The late afternoon sun burned bright over the “Wipe Out” water parkour course, casting glints off the sprawling stretch of red-and-blue inflatable obstacles. The surface of the water shimmered like glass, though its icy bite was enough to make most of the crew wince the second they hit it. A humid breeze carried the smell of chlorine and wet plastic, along with bursts of laughter echoing off the high, padded walls of the course. Naomi stood at the side platform with her arms loosely folded, droplets of water beading on her black ruched camisole from the earlier splash zone. Her black Nike swim shorts clung comfortably to her upper thighs, the small white swoosh logo bright against the monochrome look. The silver cross pendant at her neck swung gently when she shifted, and the faint weight of her charm bracelet pressed cool against her wrist. A pair of simple silver hoops caught the sunlight every time she turned her head. On her feet, the chunky Ugg Lowmel sneakers, matte black with thick straps, were still damp from the mist coming off the water, but she didn’t seem bothered. She looked perfectly composed, even as chaos unfolded around her. Tommy had gone first, barreling through the obstacles with his trademark manic energy, flinging himself across padded beams and clinging to swinging ropes with exaggerated yells for the camera. Against all odds, he made it to the end, throwing his arms up in triumph. Charlie followed, his every move accompanied by absurd commentary into his GoPro. He almost fell twice, but somehow clung on, flopping onto the last platform in a heap and grinning like an idiot. Wilbur had been next. From the moment he stepped onto the course, his movements were sharper, more focused, his long frame covering the distance with precision. He didn’t stumble much, and when he did, he caught himself quickly. But by the time he reached the final platform, there was a subtle shift in him, shoulders squared a little too much, jaw tense. His hair clung damply to his forehead, and his breathing was slightly heavier than expected for the short run. The bodysuit didn’t help matters. Like the others, it was skin-tight when wet, clinging to every contour. On Wilbur, that meant there was… well, an unavoidable outline in the fabric, the kind of thing that wasn’t glaring to the cameras but was impossible to ignore up close. He was hard. Rock hard. He seemed aware of it, shuffling his stance, crossing his arms, keeping his gaze fixed out at the course as if that would make it vanish. Philza went after him, and the attention of most of the group immediately swung back to the water. The older man was struggling at the very first hurdle, slipping and catching himself with a muttered laugh. Tommy, Tubbo, and Charlie were nearly doubled over, jostling each other while calling out exaggerated encouragement for the recording. Wilbur didn’t join in. He stayed beside Naomi, posture guarded, the tension radiating off him in quiet waves. The wet fabric of his suit glistened in the sunlight, every shift in his stance betraying his effort to remain composed.