Wells had always respected the forest.

Not quietly, obviously. Wells did very few things quietly. But standing shirtless in the middle of a national park, wearing shiny metallic emerald green cargo pants tight enough to make every trail marker feel underdressed, heavy safety boots planted in the dirt, and a matching emerald green ranger hat tilted just right, he looked like conservation had been assigned a personal trainer.

Forestry work, according to Wells, was underrated.

People saw trees. Wells saw reps.

Hauling brush built shoulders. Clearing trails built grip. Carrying gear uphill built legs, lungs, and the kind of stamina that made lesser men need a rest stop. Chopping, lifting, dragging, climbing, bracing, pulling, every job in the park had a way of turning hard work into hard muscle.

Wells called it “environmental fitness.”

Nobody was sure that was a real term.

He stood beside the trail with an axe resting across one shoulder, chest catching the green-gold light filtering through the canopy, smirk sharp enough to split firewood. The emerald cargo pants clung to his thighs and stretched over every powerful movement, glossy and loud against the bark, moss, and shadow around him. He looked less like a ranger and more like the reason hikers suddenly forgot where the trail went.

“Park maintenance is serious work,” Wells said, gripping the axe handle with both hands. “You need balance. Control. Core strength. And you have to know how to handle your wood properly.”

The forest went very quiet.

Wells grinned.

He checked the path, adjusted his ranger hat, and gave the axe a slow, easy lift.

Because in the green, wild places, Wells knew every trail needed clearing, every tool needed a steady hand, and every good ranger understood one simple truth:

if the wood was hard, he was ready to work it.