

Then I see them: Holland's red Lightning McQueen Crocs, half-shadowed under the edge of the curtain, toeing at the tile like he's still deciding if this is real.

Another moment passes.

The curtain slides open just a few inches, and Holland steps inside and sees me fully naked.

We're not touching yet, but the air feels denser now, charged.

A light overhead hums faintly, casting soft shadows on the stall's concrete walls.

Neither of us says anything at first.

Then, quietly. "What about Garrett?"

His voice is low. Careful. Not accusing, just… curious.

I keep my eyes on the floor. "He's in the minidak. I told him I needed to shower. That I'd see him later."

Holland shifts slightly. I can feel the warmth of him beside me.

"So... he doesn't know?"

I shake my head. "He asked. I said not tonight."

Silence stretches again. The only sound is the soft drip from a nearby shower head after we hear someone next door finish their turn.

Then I add, "I don't know why I asked to see you here alone."

I glance at him.

His expression isn't angry or even disappointed. It's just open. Like he gets my reluctance to include Garrett.

"Yeah, you do," he says softly as he undoes his belt and slips out of his scout shorts.

His voice is steady, but there's something tentative in the way his fingers move, like he's still not sure this moment won't disappear the second he reaches for it.

I turn toward him, just as he steps forward, and for a breathless second, we just look at each other.

Then I lean in.

Our lips meet, gently, almost uncertainly at first.

It's not practiced. Not perfect.

But it's real.

His hand finds my shoulder, then drifts down my back, grounding me. I steady myself against the cool tile wall, heart hammering so loud I'm sure he can feel it through my chest. We pull back just an inch, eyes meeting again, and it's like something shifts.

Holland kisses me again, this time slower, more sure.

There's no rush, no noise, no one watching. Just us, behind a thin wall, under a dull light, in a stall that smells like Dollar Tree body wash, salt, and summer air.

His jersey brushes against my bare chest, soft and damp.

And for a few seconds, it's like the rest of the camp doesn't exist.

"So did you want to feel it too?" He asks.

"Feel what?" My breath catches.

Holland's gaze lingers on mine, searching for something unspoken. "What Garrett did last night." He swallows hard, as if he already knows the answer.

"Yeah," I rasp, my voice barely audible. The heat from his body is intoxicating, my heart thumping in my ears. My hand hovers near his jersey, unsure if touching it again will break the spell we have on each other, or confirm it's real.

He nods, then lets go, his eyes never leaving mine as he reaches for the waistband of his uniform shorts.

With trembling fingers, he unbuttons his shorts and lowers his boxers, revealing his hard length. He gets on his knees and looks up at me, and I can see the excitement and a hint of nerves in his eyes. Holland leans in, his warm breath ghosting over my skin as he takes me into his mouth.

I lean back against the cool tiles of the shower wall, my eyes fluttering closed. The sensation is overwhelming, my body tensing with every stroke of his tongue. It's not our first time, but the audacity of us doing this in the shower, outside of the privacy of our minidak, is something I can't ignore.

Holland pulls away, our eyes never parting their gaze, and then stands back up, allowing his shorts to fall to the floor. He turns to face the opposite shower wall, his back to me, and lowers his boxers even further.

I can see the muscles in his thighs tighten as he prepares himself. The anticipation is palpable as I step closer, the heat from his body reaching out to me. I run the pad of my thumb over his entrance, feeling his warmth and his breath hitch in response. Then, I line up my own arousal with him, pressing gently, feeling him yield to me. We're both panting now, the sound muffled by the distant echo of the camp's nocturnal sounds. I ease into him, feeling the warmest sensation I have ever experienced in my life envelop my dick.

We start moving together, finding a rhythm that seems to resonate through the very walls of the shower stall. The air is cold, but we're too lost in the moment to care. I raise the bottom of his jersey, my skin slapping against his smooth back, and we find ourselves in a silent dance of passion and trust, our hearts racing in a symphony of whispers and unspoken truths.

We keep at it, my hands wrapping around his shoulders, gripping the fabric of his jersey as our bodies move as one. The tension builds, our breaths mingling in the cool air, and the friction between us is electric. The head of my cock swells with every thrust, and I can feel my release approaching, the pressure building like a volcano about to erupt. With a stifled groan of "Hol…..", I can't hold back any longer, and fill him with my warmth. His body tenses, and he gasps, the sensation of my climax resonating through every inch of his body.

I pull out slowly, my body reluctant to break the intimate connection. He turns around to face me, the need still evident in his eyes, and we kiss again, this time deeper, more desperate. The fabric of his soccer jersey is damp from the heat of our bodies, and as we separate, I can't help but notice the way his erection presses against the material.

Without a word, I drop to my knees, gently lifting the front of his jersey. He watches me with bated breath as I wrap my hand around his length and pull his foreskin back, feeling the pulse of his desire beneath my fingertips. I lean in, my eyes locked with his, and take him into my mouth. The taste is faintly salty, musky, and uniquely his.

Holland lets out a low moan as I begin to move my lips up and down, my tongue exploring his shaft, savoring every inch. His hands find their way into my hair, guiding my pace, and we fall into a rhythm that's just as perfect as the one we had moments ago. The sound of water droplets echoes in the stall, mixing with our quiet gasps and whispers, as we continue our secret rendezvous away from Garrett.

Holland's moans grow louder, his grip on my hair tightening as he starts to buck into my face, his hips moving with a desperation that tells me he's close. I keep my eyes on his, watching the pleasure build in his gaze as I swirl my tongue around the head of his cock and take him deeper into my throat. He throws his head back, a whimper escaping his lips, and I feel his body tense.

With one final, urgent thrust, he releases, and I swallow every drop of his warmth, feeling his dick pulse against my tongue. His legs tremble, and he sags against the shower wall, panting heavily. The intensity of the moment leaves us both silent for a few seconds, our hearts racing in the aftermath of our secret passion.

A creak breaks the silence, just outside the next stall.

We both freeze.

I hold my breath, listening. The door next to us closes again. Soft footsteps crunch away across the gravel.

Holland exhales slowly.

I reach for my watch on the bench with my clothes.

10:06.

I blink. It feels like we've only been here five minutes. It also feels like I'll never be the same again.

Behind me, there's a soft rustle, then Holland peels the blue adidas jersey off over his head and holds it out toward me.

"Here," he says quietly.

I blink. "What?"

"Take it," he repeats. "To remember me by." His mouth twitches, somewhere between a smirk and something sad. "At least it's cleaner than the white one."

I take it gently. It's warm and damp with our body heat. I lift it to my face and inhale before I can stop myself: musk, salt, faint citrus. Him.

I look at Holland. "Are you sure?"

He shrugs. "Yeah. My parents'll just get me a new one in the fall."

We don't speak after that. Just one more private kiss, slow, careful. One more hug, his hand resting for a second too long on my back. And then we break apart like pulling magnets.

I turn the shower on quickly, just to show I got wet, then we dress silently.

I stuff the jersey deep into my towel bundle, folding it between my scout shorts so no trace of it shows.

When I'm ready, I crack the stall door and glance out.

Empty.

The overhang outside is quiet, the gravel path still.

"I'll go first," I whisper.

He nods once. No drama. Just trust.

I step out, towel slung over one shoulder, moving like I've just had a normal long shower. I don't look back.

At the end of the path, near a cluster of tall grass, I pause just long enough to pretend I'm checking the stars or scratching a bug bite.

Then I hear the gentle groan of the metal stall door again behind me.

Holland steps out, headed in the opposite direction, toward Schooner. He doesn't even glance my way.

Just two scouts, on separate paths, heading to bed like everyone else on their second-to-last night here.

Except I'm not like everyone else.

I've got a piece of him buried under my towel.

And the weight of tonight pressed to my ribs like a secret I want to keep forever.

When I reach my troop site, Garrett's headlamp is already off.

I push away the curtain to the minidak as quietly as I can. Inside, Garett's sprawled on top of his sleeping bag in his plain gray AE boxer briefs, one arm across his face.

"Dude," he mumbles, voice groggy. "Where were you?"

I freeze. "Shower," I say quickly, hanging the towel over the side of my bed. "You knocked out fast."

He yawns. "Didn't feel like waiting in line. Figured I'd go in the morning."

I slide into my sleeping bag, heart still thudding.

Garrett shifts onto his side, already halfway asleep again. "Hey…You didn't see Holland at all tonight after Karaoke?"

There's a pause.

"Nope," I lie. "Told him not to risk it."

"Good call, I guess." He pulls the top of his sleeping bag over him, fabric whispering between us like a curtain. "Night, Walker."

Once I'm sure he's asleep, I reach into my daypack, quietly unzip the bottom compartment, and tuck the folded blue jersey inside.

It fits too well. Like it was always meant to be concealed.

I zip it shut and lie back, wondering how long the jersey will still smell like Holland. Lying there, I can still feel Holland's warmth on my chest, but Garrett's still breathing is what I fall asleep to.

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