Chapter 1: Shorelines
Chapter Text
The ocean was quiet today—gentle waves rolling in like the island was exhaling. Steve McGarrett emerged from the water, breath steady, muscles loose from the swim. It was his ritual: when the job got heavy, he let the ocean carry some of the weight.
He walked up the beach, water dripping from his shoulders, sun warm on his back. That’s when he saw him.
A man sat cross-legged on a towel, sketchpad balanced on his knee. He wore a loose white shirt, sleeves rolled, sunglasses perched low on his nose. A surfboard lay beside him, untouched. He wasn’t watching the waves—he was watching Steve.
Steve slowed. “You always sketch strangers going about their morning?”
The man looked up, amused. “Only the ones with good symmetry.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “That a compliment or a diagnosis?”
“Bit of both,” the man said, standing and brushing sand from his hands. “Julian Hart. I’m an artist.”
Steve glanced at the sketch. It was him—mid-stride, water trailing behind, jaw set like he was walking into battle. “You did this just now?”
Julian nodded. “You have a very cinematic presence. Couldn’t resist.”
Steve lingered a moment longer, eyes still on the sketch. It was uncanny—his posture, the tension in his shoulders, even the way the light hit his face. It wasn’t just accurate. It was intimate.
“You’re good,” Steve said, voice low.
Julian smiled, but didn’t deflect. “Thanks. I try to catch moments that feel… honest.”
Steve nodded, unsure why that hit harder than expected. Maybe it was the week he’d had. Maybe it was the quiet way Julian looked at him—like he wasn’t trying to solve him, just see him
Steve smirked. “Wow, you always this smooth?”
Julian grinned. “Only when I’m inspired.”
They stood there for a beat, the breeze tugging at Julian’s shirt, the sun catching in Steve’s wet hair.
“You live here or are you visiting?” Steve asked.
“For a few months now,” Julian said. “Needed a change of scenery. Hawaii’s good for that. I am selling my finished pieces at Hart Studios , a smaller studio.”
Steve nodded. “Yeah. It’s been good for a lot of things.”
Julian tilted his head. “You from here?”
“Born and raised,” Steve said. “Left for a while. Came back. Still trying to figure out if that was smart.”
Julian’s gaze softened. “I’ve spent a long time trying to fit into places I didn’t belong. This one feels different.”
Steve looked at him then—really looked. There was something behind the charm. Something quiet. Something familiar.
He nodded slowly, voice low.
“Yeah. I know that feeling.”
Julian tilted his head, waiting.
Clearing his throat and glancing away, Steve says “Well, looking back into Julian’s bright blue eye and gesturing to the sketch, “if you ever decide to sell that one, let me know.”
Julian smiled. “I’ll keep it safe.”
Steve lingered a moment longer, eyes still on the sketch. It was uncanny—his posture, the tension in his shoulders, even the way the light hit his face. It wasn’t just accurate. It was intimate.
They walked a few steps together, sand warm beneath their feet.
“You said Hart Studios?” Steve asked.
“Yeah,” Julian replied. “Small gallery near Ala Moana. I show there, sell there. It’s quiet. Good people.”
Steve filed the name away. Not because he was suspicious—just curious. There was something about Julian Hart that didn’t quite fit the mold. He didn’t act like a tourist, didn’t sound like a local. But he was comfortable here. Like he’d earned the peace.
“Well,” Steve said, brushing sand off his hands, “maybe I’ll stop by sometime.”
Julian tilted his head. “I’d like that.”
They parted with a nod, no numbers exchanged, no promises made. But as Steve walked back toward his truck, he glanced over his shoulder once.
Julian was already sketching again.
Chapter 2: The Gallery
Chapter Text
The day had been long in all the wrong ways.
No cases. No puzzle to solve. No bad guys to chase down. Just paperwork, budget meetings, and Danny’s voice bouncing off the walls like a tennis ball with opinions. Steve had tuned most of it out, but the silence that followed was worse. It left too much room for thoughts he didn’t want to have.
So he left early. No explanation. Just grabbed his keys, whistled for Eddie, and started walking.
The air helped. It always did. The rhythm of his boots on pavement, the scent of salt and plumeria, the low hum of the city winding down. Eddie trotted beside him, tail swaying, ears perked. They passed the beach park, then the cafés, then the familiar stretch of shops near Ala Moana.
Steve wasn’t paying attention—until he was.
A small gallery tucked between a surf shop and a juice bar. Clean windows. Minimalist signage. Hart Studios.
He almost kept walking. But the name tugged at something—a memory, faint but persistent. The guy on the beach. Sketchpad. Linen shirt. Julian Hart.
Steve paused. Looked at the door. Then at Eddie.
“Just a minute,” he said, and stepped inside.
The space was cool and quiet, but not silent. Soft music played from somewhere in the back. A few people browsed, murmuring. Eddie sat obediently by the door, earning a smile from the receptionist.
Steve wandered.
Landscapes. Abstracts. Ocean scenes. And then—he stopped.
A sketch. Charcoal on textured paper. A man walking out of the surf, shoulders squared, jaw set, water trailing behind him like smoke. It was him.
Steve stared.
The signature read J. Hart.
He didn’t know what he expected to feel. Maybe surprise. Maybe discomfort. But what settled in his chest was something else—recognition. Not just of the image, but of the moment. Of being seen.
“Beautiful piece,” said a voice behind him.
Steve turned.
Julian Hart stood there, sunglasses tucked into his shirt, hands in his pockets, smile easy. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”
Steve nodded toward the sketch. “Didn’t expect to see me here.”
Julian shrugged. “You made an impression.”
Steve glanced back at the drawing. “You sell these?”
“Sometimes,” Julian said. “But that one’s not for sale.”
Steve raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”
Julian met his gaze. “Some things you keep.”
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Julian hadn’t meant to keep the sketch.
Usually, he sold everything—art was currency, survival, and reinvention. But that one? The man walking out of the surf, jaw set like he was bracing for war, eyes shadowed by something deeper? That one stayed.
Julian had told himself it was technical. Good composition. Strong lines. But the truth was simpler.
It was him.
Steve McGarrett.
Julian hadn’t expected their brief beach encounter to stick. But it had. The way Steve moved, the way he didn’t flinch under scrutiny, the way he looked like he belonged to the ocean and nowhere else—it haunted Julian in a way he hadn’t felt in years.
So the sketch stayed. Framed. Hung quietly in the gallery, tucked between seascapes and abstracts. He didn’t expect anyone to notice.
Until the receptionist called out, cheerful and polite:
“Welcome to Hart Studios!”
Julian paused in the back room, fingers still smudged with charcoal. He stepped out, curious.
And there he was.
Steve stood in the center of the gallery, his dog companion sitting patiently by the door. Julian didn’t move at first—just watched. Steve’s gaze moved slowly across the walls, thoughtful, quiet. Then he stopped.
At that sketch.
Julian’s breath caught.
He hadn’t planned this. Hadn’t expected it. But something about the way Steve looked at the drawing—like he recognized more than just his own face—made Julian step forward.
“Beautiful piece,” he said, voice steady.
Steve turned.
Julian smiled. “Didn’t expect to see you here.”