Back on the street, steam curling from the cup, I sipped and walked. Meeting Street wound gentle, houses rising three stories, shutters green or black, doors wide enough for carriages that hadn't rolled since the war. One porch overflowed pots—ferns spilling lush, a swing creaking empty. I imagined nights there, rocking slow, harbor breeze cutting the heat, stories traded over bourbon. Not my life, but it fit the bones of the city, this mix of endurance and ease.
East Bay called next, the street narrowing, water glinting distant through live oak tunnels. Shops dotted the way, eclectic as a fever dream. I ducked into Mercantile & Mash, drawn by the window stacked with jars—pickles neon-bright, sauces in squat bottles labeledfierce. Inside, it sprawled like a gentleman's fever: butcher case gleaming with cuts marbled perfect, shelves groaning under spice tins and olive oils that shimmered gold. A coffee bar hugged the wall, grinder whirring, a barista pulling shots with ritual focus.
I wandered, fingers trailing a rack of knives—hand-forged, handles bone-smooth—then paused at the grab-and-go: pimento cheese thick, crackers crisp. I bought a wedge, the cheese tangy-sharp on the tongue when I sampled it, pairing perfect with the coffee's bite.
The street pulled me on, past Babas on Meeting, a spot that looked like it brewed secrets in its espresso. Patio tables scattered under awnings, folks nursing lattes foamed artful, pastries flaked on plates. I didn't stop—too full from the room spread—but noted the vibe: neighborhood pulse, high thread-count service without the stuff. Like the ranch hands' bunkhouse on a good night, upgraded to silk.
Heat climbed, sun punching through the oaks, but the walk held its hook. Charleston didn't sprawl. It coiled, layers peeling back with each turn. A park slipped up—White Point Garden, a sign said—benches under palmettos, cannons rusted from wars long cooled.
I leaned on a rail, overlooking the battery, water slapping pilings below. Battery Park stretched green, paths winding past statues that stared seaward, like they knew what was coming once. Couples strolled arm-in-arm, a kid chased pigeons with a stick sword. Peaceful. Earned.
I finished the cheese, wiped my hands on my jeans, and pushed on, the city’s hum settling in my chest like a low gear.
East Bay curved, shops giving way to galleries and bistros. I paused at The Rise Coffee Bar, a hole-in-the-wall with beans roasted locally, air thick with caramel notes. I slid in for a refill—pour-over this time, slow drip yielding dark and clean. A barista with tattooed sleeves under rolled cuffs chatted easy about single origins, Ethiopian bright, Colombian nut-deep. I listened, nodding, the exchange as simple as trading weather back home. I tipped again, then stepped out with the cup warming my palm.
The walk stretched, blocks blurring into rhythm: a bookstore with cats lounging in windows, spines cracked on Lowcountry lore; a silversmith's, trays of jewelry hammered rough, oyster-shell inlays catching light. I fingered a cuff—simple band, etched waves—and thought of Flapjack's mane, wild and free, but left it. Not my style. Too settled.
I turned a corner sharp, mind on the next stretch, boots pivoting on pavement. She came the other way, fast, head down, waving distracted at someone across the street. We collided—solid, her shoulder to my chest, coffee sloshing hot over my knuckles. She startled back, eyes wide, blonde hair whipping as she caught balance.
"Easy," I said, steadying her elbow without thinking, voice low and wry. "If you're patrolling for stray horses, this one's on foot."
Her gaze snapped up, recognition flashing like struck flint. And there it was—that spark again, fear and fire tangled. The beach woman. Up close, no badge, just her. And me, wondering if the city had just handed me what I'd been chasing.
7
NATALIE
It was Sunday, and I couldn’t sit still.
The forecast wasn’t a siren yet—more like a drumbeat under everything—but staying home felt like cheating on my own rules. I didn’t want to be trapped at my desk either, tied to the monitors until my eyes throbbed. So, I walked.
I told myself it was outreach—check the drains we’d flagged, warn the shop owners who actually listened, make a list for Monday—but really it was breathing with motion.
I cut a loop around the office because that’s where my feet always took me when I needed to think: Meeting to East Bay and back, the peninsula’s spine under my soles, the map in my head overlaid on brick and shade.
The heat sat heavy and clean. Live oaks threw lacework shadows over the sidewalk. A street musician tuned a fiddle near the Market, a wobbly G string turning true. I had a stack of one-page flyers in my bag—tide times, the four most flood-stupid corners, a line about not turning your sedan into a boat—and I handed them off like party favors. Some people smiled and thanked me. A few rolled their eyes.
A woman in a visor told me the city should “fix the drains like any place with sense,” and I smiled without teeth and told her we were very good at fixing, we weren’t quite as good at making physics fall in love with us.
I rounded the corner a little too fast, and walked into a wall. The wall had heat, and muscle, and the clean, faint smell of soap. My coffee cup jolted, sloshing a hot kiss over my knuckles. I sucked in a breath, staggered back, and his hand caught my elbow on instinct, steady and sure.
“Easy,” a low voice said, wry and calm at the same time. “If you’re patrolling for stray horses, this one’s on foot.”
I looked up. The world tightened to a point.
Horse Guy. The one who’d looked like a myth the ocean had coughed up. Up close, in daylight, he wasn’t softer. He was clearer. Broad shoulders under a plain T-shirt that didn’t have anything to prove. Scars like white slashes against tan on his forearm, another set peeking at the collarbone where dog tags flashed before he tucked them back. The claw lay against his chest, the curve of it brutal and beautiful, strung on dark leather. His eyes were the color of stormwater before it goes ugly—steady, reflective, hiding depth.
“Yes,” I heard myself say. “On foot.” It came out breathless and amused.
He let go of my elbow when I was steady, not a second sooner. The heat of his hand lingered like a stamp. I should have moved. I didn’t.
“You from yesterday,” he said. A statement, not a question. “Badge and a ponytail.”
“Guilty,” I said, finding a smile because my body wouldn’t let me find air. “No badge today. I’m on good behavior.”
I’d earned that line—dragged myself into the shower at dawn, scrubbed off salt and sand, blew my hair smooth instead of the mean field ponytail. I’d left it half-down, the top twisted backwith a clip so it looked like I’d tried. Mascara, a swipe of gloss, clean shirt. Presentable, at least. Better than the feral beach version he’d met.
His mouth edged toward a smile and didn’t quite get there. It still felt like something moved. “The beach cop is off duty.”
