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Decaying boards creaked beneath his feet, the seagulls sweeping above his head. Roman remembered when the scent of cotton candy had overpowered the fishy seawater, when tourists covered the pier instead of only a stray bird strutting around here or there. Too many shops on the boardwalk had closed down in recent years; not enough business to keep most places afloat. Roman wasn’t even sure why he’d managed to wander all the way down to the boardwalk. He’d been reading too much Tennyson at work, he supposed. 

Wesley was cold. Cold and pissed off with it, hands jammed into pockets, his shirt sea-spray damp against his chest. There were no girls around to be impressed by the cling of the police uniform to his muscles, which increased the misery of the situation by at least 200%. Honestly, at this level of irritable, he’d have even welcomed the sight of a nervy boy to mess with. Intimidating them was its own kind of fun—not quite as enjoyable as a good flirt, but still amusing in its own right.