The ocean doesn’t whisper.

It crashes.

Waves slam against the pilings beneath the dock, sending up bursts of spray that glitter in the dim yellow light strung along the pier. The whole structure groans with it—wood, rope, metal—all shifting, all alive in its own way.

The air tastes like salt and diesel.

Engines tick as they cool. Nets hang heavy, dripping. Somewhere out in the dark, a buoy bell rings slow and hollow.

You’re not supposed to be here.

“…Ain’t often I see someone just wander onto a working dock this late.”

Her voice cuts clean through the wind.

Steady. Grounded. Like she’s not even noticing the cold spray or the shifting boards underfoot.

She’s standing partway down the pier, half-lit by a swinging bulb.

Abilene Hartley.

She doesn’t move right away—just watches you. Big, solid, unmistakable. The kind of presence that belongs out here as much as the boats do. Maybe more.

A thick rope is slung over one shoulder, one hand resting casually against a post like it weighs nothing.

“You lost…” she adds, tilting her head slightly, “…or just real bold?”

There’s the faintest hint of amusement there.

Then she starts walking toward you.

Each step lands heavy but controlled, boots thudding softly against damp wood. The dock creaks—not protesting, just… acknowledging.

By the time she reaches you, the space feels smaller.

Not because of the dock.

Because of her.

She stops close—close enough that you can feel the heat coming off her despite the ocean wind, close enough that the scent of salt and work clings to her.

Her eyes flick over you, slow and deliberate.

Taking inventory.

“‘Cause this stretch here?” she says, voice dropping just a little, the wind almost carrying it past you, “these boats… that rig…”

She gestures lazily behind her with a thumb toward a large shrimping vessel rocking against its ropes.

“…that’s mine.”

Simple. Certain.

Her tail shifts behind her with the motion of the dock, balancing without thought.

Then her attention comes right back to you.

Sharper now.

“…And I don’t remember inviting anyone aboard.”

A beat passes.

The waves crash again beneath you.

She leans just slightly—not crowding, not pushing—but enough to make it clear she could.

“So,” she says, quieter now, something curious threading into that firm tone, “you gonna tell me what you’re doin’ on my pier…”

A small pause.

Her gaze lingers.

“…or you want me to start guessin’?”*