The truth is more pathetic. I spent half the night texting Kai for help. I swallowed my pride and asked him to connect me with locals who could guide us. And I begged the resort concierge to find me cargo pants identical to hers by morning.
I gotta keep a few things to myself to maintain some dignity.
Climbing out of the car, I circle around and pop the trunk open. “Today, I’myourassistant.”
Cam comes over and her eyes pop at all the equipment I’ve packed. Camera bags. Tripods. Extra batteries. Mics.I don’t know what documentary filmmaking actually requires, so I rented one of everything.
“Wait, are you wearing women’s pants?”
I start unloading gear from the trunk, passing her a lightweight camera bag. “If you’re asking if these pants are tight in the crotch, the answer is yes.” I adjust myself with zero subtlety. “So don’t do anything to turn me on, because seriously, there is no room down there.”
A mischievous gleam lights her eyes. Never breaking eye contact, she bends over to check one of the bags, her butt mere inches from my hands. And then she fucking winks at me.
My palm connects with her ass before I think twice. The sharp smack is satisfying in ways I cannot articulate. Sonnets should be written about that thing.
“Oh, you want to be a little troublemaker?” I give her another slap, slightly harder this time. “I’ll remember that when we get back to the resort.”
I start distributing equipment between us, stuffing memory cards, lens wipes, and a collapsible reflector into my many pockets. “I see why you like these pants. You can fit everything in here. Is this what women are always complaining about? The pocket inequality thing?”
“It’s a genuine feminist issue. The patriarchy doesn’t want us to have storage options because then we wouldn’t need men to carry our stuff.”
I grab her by the belt loops, pulling her against me. Her softness meets my hardness in all the right places. “Your ass in cargo pants when you work is art in motion.” I press my lips to hers, drinking in her sweetness. “I will do my best not to stare at it all day.” I kiss her again, deeper this time, my hands finding their way to the curves in question.
She makes a sound somewhere between a laugh and a moan that shoots straight to my groin. Shit.These women’s pants were not designed for arousal.
Reluctantly, I release her, shouldering a camera bag and grabbing the tripod. “Okay, boss. Where to first?”
I watch her transform into work mode—shoulders straightening, eyes scanning the landscape with purpose. Goddamn, I’d follow this woman anywhere.
We walk in silence down Lahaina’s once-bustling main street, the weight of destruction draping over us like a heavy blanket. The bones of the battered town remain—foundations stripped to concrete slabs, steel beams sticking out like fractured ribs. Blackened doorways leading to nowhere. Some buildings still stand, but they’re beyond scorched, hollowed out by the fire that tried to erase them.
Lahaina is no longer the town from the postcards.
The streets are eerily quiet but not empty. The hum of machinery rumbles in the distance, workers clearing debris, rebuilding what they can. A woman sweeps ash from what used to be her front porch, despite there being no roof above her anymore. A group of men reassemble the wooden beams of a storefront, their movements slow and steady.
I’ve seen destruction before. Hell, I’ve caused it intentionally, for videos.
But this? This isn’t content. This is real.
The folks here are trying to pick up the pieces of their life.
“This is why I wanted to come,” she says finally. “The news cycle has moved on, but this place—these people—are still living in it.”
She gestures toward the town, toward the workers, toward a man hammering boards into the remains of what might have been his storefront.
“People lost everything. Homes, businesses, family histories passed down through generations.” She shakes her head. “Most are still displaced, stuck in temporary housing, not knowing when—if—they can ever come back. Sadly, with the town’s infrastructure being such a mess, many wonder if it’s even worth trying.”
We round a corner and halt dead in our tracks.
Before us stands the famous banyan tree.
Sacred.
Majestic.
Haunting.
Grieving.
