**The Aftermath Studio – Post-Episode Hangout**
The Aftermath set lights were dimmed to a soft blue glow. Most of the crew had already clocked out. Only a skeleton staff remained, sweeping up confetti and wiping down the snack table. In the far corner, behind the same velvet curtain that had witnessed so much already this season, four figures huddled around a tiny folding table.
Noah sat with his legs crossed, lazily spinning the handheld camera like a fidget spinner. Ezekiel perched on a cable spool, face the color of overcooked oatmeal. Eva leaned against a lighting rig with her arms folded, Mr. Coconut balanced on her shoulder like a very judgmental parrot. Gwen was not supposed to be there—but she was. She had silently followed Ezekiel when he'd whispered "I'll be right back" and then never returned.
Noah finally broke the silence.
"So," he said, voice dripping with mock seriousness, "are we blackmailing you for real, or are we just collecting premium farm-boy embarrassment footage for my private collection?"
Ezekiel swallowed hard. "Noah… buddy… c'mon, eh. You're not actually gonna—"
Noah rolled his eyes so dramatically his whole head followed. "Relax, Zeke. I'm not evil. I'm just… selectively chaotic." He leaned forward. "Look. You're clearly into her. She's clearly into you. The kiss was disgustingly wholesome. I'm not about to ruin the only semi-functional romance this season has produced. I just wanted to see you sweat for approximately ninety seconds. Mission accomplished."
Eva snorted. It might have been a laugh. It was hard to tell.
"Besides," Noah continued, "if I ever did leak this, Chris would probably turn it into a three-episode romantic subplot and make us all suffer through slow-motion replays set to sad violins. Nobody wants that."
Ezekiel exhaled so hard his bangs fluttered. "So… you're not showing it to anyone?"
"Nope." Noah patted the camera. "This lives in the vault. Forever. Unless you start wearing overalls unironically again. Then all bets are off."
Eva finally spoke. "It's cute. Grossly cute. But cute." She looked down at Mr. Coconut. "Right?"
The coconut tilted forward once—solemn agreement.
Gwen stepped fully into the light, arms crossed, one eyebrow arched. "You guys are terrible at secret meetings."
Ezekiel yelped and nearly fell off the spool.
Gwen smirked at him. "I heard everything. Including the part where you called our kiss 'disgustingly wholesome'."
Noah shrugged. "Credit where credit's due."
Gwen turned to Ezekiel, who looked ready to melt into the floor. "You okay, Farm Boy? You look like you just saw a ghost… or a really judgmental coconut."
"I—I just… I thought…" Ezekiel rubbed the back of his neck. "I'm not good at this whole… secret-tape-blackmail thing, eh. Never done it before."
Gwen's expression softened. She stepped closer and bumped his shoulder lightly with hers. "That's why it's adorable. You're panicking like it's the end of the world when really Noah's just being Noah." She glanced at the others. "You guys are giving him a heart attack for fun."
Noah raised both hands. "I'm reformed. Mostly."
Eva grunted. "We're taking tomorrow off. Aftermath's dark. No taping. No drama. No cameras. I need silence. And possibly violence. But mostly silence."
Noah nodded. "Agreed. I'm going to sleep for sixteen hours and pretend this show doesn't exist."
Ezekiel looked between them, still dazed. "Wait… so we're good?"
Gwen rolled her eyes fondly. "We're good." She lowered her voice so only he could hear. "And for the record? I don't mind if people know. I just didn't want Chris turning it into a circus."
Ezekiel blinked. Slowly. A tiny, shy smile started at the corner of his mouth. "Really?"
"Really." She poked his chest. "But if you keep blushing like that every time someone mentions it, I'm going to start doing it on purpose."
Noah fake-gagged. "Okay, enough. Get out of here before I change my mind and start a gossip segment."
Eva stood up, cradling Mr. Coconut like a baby. "Night, lovebirds."
As they walked away, Gwen slipped her hand into Ezekiel's. He froze for half a second—then squeezed back.
Neither of them said anything. They didn't need to.
**The Challenge: Beach Movie Madness**
The next morning the contestants were bused to a wide stretch of man-made beachfront—white sand trucked in by the ton, palm trees that still had price tags dangling from the fronds, and an ocean that smelled suspiciously like chlorine.
Chris stood on a lifeguard tower wearing board shorts, flip-flops, and a sun visor so large it looked like a satellite dish.
"Welcome to today's genre: **Beach Movie**! Sun! Sand! Surf! And terrible decisions involving sunscreen! Three challenges. Winner gets the party tonight. Loser gets… well, you'll see."
**Challenge 1 – Surfboard Balancing Machine**
A row of mechanical surfboard simulators had been bolted to the sand. Each one bucked and twisted like an angry bull. The goal: stay on longest.
Most people lasted between four and twelve seconds.
Tyler lasted six before doing a face-plant that left a perfect Tyler-shaped crater.
Owen made it to nine seconds before the board launched him into a nearby lifeguard dummy.
Justin lasted a respectable twenty-one seconds—mostly because he posed the entire time.
Then came Trent.
He stepped up quietly, barefoot, hair tied back. No big speech. No showboating. He just climbed on, found his center, bent his knees, and rode.
The machine went full rodeo mode—spinning, tilting, jerking side to side. Trent never once lost his calm. His arms moved like they were conducting the chaos instead of fighting it. Thirty seconds. Forty. Fifty.
The entire beach went quiet.
At one minute and seventeen seconds the machine finally gave up and powered down. Trent stepped off lightly, brushed sand off his hands, and gave a small shrug.
Chris stared. "Okay… I did not have 'Trent is secretly a surf god' on my bingo card."
Lindsay clapped like a baby seal. "That was so cool!"
Beth whispered to Tyler, "I think he just became ten times hotter."
Trent rubbed the back of his neck, suddenly shy. "I used to skateboard a lot as a kid. Same balance thing, I guess."
Harold nodded solemnly. "Respect, dude. You just earned the title of Silent Surf King."
**Challenge 2 – Extravagant Sandcastle**
Each team had ninety minutes to build the most ridiculous, over-the-top sandcastle possible. Points for size, detail, creativity, and structural integrity.
The Killer Grips went big—but chaotic. Owen tried to make a giant sand hamburger. Justin sculpted a very accurate sand version of his own abs. Izzy added a working moat that flooded half their castle. Lindsay insisted on adding a sand hot tub (it collapsed immediately). Beth tried to keep things organized. Trent quietly reinforced the base. Tyler kept knocking things over by accident.
The Screaming Gaffers, meanwhile, had Harold.
He arrived with a rolled-up blueprint, a tiny shovel, and the manic gleam of a man who had watched one too many sand-sculpting documentaries.
"We're building Camelot," he announced. "With turrets, a drawbridge, a dragon, and a fully functioning sand catapult that actually flings tiny sand knights."
Courtney stared. "You have a blueprint."
"I have three. This is the final draft."
What followed was a masterclass in nerd rage and architectural obsession.
Leshawna hauled buckets of wet sand like it was nothing. Heather directed traffic with insults so creative they almost sounded like compliments. Geoff and Cody ran supply lines. Katie and Sadie added decorative shells in perfect pastel patterns.
But Harold was the brain.
He carved merlons with surgical precision. He used drinking straws as reinforcement rods. He rigged a pulley system so the dragon's head could actually move. When the tide started creeping in, he calmly built a sand barrier wall and rerouted the water with a miniature aqueduct.
When time was called, the Gaffers' castle stood tall—eight feet high, complete with tiny sand flags fluttering in the breeze and a drawbridge that actually worked.
Chris walked around it twice. "Okay… I hate to say this, but… Harold just carried."
**Challenge 3 – Dance-Off (Tiebreaker)**
The scores were close. Too close. Sudden-death dance-off.
Each team sent their two best dancers.
Gaffers: Courtney and Leshawna.
Grips: Owen and Izzy.
The music started—some generic 2000s beach pop banger with way too much steel drum.
Courtney and Leshawna stepped forward like they owned the sand.
Courtney went sharp—clean hip rolls, perfect posture, arms slicing the air like she was conducting an orchestra of pure sass. Leshawna brought power—big, confident moves, hair swinging, hips popping so hard the sand vibrated. Together they were lethal. Synchronized. Sexy. Unstoppable.
Harold watched with dreamy, starstruck eyes. "She's… she's a goddess of rhythm…"
Cody and Geoff stood side by side, jaws slack, whistling low and appreciative every time Courtney hit a particularly sharp turn.
"Bro," Geoff whispered, "I think I just forgot how to blink."
On the Grips side… things went wrong fast.
Owen started strong—surprisingly decent twirls for a guy his size. Then he attempted a dip.
The dip became a squat.
The squat became pressure.
A sound like a tuba being murdered underwater ripped across the beach.
The smell hit three seconds later.
Izzy—queen of chaos, eater of expired burritos, survivor of every gross thing the show had thrown at her—actually staggered. Her eyes watered. She wheezed. Then she dropped like a sack of potatoes.
Owen looked horrified. "Izzy! I'm so sorry!"
Izzy gave a weak thumbs-up from the sand. "Worth it… for the art…"
Chris gagged behind his hand. "And that, ladies and gentlemen, is how you lose a dance-off."
**The Results**
"Screaming Gaffers win the beach party tonight!" Chris announced, still holding his nose. "Killer Grips… you get to clean up the dance floor. And probably burn your clothes."
The Gaffers cheered. Even Heather cracked a tiny smile.
**The Elimination**
Later, at the Grips' elimination ceremony (which was really just a sad circle of folding chairs on the sand), Chris held up the plate.
"Tonight… someone is going home. And no, it's not because of the fart. Although it should be."
Owen raised his hand sheepishly. "I'll go. I mean… I get it. I've been gassing the trailer for weeks. You guys deserve fresh air."
Justin, Tyler, and Trent all exhaled at the exact same moment—visible relief washing over their faces.
Tyler whispered, "Thank you, sweet baby Jesus."
Trent nodded solemnly. "We love you, big guy. But also… thank you."
Owen grinned. "It's cool. I'll miss you weirdos. Don't let the bedbugs bite. Or the farts."
Chris handed him his parachute. "Owen, you've been eliminated. Take the Walk of Shame… or in your case, the Waddle of Shame."
Owen gave everyone one last crushing hug (carefully avoiding Izzy, who was still semi-conscious). Then he waddled toward the Dock of Losers, humming happily.
**The Beach Party**
The sun had just set. Tiki torches flickered. Music thumped. The Gaffers danced, laughed, ate questionable hot dogs.
Across the sand, the Grips had been invited anyway—Chris was feeling generous after the fart incident.
Izzy finally woke up.
She sat bolt upright on a beach chair someone had dragged her to, dog-eared towel still wrapped around her shoulders like a cape.
"Wait… did we lose?"
Lindsay patted her head. "Yup. But Owen took one for the team. And you're alive. So… win?"
Izzy blinked slowly. Then grinned. "Cool. Where's the punch?"
She stumbled toward the snack table—still wobbly, still covered in sand, still completely Izzy.
On the other side of the party, Gwen and Ezekiel sat on a piece of driftwood, sharing a single glowing blue mocktail.
"You survived your first blackmail scare," Gwen teased.
Ezekiel laughed nervously. "Barely, eh."
She leaned her head on his shoulder. "You're cute when you're flustered."
He turned bright red again.
But this time, he didn't pull away.
Behind them, the ocean rolled in and out. Tiki torches crackled. Somewhere, Mr. Coconut was probably judging them from a distance.