Page 10 of Love so Hot

"Seriously, Willow," he starts, arms crossed over his chest as if to barricade himself from any contradiction. "This? It's not enough. We need the masses, the media frenzy, the whole shebang."

I toss the grass aside, meeting his gaze head-on. "It's not about drawing a crowd, River," I say, my voice steady despite the fluttering in my chest. "It's about preparing ourselves, aligning our energies for the battle ahead."

He snorts, the sound cutting through the serene silence that lingers after our meditation.

"You sound like them. Those corporate suits who think a flashy campaign is all it takes to win a war," I say.

"And you sound like someone who's forgotten why we're really here." There's a flash of something—frustration, maybe—in his eyes before he turns away, raking a hand through his choppy hair. "Why did you even bother leaving your golden throne if you're not going to fight with everything you've got?"

"Low blow, Riv," I mutter, feeling a familiar ache at the mention of the life I left behind—a world of wealth and cold indifference. "You know that's not fair."

"Truth hurts," he retorts without missing a beat, his back still to me.

"Sometimes," I concede, knowing full well the barb is meant to incite action, not wound. But deep down, his words echo my own fears. Have I really changed? Or am I just playing at rebellion?

River glances over his shoulder, his expression softened by a hint of remorse—or is it empathy? Hard to tell with him. "We need to do more, Willow. They won't stop for quiet defiance."

"Then we'll find another way," I reply, my resolve hardening. "A way that doesn't compromise who we are."

"Who we are," he echoes, turning to face me fully now. The setting sun catches in his eyes, lighting them up with a fiery determination that's impossible to ignore. "We're fighters, Willow. Don't forget that."

"Never have," I say, standing up and dusting off my hands. "But there's fighting smart, and there's fighting loud. I prefer the first."

"Smart doesn’t always get noticed," he counters, stepping closer.

My heart pulses a rhythm that's too quick for comfort. "So, what's your grand plan then?" I ask, crossing my arms in front of me.

River runs his fingers through his hair, an exasperated sigh escaping him. "I don't know, Willow, but we can't just sit here and chant Oms while they bulldoze our sanctuary."

"Sanctuary," I repeat, letting the word hang between us. His use of 'our' isn't lost on me either. The tree we've been circling with our intentions and hopes stands tall against the twilight sky, its branches stretching out like arms ready to defend itself—if only it could.

"Tomorrow morning," he continues, his voice low but fierce, "they're bringing machines to tear this place apart, starting with that." He nods toward the tree.

"Over my dead body," I mutter, more to the tree than to River. But he hears me, of course.

River smirks, stepping into my space. "Oh yeah? And how are you going to stop it, Harper? Gonna throw yourself in front of the bulldozers?"

"No," I shoot back defiantly, though I haven't ruled it out completely. "I'll think of something... something that doesn’t involve broken bones or getting carted off to jail. Maybe we can do another silent protest, like we did today."

He studies me for a moment, skeptical.

I tap a rhythmless beat on my knee, watching River pace back and forth before me like a caged storm. The colorful streak in his black hair almost glows in the dying light, a beacon of his frustration.

"Look, Willow," he starts, stopping mid-stride to lock eyes with me, "we're basically Lorax apprentices here, minus the fuzzy orange mustache and whimsical rhymes. We've got to speak for the trees because clearly, no one else will."

"River," I counter, my voice dripping with skepticism, "The Lorax is a fictional character. Unless Dr. Seuss's ghost decides to pen a sequel where he teams up with activists, we're on our own."

"Exactly, we're on our own!" His hands slice through the air as if swatting invisible foes. "And the National Forest Service? They're just puppets dangling from the strings of Sinclair's wallet."

"Marionettes of corruption, how poetic," I quip, though the weight of his words anchors itself inside me.

"Willow," he steps closer, eyes blazing with the fire of a thousand protests, "doing a silent protest isn't speaking for the trees. It's just... silence."

"River, I'm not about to stoop to their level." My voice is firm, even as I feel the flutter of uncertainty within it. "We can't fight dirty tactics with more dirt. We'd be no better than them."

His face twists, the muscles working overtime to convey his anger. "It's not 'stooping' to stand up for what we believe in! It's called taking action!"

"Action, sure," I say, standing to meet him eye to eye, "but not at the cost of becoming what we despise."

---