Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

“Kristin!” 

The familiar voice rings out through the early morning quiet of Brokenwood Reserve, pulling her focus from Frodo’s coffee cart, which is just opening for the day. She hasn’t heard it in a while, but it’s recognizable, and in a moment she knows exactly who it belongs to.

“Breen?”

“It’s so good to see you,” he says, bounding up from across the carpark. He’s wearing a grey Brokenwood Cheetahs pullover and joggers, and he looks vaguely sweaty. His ginger hair is especially bright in the early morning sun, and —does he have even more freckles? Is that even possible?

“What are you doing here?” she asks, too surprised to be polite. 

“It’s a bit of a long story,” he says, looking a little rueful. He’s still panting; he must have been out for a run. He rubs a hand through the ginger strands at the nape of his neck, a dusting of pink across his cheeks. “Going away to the Solomon Islands and all that.” Then he grins at her, spreading his arms wide. “But I’m back now, isn’t it great?”  

“Yeah,” she says, and she can’t help but smile. She is glad he’s back, even though she’s dying to know what exactly happened that would bring him back to Brokenwood on zero notice. From the Soloman Islands of all places, where —last she heard— he was settling down with Roxy for a life of scuba diving and kiteboarding or whatever.

That was three years ago. Sure, they’d kept in touch a bit, sporadically. The odd message here and there to check in, mainly around holidays. But he’d never reached out to say he’d be coming back. Surely he would have messaged if he’d known? How last minute was this?

“Kris,” he cuts through her thoughts again. “Earth to Kris. Have I bored you already? That’s got to be a new record. It’s been like, a minute.”

“What, no,” she snaps at him, still too shocked to be particularly bothered. “It’s just—” she stops, thinking about how to phrase it. “It’s a surprise seeing you, Breen. A good one though.”

“Yeah.” He’s grinning again. “I’d make a comment about how this town has changed, but it’s Brokenwood, so…” he shrugs and trails off, and she laughs. “More’s changed than you think. You’ll never guess what happened with Mike, he nearly had another ex wife.”

Breen seems genuinely shocked. “Really? That man moves quick. That would have been wife number four, right?”

“Five,” Kristin corrects. “At least, that’s the official count.”

Breen snorts, but then he’s ducking his head again and looking almost …nervous?

“So,” he begins, in a faux-casual tone that she’s not buying for a second. “How’s the new guy? Darren? Damien? What’s his name again?”

“Daniel,” she confirms. “And he’s great, actually, aside from his terrible sense of humour. Really easy to work with, helpful, and he always volunteers to make the coffee.”

Breen coughs a little, but he’s smiling again. “Sounds like a good bloke.”

“He is.” It had taken some time to adjust to his presence, although really, if she’s being honest with herself, it was less about Daniel’s arrival and more an effort to come to terms with Breen’s absence. News of his transfer to the Solomon Islands had hit her harder than she’d expected. But Daniel had shown himself more than capable, trustworthy, and kind. 

“Oh,” she laughs. “Speaking of. You wouldn’t believe what happened on his first day. It was an absolute mess; I almost thought he was going to run right back to Auckland.”

“No way,” Breen laughs. “What happened?”

“He got thrown into the world’s worst bank robbery.” She can’t help but laugh again at Breen’s incredulous face. “Breen, I’m not exaggerating, it was like slapstick comedy. At one point they used a potted plant as a weapon, and their getaway car ran out of petrol right in front of the bank. Absolute chaos, were it not for the murder.”

Breen’s looking at her like she’s canceled Christmas. “No way.” He puts his head in his hands. “That shit’s too good to be real. We didn’t get anything even close to it in the islands.”

She can’t help but feel a little smug. “It gets better, actually.” 

Breen gapes at her. “How could it possibly get better?”

“One of them tried to pick a fight with Trudy Neilson.” She grins at him, and watches as he cracks up. 

“Oh man, I almost feel sorry for the bloke.”

Her phone buzzes in her pocket and they both look down. “One second,” she murmurs, and Breen nods in understanding. It’s Mike, with an update from the homicide they’ve been working through. 6:30 a.m. and he’s already at it. “Sorry Breen, I’ve got to get to the station, Mike’s—”

“—Already knee-deep in some hunch?” Breen finishes. “That sounds like him. The man doesn’t change.”

She laughs again. “Neck-deep in a homicide, actually. We all are.”

“Right on,” Breen nods. “Well, I won’t keep you from it.”

He pauses, then rubs at his neck again. “I’m in town for a little bit, actually. Renting a bach up on Gray’s Lane. If you're not too tied up at the station, we could grab a pint when you're off tonight."

She’s exhausted from the long hours they’ve all been pulling on this case, but she’s just too curious to say no. And besides, it’ll be good to catch up somewhere a little nicer than a carpark.

“Sure," she hedges. "I’ll probably be done around seven, but I’ll let you know how the day goes." It’s not been an easy case, and the slow grind toward a potential resolution has been frustrating for all three of them. It’s why she’s at Frodo’s as the sun rises, grabbing coffee for herself, Mike, and Daniel.

“Oof.” Breen gives her a pitying look. “That’s rough. You pulling the long hours often?”

“Often enough,” she shrugs. “It comes and goes. You know.”

He nods. “Alright then, call it 7:30 at the Snake and Tiger?”

“Sure. See you then.”

Breen gives her another smile, then takes off jogging through the park. She turns back toward the coffee cart, wrestling with more questions than ever. It’s not quite like she’s seen a ghost, but she’s been a detective long enough to know that things don’t just happen without good reason. What had brought Breen back to Brokenwood, and what was his plan now that he’d arrived? 

She comes up on the coffee cart, catches Frodo’s eager smile, and resolves to think more on it later.

Chapter Text

As it turns out, later comes sooner than she expects. She’s barely made it through the door of the CIB before Mike’s striding up to her. She expects an update on the case, or another weirdly prophetic hunch dreamed up from fragmented scraps of evidence, but he manages to surprise her.

“I have some news for you.” He pauses significantly, meeting her eye as he takes one of the coffees from the take-away container. He’s got a strange look on his face, one she can’t quite read. Daniel doesn’t seem to be in yet, so it’s just the two of them, alone in the early hours of the morning as the weak winter sunlight streams in through the windows.

“Something good, I hope,” she says. She’s aiming to be wry, but it comes out a bit cautious. It’s not often Mike gets serious.

“I would think so,” he confirms, and now he’s smiling. “An old friend has come back to town. I think you’ll be quite pleased.”

And just like that, the pieces fall into place. “Breen.”

Just for a moment, it’s Mike’s turn to look surprised. “Did word get out that quickly? I only just approved the temporary placement a few days ago. I was going to tell you, but with the homicide in the harbour, I’m afraid it fell by the wayside.”

“I ran into him at Frodo’s this morning,” Kristin supplies. “He mentioned he’s back in town, though he didn’t say for how long –or why, for that matter.”

Mike sighs and rubs a hand through his hair. “I think you’d be best to get the why from him directly. I don’t know many details, just that he applied to central for a transfer from the Solomon Islands, with Brokenwood listed as a preference.”

Well that answers some of her questions, but — “I didn’t think we had any open positions.”

“We don’t, technically,” Mike smiles wryly. “But I registered the CIB as a candidate for temporary transfers awaiting permanent placement. I’d done it a while back, to get through some of the cold cases.” He sighs, shooting her an apologetic look. “And some of the McLeod files.”

“Not a bad idea,” she muses. It really isn’t. Gary McLeod had been her first supervisor in Brokenwood, and she’d viewed him as a mentor. He’d taught her everything she’d known about policing and helped her find her footing as a rookie detective. Only for Mike to roll into town, revealing a legacy of sloppy investigation bordering on professional misconduct. It had hit her hard, compounded by the news that Gary had terminal cancer. 

Mike knew it too. He’d accompanied her to the funeral a few months later.

But for all her personal feelings, she knows with complete certainty that the McLeod cases need reviewing. Already, there have been a few which had been reopened and new charges laid, when they’d initially been dismissed as simple accidents. She’d tried to make headway with more, but new cases always seemed to crop up at the least convenient moments, diverting her attention to more pressing matters.

The help would be good. She knows there’s a backlog to work through, and reckons it’ll take a good while to do it. And having Breen, someone familiar with the district, someone who worked under Gary alongside her —well, there really isn’t a better candidate. And besides, she’s glad to have him back.

“So how long will he be here?” she asks.

“I couldn’t say,” says Mike. “He starts Monday, and he’s here until he gets a permanent placement. Could be weeks, could be months. It’s not uncommon for temporary postings in rural communities to exceed a year, in some areas.”

“So It’s up to central, ultimately,” Kristin confirms. 

“Yes. But it will be good to have the manpower while we can get it.”

It will. For all his goofy antics, Sam had been a reliable member of their team. His lightheartedness was a good counterbalance to her ingrained cynicism, and she knew when things got particularly hairy, he had her back.

“Has Daniel heard the news yet?” She can’t help but ask. Working with the man he was brought in to replace might be a little weird for him. Or maybe not; after all, Daniel was notoriously good-tempered and difficult to disconcert.

“No, although I didn’t think you’d heard either.” 

“Touché.”

They work in silence for a while. She sips at her coffee, reviewing grainy surveillance footage from the harbour’s lone surveillance camera. Mike’s in his office going over background sent over from central.

The harbour homicide is proving to be a very odd case, even by Brokenwood standards. An unidentified body had been discovered in the bay, tangled in fishing gear and missing an ear. A barge captain had made the unfortunate discovery when his propeller fouled on the lines, leading to a very grizzly expedition beneath the boat to untangle and retrieve the corpse. Two days later the CIB still hadn’t managed to identify the victim, nor how he ended up tangled beneath a barge. 

At least Gina had seemed happy —the corpse had been so heavily damaged from the propeller, ropes, and exposure that she’d expended considerable effort reconstructing the series of traumas. “Like a jigsaw puzzle, but through time,” she’d explained, when Kristin had asked. Okay. Sure.

The footage doesn’t show anything. Or rather, it shows routine harbour activities. She doesn't know what she’s looking for, and nothing seems useful without further context. She sighs, then begins running through it again. Maybe something will jump out at her on the second go.

From there, it doesn’t take long for Daniel to arrive. He strides into the station at a crisp 7 a.m., looking fresh from the gym. “Kia ora,” he calls, flashing her a grin as he throws his jacket across a chair.

“Good morning.” Kristin hands him a coffee, a little lukewarm by this point. He gives her a grateful look anyway, and she can’t help but smile fondly back at him. “You’re looking chipper today.”

“How could I not be?” Daniel grins. “I got some very interesting news this morning. Turns out, our victim had been inquiring to purchase a boat in the weeks leading up to the murder.”

That is interesting. Before she’s consciously aware of it, she’s rising from her chair to join him at the whiteboard. She notes Mike doing the same. “So our friend in the harbour had been planning to take a trip?”

“Could be,” Daniel nods. “He was looking to pick up an older Contessa 32, but the seller indicated he was short on cash. Seems the deal fell through a few days before we found him.”

“Do we have any intel on the seller?” Mike cuts in. “How did they know each other?”

Daniel shrugs. “The boat had been forfeited by its original owner some time ago. Storm damage, apparently. Technically it’s now property of the marina, but it’s being held for auction.”

“Not an individual, then.” Mike sighs. “I was hoping that might have gone somewhere.” He turns to the whiteboard, beginning to sketch out the image of a small boat next to the victim. “I want a follow up on the registry anyway, just to be sure. There might be a connection we’re missing.”

“Shore thing boss,” Daniel nods, his lip twitching against a smile.

Mike gives him a long stare, then sighs and shakes his head. Kristin bites her lip, feeling a laugh bubbling up. Those puns really are terrible. She'll never admit that they're starting to grow on her.

The moment’s broken when a uniformed officer waves at Mike from the service counter. “Senior, someone’s asking after you.”

Mike nods at Kristin and Daniel. “Keep at it. Let’s see what we can dig up on this boat business.”

They watch Mike stride off in the direction of the counter. There’s an unfamiliar woman there, middle aged and dressed sharply in a crisp navy blazer and a collared, cream-coloured blouse. Kristin can’t help but wonder who she is, why she’s here. From the way Mike greets her, it’s clear they know each other.

Daniel’s gaze bounces between Mike at the service window and Kristin’s face. He gives her a questioning look. “Who’s she? She doesn’t look like she’s from around here.”

“No idea,” she shrugs, feeling like a schoolgirl spying on her teacher. “Just Mike being mysterious again, I reckon.”

Daniel chuckles at her, turning away from the scene at the counter and taking another sip of his coffee. “Not going to sneak around and find out?”

“Oi, you,” she slaps Daniel’s arm, feeling the embarrassed flush creeping up her face at the memory. Yes, she’d snuck into Mike’s office to comb through his files when he’d last gone all suspicious –well, more so than usual. But it was because she’d been worried for him. And Mike never found out, so as far as she’s concerned, she’s in the clear.

“That was different,” she asserts. “For all we knew, Mike was actually leaving.” Daniel’s still smirking at her in that playful way of his, so she adds, “and it all ended well. So that’s enough from you.”

“Whatever you say,” he grins.

She gives him an unimpressed look, then turns back to the whiteboard, gesturing to a photograph of the victim pointedly. “How did you find out about the attempted boat purchase, anyway?” 

He’s still smiling at her, a little too smug for just past seven in the morning. “A mate of mine at the gym.”

She can’t help it. She slaps his bicep again, raising an eyebrow playfully. “A mate? That can’t be right. You don’t have any friends.”

Daniel chuckles, rolls his eyes at her. “Takes one to know one, eh?”

She rolls her eyes right back at him. At this point, it’s painfully clear that she’s Daniel’s most frequent social caller, and he knows it. The same can be said for the reverse. They have their own friends, of course, but working long shifts at awkward hours tends to thin the selection of social opportunities pretty effectively.

“Setting that aside,” she continues, “what did this individual have to say about the yacht?”

Daniel schools his features somewhat, but she can still see the glimmer of humour in his eyes as he begins to explain. “His name’s Brody Thompson. He’s on the harbour crew, mainly working haul-outs and small repairs. He’s been complaining for a while now about abandoned vessels taking up space in the yard. Keeps them from taking on new clients, apparently.”

“Interesting,” Kristin muses. “I didn’t think abandoned yachts would be a common issue. Can’t the marina go after the owners?”

“He says most of the long-term boats in the yard are tied up in insurance proceedings. A few are owned by the bank, repossessed for non-payment.”

“Posh people problems,” Kristin scoffs. “But those presumably aren’t the ones languishing in the yard for years. What about the rest?”

“There are a few boats which supposedly still had ties to their owners, but they've long since run off. The marina has taken possession of the boats for nonpayment of storage fees, among other issues.”

“Aren’t boats supposed to be expensive?” Kristin asks. “That’s a big asset to walk away from.”

“Not necessarily,” Daniel shrugs. “Brody says that if a boat’s older and in rough enough shape, there often isn’t enough value for an owner to reclaim through a sale. That’s especially true if it’s been sitting for years, with latent fees piling up. Some owners just choose to walk away.”

“And the marina takes possession,” Kristin finishes. “So that’s how the Contessa 32 comes into this.”

“Exactly,” Daniel confirms. “Brody says the marina’s been trying to shift a number of abandoned vessels, and he was pretty upset to learn this one would be sticking around. Apparently it’s been there for years.”

She nods. They’ll have to follow up with this Brody character and get a formal statement. But in the meantime, she should probably update Daniel on her own news.

“Do you remember Breen?” She’s trying to be nonchalant, but something in her tone must give it away, because Daniel’s giving her his full attention. 

“Breen?” He looks at her blankly, and she clarifies. “Sam, sorry. The guy you replaced. Tall, ginger. Kind of a dork.”

She watches as recognition dawns across Daniel’s features. “Oh, Sam? Yeah, I remember him. Can’t say I knew him all that well though, we just crossed paths at his farewell party. I think he had to run out. Why?”

“Well, let’s just say you’re about to get to know him a lot better.” She gives him a little grin, watches as he takes in the news, his eyebrows knitting together in puzzlement.

“He’s coming back here?” Daniel asks. “I thought we didn’t have any open positions.”

“We don’t,” she smiles, taking another sip of her very lukewarm coffee. “Mike’s finally had it with your terrible puns. Best start packing your bags.”

“Very funny.” Daniel gives her a long-suffering look, but she can see the laughter beneath it, and she can’t help but giggle a bit. “Are you just feeling contrary this morning, or is there something I actually need to know?”

She takes pity on him. “Yes, actually. Breen really is coming back.” Daniel’s eyes widen, but he doesn’t interrupt her. “Mike put in for a temporary posting, so he’s here until central places him somewhere more permanent. He’s going to be going through the McLeod files.”

Daniel nods, watching her curiously. “How long do you reckon he’ll be helping out?”

She shrugs. “Who can say? Mike said it could be months, maybe even over a year.” The more she thinks about it, the more real the news is becoming. Big, lanky, goofy Breen will be back with the CIB. Wild.

Daniel’s studying her in that quiet, intent way of his. She wonders what he’s seeing in her face. “It’ll be nice to have him around,” she continues. “I think you two would get on well. Even if he’s a bit…well, you’ll meet him soon enough.”

“Oh really?” Daniel cocks an eyebrow, still not breaking eye contact. It’s getting a little unnerving. “What’s he like?”

For the first time in a long time, she’s struck with the difficulty in summing up Breen’s disposition in a few sentences. “He’s…well. He’s very funny, in a weird, nerdy kind of way, I suppose. Which is a little ironic, given that he spent most of his spare time with his mates on the Cheetahs. Not sure why, but—”

“Wait,” Daniel cuts in, eyes widening. “He played for the Cheetahs?”

“Yes?” She’s not quite sure where this is going. “Is that significant? They’re just the local rugby team.”

“They’re actually pretty good,” Daniel corrects, seemingly impressed. “They’re second in their bracket this season. I don’t remember Sam as a jacked-up bloke, but I only met him briefly. He must be super athletic if he—”

“Oh, no.” Kristin laughs, interrupting Daniel’s wildly off-base rambling. “No, no. Don’t get the wrong idea. When Breen played for the Cheetahs they were at the bottom of the league. The very bottom. They had over 50 straight losses at one point.”

“Wow,” says Daniel, somehow looking even more impressed. “That feels like it should be a record in its own right.”

“Absolutely,” she grins. “Even Ray was debating pulling his sponsorship. Not a very ‘aspirational’ look, he thought.”

“Typical Ray,” Daniel chuckles. “Not much stickability if he was willing to bow out that easily.”

She laughs, but quiets as she sees Daniel’s face grow pensive again. He seems to be mulling something over. She thinks about questioning him, but by this point, she’s learned to wait it out. 

“So in your estimation, he’s a bit nerdy and he plays rugby,” Daniel continues. “How’s he to work with?”

“He’s good,” she says, then curses herself for the flippant response. She pauses a moment, finding the words, then meets Daniel’s expectant stare as she continues. “Sure, he was quirky, and sometimes he could be a bit of an arse. But when you really needed him, Breen was there. Every time.”

She lets the words sink in, thinking of every suspect who pushed things too far. Jenny swinging a rifle at her, hands shaking with adrenaline as she threatened to shoot Mike. Rory binding her hands, gagging her, marching her across Brokenwood’s rugged landscape with a gun at her back. The cases that went wrong before they went right.

She watches Daniel nod slowly. “Well, I’m looking forward to meeting him again. It will be good to have the extra set of hands. I’d wanted to get at the McLeod files myself, but with everything that’s been happening around here, I just haven’t had the time.”

She grins. “You and me both.”

She turns away from the whiteboard, beginning to make her way back to her desk. “Speaking of, I believe we have a friend at the Ministry for Primary Industries to call.”

She hears Daniel sigh behind her. “Noel Clelland?”

“The one and only.” She can appreciate his dismay. Noel’s fervor for ocean-based justice is matched only by his religious zeal, which he oh-so-helpfully imparts upon anyone who comes within a 20 metre radius.

She turns back to Daniel and grins. “Want to do the honours?”

“Yeah, nah,” he grimaces. “I reckon it’s your turn. I had Gina yesterday.”

Damn. Fair’s fair. “Alright,” she grouses. “Here’s hoping I don’t get another sermon. Wish me luck.”

“Nah,” Daniel winks at her. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Chapter Text

By the end of the day, the Snake and Tiger is a welcome sight. Kristin’s had a hell of a time. As predicted, Noel Clelland had talked her ear off, insisting she meet him in person to discuss some ‘critical evidence.’ This turned out to be an untagged cray pot loaded with long-dead catch, which had nothing at all to do with the case but had stunk to high heaven, putting her right off her lunch. 

Then came a surprise trip to the morgue to review some new evidence found during a secondary examination of the body. Admittedly, Gina’s morbid reconstruction of the events leading up to the victim’s death had been useful. But it hadn’t been without cost –Gina had insisted she come to next week’s poetry night. The day had continued its downward slide from there.

She waves to Breen from across the bar, tired and smelling vaguely of decomposing crustacean, and marvels at how their roles have reversed. In the old days, it would be Breen staggering in, bedraggled and reeking of something foul. She’s not thrilled with how the tables seem to have turned.

Breen seems to pick up on it too. He’s saved them a spot near the back of the bar, and he’s grinning as she approaches. “Oof, you’re looking rough,” he says, by way of greeting. “Guess you weren’t kidding about that case.”

“Thanks,” she rolls her eyes. “Good to see you too.”

She sits, and he wrinkles his nose. “What’s that smell?” 

“Rancid cray.”

“Ah, of course.”

He’s got a beer in hand and looks generally quite good, if a bit sunburnt. He gestures toward the table, where a chilled glass of Riesling is waiting for her. “Hope it’s okay,” he says. “I’m not really sure what you like, but Trudy swears it’s one of the nicer ones.”

Hmm. So there’s a sizeable chance it’s terrible, knowing Trudy. Kristin tries to think back to their last interaction. Was it positive? It’ll probably determine the wine.

But still, good or bad, wine is wine. And wine is what she wants right now, after a day like today. She takes a sip and is pleasantly surprised. Not bad at all. 

Breen’s still watching her from across the table, and she realizes she’s slipped into her own thoughts again. “It’s good,” she confirms, hastily. “Thanks.”

“No worries. So, how are things? You know, rancid cray aside.”

“Not bad,” she grins. “Probably less eventful than your life, by the sound of it.” She pauses, and tries to sum up the past three years. “I bought a house,” is what she settles on.

It’s not the most exciting news, objectively, but it’s important to her and she’s still proud to call someplace her own. And Breen lights up like she’s just been cast in one of his weird sci-fi fantasy movies.

“No way, that’s great.” He takes another pull of his pint. “Putting down roots like that, you must really like it here.”

She does, though it still surprises her to hear Breen saying it out loud. She’d never thought she’d be one to make Brokenwood her home. At least, not when she’d first moved here. She’d been a rookie, and Brokenwood was a job. Sure, it was in the sticks. But where else could you make Detective Constable practically straight out of police college? She’d planned to spend a few years in the role, then transfer to a major centre. Auckland, maybe. Or Wellington.

“I do,” she smiles, thinking of how things have changed. Of her years with Breen. Of Mike. Daniel. The fun they’ve had, the hours they’ve pulled. Yeah, nah, she’s not going anywhere. Not anytime soon.

“Do you ever think back to when we started here?” Breen asks, a nostalgic grin on his face.

“Oh god,” she laughs. “We were so young. And so, so stupid.”

“Me more than you, really,” says Breen, smiling. “That’s why you got to be the Detective Constable and I had to flag down traffic for another three years.”

“To be fair, you were a bit of an arse back then.”

“Who says I’m not still now?” He grins at her, then takes another sip of his beer.

“True that,” she says, because although she hasn’t seen him in years, the odds are pretty high. Speaking of. “But you still haven’t told me. Why did you come back?”

Breen sighs. “I knew you were going to ask about that.” He takes another sip of his beer, grimaces a bit as it goes down, and then meets her expectant gaze. “I know we’re detectives, and we’re like, hard-wired to look for hidden meanings and whatever. But you’ll have to believe me when I say there really aren’t any here. Roxy and I just…drifted apart, I guess. The islands were good, and we were adjusting well, but it just didn’t feel like home to me. And it did for her.”

Kristin nods, though she can feel her eyebrows shooting up her face. She tries to school her expression to something more neutral. It’s a surprise to hear Breen being so candid, though she supposes he doesn’t really have much choice. His return is going to turn a few heads at the station, and sometimes sharing the baseline facts is enough to keep the more intimate questions at bay. Front-foot it, as Comms would say.

Even so, the detective in her is desperate for the details, for every scrap of intel she can coax from him. Who initiated the break-up? When did he put in for the transfer? And why Brokenwood, when he could go anywhere? She pushes the questioning impulse down as best she can, but still she can’t help asking “and how are you doing now?”

He sighs again, running a hand through his hair. “Well, all things considered? Not bad, I suppose.” He gives a short, self-deprecating laugh. “If you’re going to break up with your long-term girlfriend, best to go your separate ways after, eh? And it’s hard to get more separate than Brokenwood.”

She thinks back to when Breen and Roxy had first met, over a decade prior at a show in Riverstone. They’d been on and off constantly. It had seemed as though Breen would come into the station every second week, looking vaguely hungover and despondent, announcing that they’d called things off again. Usually Kristin would already know, since they both seemed intent on breaking up extremely publicly over Facebook. She’d had to mute her notifications for years. 

But things had settled out after a while. She’d never once met Roxy, but Breen had seemed happy. Enough to move to the Solomon Islands with virtually no notice.

“I’m sorry, Breen,” is all she can think to say. It doesn’t feel like enough, but even so, he seems to know she means it.

He nods at her, raises his glass in acknowledgement. “Thanks Kris.”

There’s a moment of silence while they sip their drinks. She’s expecting it to be awkward, after years apart, but it isn’t. It’s…comfortable. Familiar. 

Breen, being who he is, breaks the spell soon enough. “So,” he claps his hands, looking a lot more jovial. “It’s been three years. You’ve heard all about my romantic failings. Anyone new in your life?”

She thinks about the few dates she’s been on, all of them underwhelming. “No,” she says. “Brokenwood’s dating pool remains tragically small, I’m afraid. The pickings are slim at best.”

“Too true,” Breen nods empathetically. “And if you manage to find someone who’s not super weird, way too old, or cheating on their partner, they end up—"

“—part of an investigation,” Kristin finishes. “Ugh, I know.”

Breen snorts and gives her a wry look. “Sounds like you’ve had some experience there.”

She takes another sip of her wine, taking particular care to throw him an unimpressed stare. There have been a few…lapses in her judgment. 

“Unfortunately.”

She’s not proud of how the spoofing case went down, and how she’d been taken in so completely by an egocentric murderer. He’d charmed her from the start, playing on her emotions to cast off suspicion. And it had nearly worked; she’d entirely dismissed him as a suspect until Frodo had exposed the truth. Even now, she’s filled with a mixture of anger and shame at the memory. Frodo had functionally cracked the case before her, even though he didn't realize it. Frodo. Oh God. At least Daniel had helped her close things out, tricking the perpetrator into a confession. 

He’d had her back. Not just during the case, but in the miserable days after as well, when they’d compiled documentation for the eventual trial. She’d had the wretched experience of parsing over her every mistake several times over, in considerable detail, whilst contemplating their potential impact on obtaining a conviction. It had been one of the lowest moments of her career, but Daniel and Mike —and their less-than-subtle efforts at cheering her up— had made it bearable. 

Breen gives her a long, curious look, mulling over her admission. He wants the story. She can see it in his eyes, clear as day, as he weighs the risks of probing further. 

She sees the moment he gives it up. Wise choice.

“So, living it up with the bachelor lifestyle forever, then?” Breen asks. 

Kristin considers, taking a sip of her wine. “Hopefully not, I suppose.” She squirms a bit in her chair, suddenly a bit shy. Romance hasn’t exactly been her forte. There was Kahu, who was sweet and kind, and probably the closest she’s had to a serious relationship in the past decade. But he’d moved to work offshore on the rigs, and she hadn’t kept in touch. Beyond that, she’d had some one-offs to scratch certain itches, and a few unfortunate forays that plummeted straight into ‘active suspect in a homicide’ territory. 

Not exactly the best track record.

But still. “I don’t know if that’s the only choice,” she muses. “There’s got to be something out there between casual fun and wedding bells. Something that can last.”

Breen laughs, then shakes his head. “If there is, I haven’t been able to find it.” He raises his glass in her direction. “More power to you though. If you manage to figure out the trick, give me a call.”

She scoffs. “Says the guy who moved to the Solomon Islands to be with his partner. I thought you wanted the big wedding and all that.”

“Eh, that was more Roxy’s thing than mine,” Breen shrugs. “Don’t get me wrong, I’m not against it. But right now? I wouldn’t say wedding bells are high on my list.”

“So what is?” Kristin asks, intrigued by this new side of Breen. 

“Well, with all this talk of romance, getting blitzed is starting to look pretty good.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes. Typical. But she’s starting to agree, just a bit.

He seems to sense her mood dampening, and he softens a bit, giving her a crooked grin. “Okay, okay. Truth is, I don’t really know. Not right now. Hell, I don’t even know how long I’ll be here.”

“Really?” She knows it’s a temporary placement, but she thought maybe Breen would have more insight. Guess not.

“Yeah, nah. I put Brokenwood as my top pick, but the CIB only has a temporary posting. I’m here until central finds another area in need of a detective.”

“That’s rough,” she says. “Any idea where they’ll put you?”

“Somewhere close, I hope. I put Northland as my preferred region, so we’ll see what comes of it.”

They lapse into silence again. 

This time it’s Kristin who breaks it. “I thought your dad was a detective in Auckland. Why didn’t you want to go back to the city?”

A strange look comes across Breen’s freckled features. It’s soft and pensive, and maybe a little…wistful? She’s never seen it before. He takes his time answering, his fingers drumming against the tabletop.

“You know, I asked myself the same thing,” he finally says. “I like Auckland, I mean, I grew up there for Christ’s sake. But it’s not the same, you know?”

She nods. Auckland is everything Brokenwood can’t be, all bright lights and busy streets, hordes of tourists and new faces. But she has a feeling that’s not what he means.

“I just…” he laughs, shakes his head. Meets her steady stare again, a dusting of pink spreading across the bridge of his nose. “I missed it here, Kris. I missed the rugby lads, missed my mates, missed this pub. Hell, I even missed you, though it pains me to say it.”

She throws him an unimpressed look, though secretly she’s a little chuffed. She can feel a blush heating her cheeks. “Wow, thanks.”

“You’re welcome.” He smiles at her again, a little gentler this time, then takes another sip of his beer. She savours her wine, feeling it settle on her palette, and thinks about how things have changed in the three years since he’d left. Getting a drink like this, catching up…it’s nice.

The moment passes, and Breen looks toward the bar. A mischievous grin breaks across his features, and all of a sudden he’s meeting her eyes with an air of keen anticipation. “Hey, do you think Trudy will believe me if I say I’ve come back as the new DSS to replace Mike?”

“No, not even a little,” she laughs, overcome at the thought of Breen running the station.

"Why not?" He challenges, still grinning at her. "I've come back with an air of dignity and refinement." He catches her smile as she giggles again, then puffs up his chest and strikes a faux-serious pose, extending an arm to her. "DSS Breen, at your service.”

She can’t help but laugh harder, and Breen doubles down, haranguing her for insubordination, threatening to introduce her to his many ex-wives, and promising that she’ll be speaking with so many corpses, you have no idea. Soon her chest is aching from the force of it, and Breen’s breaking character to join her, cracking up against the tabletop. The warm glow of the bar lights catches in his eyes, and they seem to sparkle and dance with mirth when they meet her own.

And yeah, she’s glad he’s come home.

Chapter Text

On Monday, Kristin’s back at the station early. It’s just past seven and she’s reviewing the victim’s toxicology report, which had come in late Friday evening. Apparently he’d had more than a few drinks in his system at the time of death, though there are a few other abnormalities she’s having trouble parsing out. 

Daniel’s at his desk, plodding through marine registries to track down the ownership history of the Contessa 32. By the way he’s frowning at his computer, it’s not going especially well.

Strangely, Mike isn’t in yet. He’s usually the first to arrive, but he’d left early on Friday, mumbling something about a personal matter to attend to. She wonders if he’s been away for the weekend, and if so, why.

She’s barely made it into the toxicology report when a familiar voice rings through the station, seeming all the more loud amid the early morning quiet. “Morning,” Breen calls, striding past the service counter like he owns the place. “You miss me or what?”

“What,” says Kristin, just to spite him. Despite it, she can feel a smile pulling at her cheek. Breen pouts at her, then walks up to Daniel and extends a hand. “DC Breen, great to meet you, again.”

Daniel grins, rises from his chair, and shakes his hand. “Same here. DC Chalmers, I’ve heard a lot about you.”

“All good things, I hope,” jokes Breen. He’s wearing a grey suit, which serves the unintended function of accentuating his violently sunburnt neck and cheeks. It’s definitely a look.

Daniel nods. “Of course. It’s great having you on the team, Kristin’s told me a lot about you.”

Breen turns to Kristin, waggling his eyebrows. “Aww, you told him nice things about me?”

Kristin scowls, but there isn’t any heat in it, not really. “Shut it, you. Before I take it all back.”

Daniel’s looking between them, an amused smile curving his lips. Kristin scowls at him for good measure, too.

“Say,” says Breen, looking around the station searchingly. “Where’s the big guy?”

“Mike?” Kristin asks. “I don’t know. I’m sure he’ll be here soon enough.”

“Probably staring into a field, listening to one of those horrible cassettes of his,” remarks Breen.

Daniel chuckles, then takes a sip of his coffee. “Not much of a country fan, eh?”

“Nah,” shrugs Breen, dismissively. “Not the stuff he listens to, anyway.”

“Pretty sure most of it came out before we were born,” Kristin chimes in. 

“He’s a man of consistency,” Breen grins. “Makes it easy on you two, anyway. Even when he’s disappeared on one of his weird, enigmatic hunches, you can bet that’s exactly what he’s doing.”

“Generally, I’d say the consistency is nice,” Daniel adds. “But it means when he does throw you a curveball, it’s a big one.”

Breen’s entire face hones in on Daniel’s as he senses the opportunity for gossip. “How d’you mean?”

Daniel looks to Kristin for a quick moment, and she can’t help but go pink. The latest curveball had been entirely her fault, not to mention wholly misconstrued. She’d snooped in Mike’s office during one of his many cryptic absences, thrown off by the sudden appearance of Area Commander Hughes. To her dismay, she’d found a letter of offer for a senior posting in Auckland and had immediately assumed the worst. In a spectacular lapse in judgment, she’d then managed to spread the rumour of Mike’s imminent departure to half the town. And then, of course, Mike took the opportunity to tell them he’d rejected the offer and had no intention of leaving.

Not her finest moment. And definitely not something Breen needs to know about.

Unfortunately, she can feel her face going progressively redder at the memory. With her complexion, she and Breen probably look like a matched set. And knowing Breen, he absolutely notices and is filing it away to interrogate her later.

“Well,” Daniel continues, looking amusedly between Kristin’s mortified face and Breen’s eager grin, “most recently, it came out that Mike had been offered a promotion. If he’d taken it, he would have left Brokenwood.”

“What?” Breen’s whole face lights up with eager curiosity, eyes wide. “No way. How did you find out?”

“Station gossip,” Kristin cuts in, before Daniel can reveal too much. Daniel snorts, but doesn’t contradict her. Breen’s looking between them again, eyebrows raised incredulously. “And he didn’t take it?”

“Nope,” Kristin smirks, with no small degree of satisfaction. “He’s chosen to stay put. Says he likes it here.” She tries to keep her voice cool, as though she hadn’t been absolutely losing it at the prospect of Mike’s departure.

“Well, good to know nothing’s changed with that guy,” Breen chuckles. “He doesn’t seem like one to shift his ways once he’s found something he loves.”

Kristin reflects that the old Breen would have made a comment about the insanity of choosing Brokenwood over anywhere else, especially with a pay increase on the line. But the new Breen seems to have picked up more than a sunburn on his pacific sojourn.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, or something.

Daniel gives Breen a grin. “That’s not all though. Hughes came down to offer Kristin the job. If Mike had taken the offer, we’d both be reporting to her right now.”

Suddenly they’re both looking at her, Daniel with his usual teasing demeanor and Breen with…something else. Is he actually impressed ?

“No way,” he says, eyes round. “You were hand-picked by Huges as Mike’s replacement? I worked here for ten years and the guy couldn’t even remember my name. How’d you get the offer?” 

“Well, for starters, he always remembers my name,” Kristin smirks, and Breen pouts at her again. 

Daniel laughs lightly, the corners of his eyes crinkling as he meets her gaze. “He also clearly trusts you,” he adds, and Kristin raises an eyebrow. It’s rare for Daniel to be so upfront with the compliments. Maybe the caffeine hasn’t hit his system yet.

“So not fair,” Breen mutters, but she can see the smile in his eyes. “I just had the worst luck with that guy. He only seemed to visit when Mike had me up to my neck in something weird.”

“I wouldn’t blame Mike,” Kristin retorts. “You always seemed to manage that just fine on your own.”

Breen turns to Daniel, aghast. “Does she bully you like this too?” He gestures accusingly at her as she continues to grin smugly. “This is workplace harassment, you know.”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel chuckles, grinning between them. “I’m staying out of this.”

“Wise choice,” Kristin smirks, and even Breen can’t bite back a smile. 

“Seriously though,” he continues, a little softer this time. “That’s really cool. How’d you manage it?”

She thinks about razzing him some more, but decides against it and shrugs instead. She’s good at her job, and she’s found herself the unintentional star of some of the CIB’s more… memorable … moments. The kind of stressful situations that got so wildly out of hand that Hughes had needed to come up from Auckland. The time she ended up leading hostage negotiations for Mike’s release, for instance. 

Fun times.

But for all the stress, she supposes those little snapshots of the Brokenwood CIB must have been enough for Hughes. That or Mike had made a recommendation. Her ears burn at the prospect. 

She tells Breen as much, and he grins at her, looking genuinely proud despite her earlier teasing. “Congrats, Kris,” he says, nodding in acknowledgement. “Even if it didn’t end up happening, that’s really cool for you.”

“Thanks,” she says, because she is a little chuffed about it, for all she’s trying to play it off. 

Breen nods, then waggles his eyebrows teasingly. “Good to know where the future’s at,” he grins. “If Mike ever leaves, it looks like you’re primed to take over.” 

He pauses for a moment, as though something’s just occurred to him, and then murmurs, “Actually, that would leave your current position up for grabs.”

The statement hangs in the air as he and Daniel lock eyes.

“Well, it would certainly be interesting,” Daniel muses, his tone neutral.

“I’ll say,” Breen adds.

There seems to be some kind of unspoken conversation going on, and Kristin feels like she’s missing something. “Mike’s not leaving, though,” she reminds them, a little exasperated. “He just turned down the promotion. He has no reason to.”

“Well sure,” reasons Breen, “He turned down the promotion. Doesn’t mean he won’t retire. We both know he’s just waiting for the day he can kick back in an old pair of cowboy boots and watch the sun set across the vines.”

She must look absolutely scandalized, because Breen gives a loud cackle of laughter. “Come on,” he says, grinning. “The guy must be pushing 60. It’s got to happen sometime.”

He’s not, actually. But before she can say anything, Daniel’s cutting in again. “Maybe,” he muses, sounding a tad doubtful. “He’s never said anything to us. Probably best not to speculate.”

Normally, she would lament Daniel’s steadfast disinterest in office gossip. But today, for possibly the first time in their four years of working together, Kristin agrees.

She says as much to Breen. “Daniel’s right, Mike would tell us. And besides, he’s really dedicated to the CIB.” 

She thinks about it for a moment, reflecting on the absolutely insane encounters she’s had with Mike while he’s supposedly off the clock. Sampling wines from the evidence locker at 11pm. Working through shooting trajectories at 2am. Hashing out a murder while he’s 10 hours’ from town, supposedly getting his divorce papers signed. She’d watched his relationship with Beth get to marriage territory, only to implode because he couldn’t manage a two-day vacation without repeatedly calling to check on things. Two days.

“Yeah, nah,” she confirms, feeling more confident. “There’s no way he’d survive without the CIB. He’d drive himself mental.”

“Whatever you say,” Breen waves a hand flippantly. “The man’s a workaholic, but everyone’s got their breaking point.”

Daniel makes a noncommittal sound, looking thoughtful. Kristin thinks back to their conversation in Mike’s office, back when they’d thought he was leaving for Auckland. He’d pulled them aside to convey essentially the same sentiment, warning them of the perils of the job. She wonders if Daniel’s drawing the same connection.

For a moment –just a second, really– she has a flicker of doubt. What if Mike really does want to retire? But then she quashes it down. No, he would tell them.

“You’d be good at it.” 

“What?” She realizes Breen’s still talking, and that she’s lost the thread.

He rolls his eyes. “Running the station. You’d be good for it. If the time ever came.”

She can feel her cheeks going pink, but she holds her head high and refuses to give him the satisfaction of knowing he’s gotten to her, just a bit. “Well,” she says with a tone of finality, “He hasn’t announced any plans, so I think it’s safe to say we’ll be keeping things as-is for the foreseeable future.”

She’s saved any further musing by Mike, who strides into the station with an air of extreme distraction. He’s got a coffee in one hand, his phone held pressed to his cheek with the other. He nods at her absent-mindedly, already enroute to his office, then stops sharply when he notices Breen. He mutters a hurried goodbye to whoever he’s speaking with, and then he’s tucking the phone back into his pocket and heading toward them.

“Breen, it’s great to have you back,” he calls, extending a hand when he comes up to join them. 

“Great to be back,” Breen grins, shaking it. He gestures around the station, still mostly empty in the early morning. “Feels like I’ve hardly been gone. This place hasn’t changed much.”

Mike glances around thoughtfully, seeming to take in the early morning quiet for the first time. “I wouldn’t say that,” he says, a tad enigmatically. 

Kristin raises an eyebrow, because really, it’s not as though there’s been a radical transformation of the CIB since Breen left. And by the way Daniel’s side-eyeing her questioningly, he’s a little lost too. She shrugs at him. Probably a Mike thing.

“Regardless, it’s good to see you again,” Mike continues. “An unexpected surprise, but one we’ll gladly take for as long as we can. And I see you’ve met DC Chalmers already.”

“Yeah,” Breen affirms, “although not for the first time.”

“We crossed paths briefly when I arrived in Brokenwood,” Daniel clarifies. 

“Right,” Mike hums, glancing at the whiteboard absently. Kristin’s worked with him long enough to recognize the look in his eyes; he’s mulling over a hunch, ostensibly in relation to the harbour homicide.

Before she can press him on it, Mike seems to snap back to the present. “The McLeod files need some looking over,” he says, looking between her and Breen. “Kristin will get you up to speed.”

“Great,” says Breen, looking a little too cocky for his first fifteen minutes of employment. “I’m sure there’s heaps to dig into. I'm looking forward to pulling out a few quick wins.”

“You might regret saying that,” Mike cautions, smiling a little knowingly. Kristin contemplates jumping in, but Breen seems content to dig his own grave, and she’s too entertained to stop him.

“Yeah, nah,” Breen grins. “Don’t worry, Senior. By the end of next week you’ll be begging me to stay.”

She bites her lip against a laugh. Mike’s gaze flicks to hers in subtle amusement, and then he’s turning his attention back to Breen. “Well, I can see you’ll have no trouble getting started, then.”

Mike’s phone buzzes loudly, forcing a lull in the conversation. He pulls the device from his pocket, furrowing his brow at the screen. “Sorry,” he murmurs, already turning away as he strides toward his office. “I’ve got to make a call.”

Daniel nods and returns to his desk, presumably to resume his methodical perusal of marine registries. Good on him. She should probably get back to the toxicology report, come to think of it.

But before she can so much as move, Breen’s interrupting her thoughts again, as is increasingly becoming the norm.

“Hey senior,” he calls, as Mike’s just reaching the threshold of his office. “Quick question for you. If you weren't at the CIB, how would you want to spend your evening?”

Kristin watches Daniel’s eyes flick up from his deck, waiting for Mike’s reaction.

For his part, Mike stops short for a moment, caught mid-stride. He looks at Breen in an evaluating way, letting the silence play out. Then he asks, “Is this you angling for a celebratory drink?”

“No,” says Breen, his cheeks going red beyond their usual shade. “Just curious.”

“Hmm,” says Mike, entirely dodging the topic. “Well, good.” And then he shuts the office door.

Kristin shoots Breen a smug look, grinning when he pouts back at her. “Worth a shot,” he whispers. “I bet I’m right. He’d definitely be listening to those cassettes of his with a bottle of Merlot.”

“Give it up, she replies, in less of a whisper. “He’s not retiring. Actually, if you want to make yourself useful, I’ve pulled together a list of the McLeod files in need of review. Want to crack on with the first few and see what you’re able to turn up?”

“Sure,” he grins. “We’ll see, maybe I’ll close out a few unsolved homicides while I’m here.”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes at his cockiness. But by the way Breen’s cheeks dimple, she can tell he’s seen through her.

Turning her back to him, she rummages through her desk drawer, searching for a thick binder of case summaries and their corresponding reference IDs. She has to dig for a while to find it, rummaging under duplicate draft reports and old receipts. Hmm. She hadn’t realized how long it had been since she’d last cracked it open; it really will be good to have Breen dedicated to it.

Triumphantly, tosses it on her desk, smirking at the resulting thunk as the weight of it smacks down on the metal.

“Whoa,” Breen says, looking suitably cowed. “Those are all McLeod cases?”

“He was here for a long time,” Kristin points out. With some degree of satisfaction, she watches as a hint of intimidation passes across Breen’s heavily freckled features.

But still, she takes pity on him. “Might be best to start with the more recent ones,” she suggests. “There’s a higher likelihood the records will still be accessible, and the involved persons may not have left town.”

“Or died,” Breen points out. 

She gives him a flat look. “Gary wasn’t that old. The cases are all within our lifetime.” Probably.

Breen looks at her skeptically, then shrugs and grabs the binder. “Shouldn’t be hard to crack one, then,” he grins. He deftly flips it open to a random page, pausing for a moment to take in its contents. Kristin sighs; so much for picking a recent case to start with. But she nonetheless watches as his grey-blue eyes flick back and forth, scanning over an undoubtedly grizzly case summary.

After a beat, Breen blows out a slow breath. “Alright,” he says, tapping at the page. “Here’s a good one to start with.”

“You’ve based that on a review of exactly one file summary,” she says flatly. “Picked by random chance.”

Breen grins challengingly. “No sense overcomplicating it.” She scowls at him, and he laughs. Besides,” he continues, “it really does seem like a good one.”

“And why would that be?”

Breen lowers his voice conspiratorially. “Well, it’s got pirates in it, for one thing.”

She pauses for a moment, surprised confusion overtaking her exasperation. Hmm. Pirates. That’s certainly…unusual. Breen’s giving her a knowing look, like he can see right through to the part of her that’s becoming intrigued.

“Seems unlikely,” she cautions. “Aotearoa didn’t actually have any pirates. Not the way we think of them today, anyway.” But despite herself, she’s already rising from her chair to stand beside him, leaning over his shoulder to read the summary. Obligingly, Breen tilts the binder toward her. She can feel his eyes on her face as she begins to read through the summary.

Wow, okay. Hmm.

Clear as day, in typically bureaucratic language, the summary lays out a scene. A body found on Brokenwood beach, buck naked, Jolly Roger tattoo on one arm. Cause of death: puncture wound, from the marlinspike still embedded within the victim’s chest cavity. No arrests made, no charges. Weirdly thematic, even by Brokenwood’s statistically abnormal standards.

“Pretty wild, eh?” Breen asks, eyes crinkling in a smile. 

“That’s certainly one word for it,” she concedes. But it’s not just the cartoonishly nautical imagery that’s standing out to her. “Breen,” she says, her eyes still sweeping over the page, re-reading what little information exists, “there’s not a lot to go on, here.”

Almost nothing, really. No witnesses, no strong suspects, no leads. A victim from Auckland with no known ties to the area.

Breen gives her another grin, looking unfazed. “Shouldn’t be too hard,” he says, snapping the binder shut. “All the more reason to crack on with it, eh?”

She can’t help but smile, despite how absolutely hopeless the case looks. She didn’t realize how much she’d missed his weird, tenacious positivity. 

“We’ll see how far you get,” she says, and if it sounds a tad fond, Breen doesn’t tease her about it. “But if you get stuck, you can always pivot to something else. No sense spending all your time on a case that’s going nowhere.”

“Yeah, right,” Breen says. “Don’t you worry. This time next week you’ll be taking me out for a celebratory pint, and I’ll be claiming the CIB’s first piracy solve.”

She can’t help but grin back at him. “Anything’s possible, I suppose.”

He winks at her, flipping the binder back open. And then he pauses, looking a little taken aback.  His long, spindly fingers are stalled atop the first page, playing restlessly at the edge. She thinks maybe he’s going a bit pink again, but it’s hard to tell.

It clicks for her just as he sheepishly raises his eyes to meet her own again. 

“You uh, wouldn’t happen to have clocked the page number on that case, would you?” He asks, rubbing his neck ruefully.

She can’t help but snicker. “No, but I’d think an experienced detective like you should be able to figure it out, eh?” 

Breen gives her a scandalized look in response, and she laughs as she returns to her desk, preparing to dive back into the toxicology report from earlier.

“Just you wait,” Breen pronounces, his voice carrying as he returns to his own desk. “This is just a minor setback.”

“Whatever you say,” she grins. “Good luck.”

Breen goes quiet for a bit, presumably starting to dig into the cold case. She re-opens the toxicology report, but finds the smile is still sticking at the corner of her cheek.

Good luck, indeed.

Chapter Text

Kristin’s back at the harbour with Daniel that afternoon, interviewing the very reluctant marina owner. Richard Burgess is a cantankerous, grizzled man who fits every caricature of an “old mariner,” but with none of the folksy whimsy. His weatherbeaten face is wrinkled like the ocean on a gusty day, ridged with lines carved by exposure and a lifetime of smoking.

He’s not thrilled to have the CIB hanging around, arguing that a police presence gives the wrong impression to prospective clients. A passing glance at the half-empty slips and mooring cans suggests the impression was made long ago, but Kristin doesn’t point it out. Instead, she requests access to the marina’s storage and financial records. Predictably, this sours their interaction even further, but he reluctantly agrees —provided they leave.

She has no issue with that, truthfully. The marina’s beginning to feel a bit creepy, and the damp is slowly sinking into her bones. The sky’s darkening with an advancing stormfront and she can smell rain in the air, even within the relatively enclosed confines of the rundown marina office. She looks at Daniel from the corner of her eye, and he gives her a subtle nod. Seems he’s finished his lines of inquiry as well.

They leave, with the caveat that she’ll expect the documents in her inbox by the end of day. If not, she’ll be right down the next morning to follow up.

They’re bumping back up the marina’s narrow gravel laneway when Daniel turns to her, meeting her eyes for a split second before shifting his attention back to the road. “So,” he begins, a sarcastic sigh in his voice. “He was cooperative.” 

She scoffs. “Yeah, right. How much do you want a bet he’ll need a reminder on those records?”

Daniel grins at her. “You’re suggesting our friend Richard is less inclined to help the police with their inquiries?”

She laughs, despite everything. “I am indeed.”

“Mmm,” Daniel hums, a playful smile teasing at the corner of his mouth. “You could say the name suits him.”

She rolls her eyes, feeling another of his terrible puns coming on. But he’s a good friend, so she’ll bite. “Why?”

Daniel takes in her feigned annoyance and forges on. “You know, because he’s a dick.”

She snorts and slaps his shoulder. “I see your sense of humour isn’t improving in a hurry.”

“You like my jokes,” Daniel chuckles, switching the heat on. She melts a little against the fabric of the seat when the first gust of warmth hits her from the passenger side vent; she hadn’t realized she’d been shivering. Daniels eyes are back on the road, but she can see a touch of satisfaction in his smile.

They ride in silence for a while, watching the countryside pass by in a blur of green and grey. It’s a cold, wet day, and she’s glad to be back inside the warmth and comfort of the car. Rain begins to patter on the windshield, the drops difficult to discern amid the flat lighting from the dark clouds overhead. They’re next headed to Whangārei, home to the closest local office of Maritime New Zealand and the coastguard. It’s over an hour’s drive along the main highway, which snakes down Northland’s rugged coast. Beyond her window the ocean is a frothing mass, whipped into a frenzy by the gusting wind.

Just looking at it is making her cold again, despite the heat from the car. It’s only early afternoon but the sky is dark. As Daniel flicks on the headlights amid the gathering gloom, she’s already fantasizing about a hot cup of coffee back at the station.

They keep going, watching flashes of coast interspersed with thick pockets of wooded growth where the road pulls back from the shore. Eventually, Daniel breaks the silence. “So” he begins, eyes fixed on the road. “You and Sam seem really close. It must be nice having him back.”

“It is,” she says. Then she shakes her head, adding, “Don’t tell him I said that, though. I’ll never hear the end of it.”

Daniel looks across at her for a quick moment, flashing her a smile before his attention is drawn back to the rainswept road. “Your secret’s safe with me,” he chuckles. The rain’s coming down fiercer now, pelting the windscreen with heavy splatters. 

“He seems like a cool mate though,” Daniel continues. “Funny, easygoing. Good to have on a case.”

“Of course,” Kristin says, a little lost. “I mean, we worked together for years. You know that.”

“Mmm,” Daniel nods. “But working together doesn’t always mean you trust someone, or that they’re competent.”

Kristin thinks of Gary with a flash of guilt, then pushes past it. “True,” she acknowledges. “But in Breen’s case, much as he can be a bit of an arse, he’s great.”

“I’m glad to hear it.” The strange thing is, Kristin’s not so sure. Just for a moment, Daniel’s face looks unreadable as he stares resolutely through the windscreen. She wants to press him on it, but a particularly strong gust takes that moment to hit the car, and she watches his knuckles tighten on the wheel in response. And then the moment’s gone, and he’s flashing her another of his grins. 

“Want to stop for coffee when we reach Whangārei? It’s looking like we’ll have plenty of time –you can thank our buddy Richard for that.”

“I would have rathered if he gave us a proper witness statement,” she grouses. “But yeah, let’s grab something. His office was absolutely freezing.”

“Done,” Daniel says, with an air of finality. He reaches across the dash to flick the heat up further, and she can’t help but return his smile. 

Of course, that’s when all hell breaks loose. 

Outside, the rain has increased to a near-torrent. Rivulets of water are pouring down the windscreen and the road is slick with water, isolated puddles forming where the deluge outpaces any drainage. Ahead of them, a car skids in a pool of standing water, swerving just as the road’s beginning to come around a bend.

Daniel sucks in a sharp breath, braking quickly as the car in front fishtails across the roadway. Kristin’s stomach sinks with dread as oncoming headlights crest the next ridge, cutting through the torrential rain. They silhouette the erratically-swerving car ahead, framing it against a backdrop of water and light. 

It’s like she’s watching in slow motion when the oncoming ute clips the rear bumper of the skidding car, sending it spinning into the ditch. The world sharpens as she sees it careen into the thick bracken, the ute swerving into their lane from the impact.

The ute’s headlights glow brighter and brighter as it heads straight for them, and she thinks distantly that it’s a good thing Daniel’s managed to come to a stop and kill their momentum. Head-on collisions are the most dangerous, the most lethal. Hopefully the driver in the ute’s thinking the same way. 

She throws an arm across Daniel’s chest, for all the good it will do.

And then the ute’s swerving sharply, skidding sideways and ramming an unsteady stripe down the side of their patrol car. There’s a bang, followed by a loud scraping across her door as the car rocks from the impact. Her side airbag deploys, thwacking into her ribs and shoulder. 

And then the ute skids past their car. An unnatural stillness settles in, and for a beat, there’s nothing but the sound of the rain rattling against the car roof.

“You alright?” Kristin croaks, voice coming out a bit wobbly with adrenaline. She can hear her heart pounding in her ears as she tries to focus.

“Yeah.” Daniel sounds just as shaken. When she looks over at him, his knuckles are practically white against the steering wheel. He’s looking at her with open concern, the corners of his mouth pulled into a tight frown. “Are you?”

“Yeah.” She straightens in her seat, watching the airbag deflate and feeling the tendons in her shoulder pull uncomfortably. “Just a bit…you know.” She realizes her arm’s still across his body and hastily retracts it.

Daniel nods, blowing out a long, slow breath. “You should take it easy for a sec. It looked like the airbag really got you.”

“Feels like it too,” she grimaces, anticipating the bruises that’ll form in a day or two. Thankfully it had only clipped her head, but she can already tell her shoulder and ribs will be aching for the next while. She recalls reading something about the force of deployment, about the inflation occurring at around 300 kilometers per hour. She can’t quite remember the details but it feels true, in the moment.

“What about you?” She asks. The airbags on his side of the car hadn’t gone off, but he’s looking vaguely green.

“Just shock, I think. For a moment there, it really looked like that ute—” He cuts himself off, swallowing heavily.

“Yeah.” She says, not wanting to give voice to the close call. When they’re back at the station and all this is dealt with, they can talk about it. But right now it’s too big, too real. And besides, they have a job to do. 

She gives them both a moment to try and collect themselves, breathing quietly in the stillness. And then she’s rummaging for her phone, and Daniel’s clicking on the hazards. “I’ll call emergency services,” she says, the comforting familiarity of procedure settling over her. “Do you want the ute or the sedan?”

“I’ll take the ute,” he says. He already sounds much more like himself, though he’s still looking at her worriedly. She tries to give him a reassuring smile but can’t quite make it genuine. She knows she’s not in top form. But there’s two other cars involved in the impact and there’s nobody else on the scene. They have to help.

She relays their position to emergency services as Daniel shoots a quick text to Mike, alerting him to their status. It’s looking like coffee in Whangārei is out of the cards as he throws open his door, flashing her a resigned smile. “Nice day for it,” he says, over the roar of the downpour. She tries the handle to her own door and finds it’s still operable, so she shoves it open, hissing as the motion jostles her shoulder. A quick glance at their patrol car shows a broken axle where the ute had first collided, the tire sloping toward the pavement at a 45 degree angle. A long, deep scrape runs the full length of the vehicle’s side.

“Let’s see if we can get this wrapped up quickly,” she says, ignoring the mounting evidence to the contrary. “Though I have a feeling we’re going to be absolutely soaked either way.”

Her prediction is accurate. The rain has saturated her coat before she’s even made it to the sedan in the ditch, tapping on the window to see if the occupants are okay. She sees blurred shapes moving on the interior, distorted by the water on the glass. So she tries the handle, pulling the door open to reveal a trio of surprised faces. Tennagers, but the look of it. Two in the front and one in the back, all of them pale with nerves. They’re the particular brand of pimply that comes with adolescence, and they stare up at her with huge eyes.

“Sorry,” she says reflexively. “I didn’t mean to startle you. Is everyone alright?”

The driver, a gangly redhead, gives her a shaky nod. “Yes.” He swallows, looking at the vehicle’s other occupants. He looks like a teenage version of Breen, though he doesn’t seem to have nearly the same confidence. There’s a pause as they study each other, and then the dam bursts. “I’m so, so sorry,” he stammers, practically tripping over his words in the rush to get them out. “I should have been watching the road, but Brody kept fiddling with the playlist and Marcy was getting really snappy about it, and I glanced away just for a minute—” 

“It’s alright,” she cuts him off. The other two kids are shooting the ginger mutinous looks, and by the way he’s glancing sheepishly at them, he knows he’s in for it later. “I just want to make sure you’re all alright. Mind shutting off the car for me? You can keep the headlights on. Best throw the hazards on as well.”

The gangly redhead wordlessly complies, his spindly fingers shaking as he pulls the key from the ignition. The sudden absence of engine noise is barely discernible through the rain. She must look like a drowned rat. She feels like one too; icy water is dribbling down the back of her neck.

She perseveres, steadfastly ignoring the ache in her ribs as she rummages through her coat to produce her badge. “Emergency services are on their way,” she says, aiming for calm reassurance. “I’m a detective with the Brokenwood CIB.”

This statement doesn’t produce the desired effect. Almost immediately, the small brunette —Marcy, she thinks— practically shrieks with panic. “You hit a cop?! ” The redhead shrinks in his seat, eyes wide with nerves. “I didn’t know,” he exclaims, voice shrill and defensive. “How could I have known that?”

She’s about to clarify that they didn’t actually collide with her, and that it doesn’t matter regardless. But then she hears Daniel’s voice through the roar of the rain. She can’t make it out, but she thinks it might have been her name. 

“Okay,” Kristin cuts in, heading off a collective meltdown. “Let’s all take a moment to calm down. You’ve been through a traumatic event, and it’s normal to feel the way you do.” 

She’s not very good at this speech and she has no idea what they’re feeling, though anxiety seems to be the top contender. She forges on quickly, before they can interject. “I’d suggest you just sit tight for the next few minutes while help arrives. I’ve got to go assist my colleague, but I’ll be up on the road if you need me.”

The ginger nods at her, so she turns tail and begins to heave herself out of the ditch, boots slipping in the mud. “Daniel?” She calls, straining to hear him over the howling wind and rain. The ute’s behind their car, half-pulled over and facing the wrong way. It’s a miracle someone else hasn’t come across the scene yet, though they’re pretty remote. And perhaps the few motorists who would have passed are wisely pulling over to wait out the downpour. It’s not something she’d ever expect from the area’s notoriously independent drivers, but technically anything’s possible.

“Kristin!” She hears Daniel’s voice above the rain and howling wind, and from his tone, it’s not good news. She jogs as best as she can across the rain-slick roadway to meet him, pressing a hand to her aching side as she takes in the ute’s crumpled fender and the remnants of deployed airbags. Daniel’s got the door open, his gaze focused on an unconscious man slumped across the wheel. Not good.

“Is he—” she begins, coming to a stop beside him and fearing the worst. 

“Just unconscious,” Daniel replies. “Breathing, and he seems stable.” He blows a few stray droplets of rain from his face, looking cold.

“Okay,” Kristin nods. “Any secondary injuries? What do you need from me?”

“None that I could see. Got an ETA on emergency services?” 

“Should be any minute,” she says, parroting what she’d been told by dispatch. “The occupants in the sedan seem to be unharmed. Just a group of teenagers in over their heads, learning a very memorable lesson in distracted driving.”

“That’s a lesson they won’t forget in a hurry,” Daniel says, and he’s almost smiling in spite of the situation. “It’s not actually why I called you over, though.”

“Oh?” She quirks a brow, waiting expectantly.

Daniel nods toward the unconscious man in the ute. He looks to be in his 40s, maybe early 50s. His brown hair is streaked with grey, the sides of his face tan and wrinkled. A smoker, judging by the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. And a drinker, if the open flask in the cupholder is to be believed. Now that she’s focused on it, she can smell the alcohol from where she’s standing.

“Impaired?” she asks. She’s shivering now, the cold having seeped through her jacket and blouse alongside the rain. 

“I’d reckon,” Daniel says, still leaning on the doorframe. “But that’s not all. I happened to see his wallet on the console and checked his ID. Turns out, our inebriated friend is Mr. Jason Williams.”

“Why does that name sound familiar?” Kristin asks, mind already racing. “Wait, is he—”

“The last individual owner of the Contessa 32,” Daniel nods. “Yeah, seems like it.”

They stare at him for a moment, considering the implications. She still can’t quite believe the odds, but she won’t turn her nose up at a fresh lead. And then sirens cut through the sound of the storm, and Kristin tears her gaze away from the unconscious man to see blue and red lights crest the rise in the road.

Everything happens very quickly after that.

Statements are taken, the scene documented, injuries assessed. It’s a bit odd to be on the other side of things, corroborating Daniel’s statement on the events leading up to the collision as a uniformed officer jots everything down. He looks young, likely new to the service and not thrilled to be out in the downpour. She feels a rare flash of camaraderie as a particularly harsh gust of wind tosses his forage cap across the road and he has to pause their statement to go chase it.

The paramedics are generally occupied with Mr. Williams, who slips in and out of consciousness as they extract him from the ute. But one of them takes the time to give her and Daniel a cursory check in the back of the ambulance, pronouncing them generally fine, albeit soaked. 

She prods at Kristin’s ribs with blue-gloved fingers, frowning in sympathy as Kristin winces, fingers twitching against the fabric of her blouse where she’s pulled it up. “That’s going to bruise,” the paramedic murmurs, stating the obvious as Kristin tries not to roll her eyes. Daniel gives her a tempering look from where he’s standing behind the woman, and she glares irately back at him.

“Site assessment is difficult for these types of injuries,” the paramedic continues, oblivious to Kristin’s mounting irritation. “You’ll need imaging to confirm if the ribs are fractured or just bruised, though treatment is generally the same either way. And whiplash symptoms can take hours to show. I’d recommend you get checked out later, just to cover your bases.”

Great. Another unplanned stop. It’s looking like the whole day’s a write-off.

She thanks the paramedic for her time, plasters her wet clothes back into place as best she can, and then they’re given a ride into Whangārei by two of the uniformed officers who’d first arrived at the scene. She and Daniel look like drowned rats, but the heat of the cruiser is slowly bringing the life back into her limbs, enough that she feels confident enough to request they drop them at the Coastguard office. The officer driving —an older, reserved fellow with greying hair— gives her an incredulous laugh, and she has to repeat herself. “If you’re sure,” is all he says. 

Daniel’s giving her a resigned look, clearly unenthused about the prospect of visiting the agency whilst soaked to the bone. She can see the tension in his jaw, and for a moment she feels a little bad. After all, he’s just as wet as she is, and likely just as cold. But he doesn’t question her in front of the other officers, for which she’s grateful.

And admittedly, it’s not the most professional to show up dripping all over someone’s carpet. But she’ll be damned if they go through this whole experience without getting anything from it.

She’s still shivering when they’re dropped at the small, white building at the harbour’s edge. The rain’s starting to let up a bit, but they still take a moment to huddle beneath the small overhang framing the building’s main entrance. 

Daniel’s eyes flick between the rainy harbour and her face. “I already know the answer, but I have to ask,” he says, sounding a little hesitant. “Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“Of course,” she says, a little surprised. “We’re here now, and it’ll take Breen a while to make the trip from Brokenwood to nab us. And after all we’ve been through, it seems a waste to go back empty handed.”

“Okay,” Daniel says, with a hint of doubtful argument. “But we’re both soaked to the bone, and I haven’t missed the way you’ve been holding your ribs.”

“It’s Coastguard,” Kristin reasons, flashing him a grin. “They deal with wet people all the time. If anything it might put them at ease.”

She dodges the topic of her ribs, but Daniel doesn’t push her on it. Instead he huffs out a laugh, and she’s relieved to see the playful smile tugging at his lips again. “True, although I don’t think that’s quite what they had in mind when I called them.”

“Well, I guess it’s their lucky day,” she retorts.

“It’s certainly one way to make an impression,” Daniel grins. “Tell you what. Let’s deal with Coastguard now, and we can handle Maritime New Zealand later. The timing will be tight if we try for both, and besides, we have no car. They’re at opposite ends of Whangārei.”

Hmm, it’s a good point. But they could always hit the maritime office once Breen’s arrived. On the other hand, she can already feel the chill creeping back into her bones. It would be nice to finally feel dry.

Daniel seems to sense her hesitation and ups the stakes. “We could find a coffee while we wait for Breen,” he says cajolingly. “Have a break somewhere warm, maybe grab a bite.”

Well, when he puts it like that….“Deal,” she says, flashing him a grin. “But you're buying the coffee.” 

Daniel chuckles, shaking his head ruefully at her. “You drive a hard bargain. But sure, if it means I get to dry out for a bit.”

“Let’s get this over with, then,” she resolves. “Who’s your contact?” She’s taking in the view of the moored sailboats, listening to the eerie howl of the wind through the rigging as she tries to focus on her planned line of questioning.

“Brian McPhearson,” Daniel says. He’s got his back to the water, staring appraisingly at the building’s cheerfully-lit reception area beyond the glass door. “He’s the coordinator for this office. Says he’s been here for the better part of 20 years.”

“Should have some good insight on lost vessels then,” she muses. “And we’re picking up physical copies of records. I haven’t done that in ages. Why couldn’t he send them?”

“He says some of the older reports were never digitized,” Daniel says. There’s a pause, followed by a long, resigned sigh. “And he says his fingers are too big for a keyboard. Prefers not to use one unless he absolutely has to.”

His fingers are too big? Kristin snorts, a laugh bubbling up from the depths of her. “Do you think he’s got something to prove? Or maybe something to compensate ?”

“More than likely,” Daniel replies, meeting her grin. “I got the sense he’s a bit of a character.”

“Or maybe,” Kristin continues, still grinning as she feels a new idea spark. “Maybe he was coming on to you.” Daniel looks at her scandalized, and she laughs again. “You could use your wiles to mine him for information.”

“I don’t think that’s going to happen,” Daniel replies, with a tone of patient finality. His cheeks are going a little pink, but she can still see the laughter in his eyes. It’s good to tease him again, to have the familiar banter flowing between them, especially after the day they’ve had. She already feels warmer, though maybe it’s just the affection blooming in her chest.

“What is it with nautical men and keyboards, anyway?” She continues. “This is the second time someone’s told us that on a case.”

“Really?” Daniel asks, surprised. “I thought once was strange enough.”

“Yeah,” she nods, thinking back to the shipwreck case with Breen. “It would have been about eight years ago, actually. Jools Fahey’s first husband was Noel Clelland’s predecessor, and he was murdered at sea.”

Daniel looks appropriately shocked, eyes wide and keen with interest. “Wow, alright,” he says. “I definitely wouldn’t have guessed that.”

“Well, to be fair, I’m not entirely sure he was her first husband,” Kristin amends. “Just the first one we’ve encountered. But we needed access to his files, and they were all original paper copies because his fingers were too big for the keyboard.” She giggles, remembering Mike’s extreme discomfort when he’d recounted the story to her.

Daniel grins wryly. “Sounds like a good fit for Jools.”

She leans in to whisper conspiratorially. “It gets better. She and her husband were actually a trio with Dennis. They’d meet up on his yacht for some fun at sea.”

Daniel laughs in astonishment, realization dawning in his eyes. “So that’s how Dennis fits in,” he murmurs. “He kept dropping hints about Jools during the Sonny Lyman investigation, but I didn’t realize the circumstances were so…unique.”

He whistles lowly, looking almost impressed. “Good on Jools though. That woman knows what she wants.”

Kristin raises an eyebrow, though she can’t help but agree. For all the weird circumstances she’s been involved in, Jools has always been very thoroughly herself. And very open about certain appetites.

“Would you ever…” She begins, trailing off and leaving the implication to hang heavy in the silence.

Daniel makes a thoughtful noise, shifting a bit as he mulls it over. “I honestly couldn’t say,” he says eventually. “It’s not something I’ve sought out. But I wouldn’t rule it out either, I suppose.” He pauses, then adds, “I’m game for anything if it’s with the right people.”

Interesting. And a surprisingly candid answer for a man who’s typically on the reserved side. Daniel’s still a healthy shade of pink when he meets her eyes, curiosity reflecting in his own as he turns the question back on her.

“And you?”

She can feel the blush spreading across her cheeks as she avoids Daniel’s inquisitive stare. She’d given it shot in uni with predictably underwhelming results. Nothing devastating, just a solidly mediocre time with her roommate who’d wanted to experiment a bit, and her roommate’s boyfriend who’d come along for the ride. With the cool detachment of hindsight, she knows her younger self had probably approached the opportunity with a bit too much optimism. But it had been her first time with another woman, and although the sex had been decidedly less than average, the fleeting moment of self-discovery had been worthwhile. 

And then she’d gone home and gotten herself off, since neither of her partners could seem to manage it.

Daniel’s still watching her, a grin twitching at the corner of his lips. “I take it that’s a yes,” he murmurs, when she bites her lip and refuses to answer. “It’s alright, you know. I’m not judging you.”

She rolls her eyes, because yes, she’s absolutely certain he wouldn’t. But he’s looking at her earnestly, like he needs reassurance. “I know you aren’t,” she says, slapping teasingly at his bicep. “It was one time in uni, and decidedly subpar. I’m not sure I’d bother with it again.”

“Hmm,” Daniel says, a gentle smile playing on his lips. “Another Kristin Sims mystery. Like your tattoo. Or your time with the nuns.”

“Hey,” she exclaims, a laugh escaping despite her best efforts to stifle it. “You’re making me out to be some kind of troubled, enigmatic woman.”

“Enigmatic’s the right word for it,” Daniel chuckles. “You’re turning into Mike.”

“You take that back,” she says, probably more offended than she should be. She likes Mike, she really does. But she’d never want to be him. For one thing, she’s still holding out hope that she’ll develop a life outside her work. She’s not yet 40; there’s still time.

Daniel throws up his hands in surrender, grinning at her. “Alright, alright,” he concedes. “You’re right, that was uncalled for.”

She laughs again, casting her eyes back out over the wet harbour. She’s already feeling heaps better than a few moments ago, like a weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Yes, she’s still freezing. And yes, they’re both soaking wet and stranded for the next hour, and they’re going to have to interview someone while dipping all over the office furniture. But at least they have each other.

“Okay,” she says, feeling her confidence coming back as she nods toward the front entrance. “Showtime?”

“Showtime,” Daniel grins. “Let’s see if we can wrap this up quickly. That coffee’s calling my name.”

She can’t agree more.

Chapter Text

All things considered, the Coastguard meeting goes well. 

The look of shock on the clerk’s face is priceless as they stroll into the small harbourside office, still dripping and looking somewhat worse for wear. He’s a younger man, probably in his mid-20s, and he practically leaps from behind the desk to offer them shock blankets from a big plastic bin. It’s a little unnecessary, not to mention humiliating, but Daniel takes one before she can politely refuse. 

She watches in astonishment as he unwraps the foil sheet from its plastic packaging, drawing it across his broad shoulders without a second thought. He must be colder than she’d realized. Normally he’s adamantly professional; he wouldn’t be caught dead wearing what’s essentially a tinfoil cloak to an interview. But today he’s only wearing a light police windbreaker, standard issue for any officer. Not waterproof, not especially insulated. She can see the water beading along the lower edge where it protrudes from beneath the shock blanket, sporadically dripping.

Just as she’s beginning to feel concerned for him, he grabs a second blanket, raising an eyebrow challengingly as he holds it out to her. There’s a short, silent battle of wills as she glares back at him, refusal etched into every line of her scowl. 

And then the young clerk earnestly cuts back in to deliver the finishing blow.

“It’s okay,” he says, meeting her eyes with a keen, helpful smile. “Heaps of people have never used one before. D’you want some help putting it on?”

She puts it on.

Her ribs and shoulders ache sharply as she roughly shrugs the foil sheet across her shoulders, and she can’t hide the wince when she pulls a little too hard. Her cheeks are burning, and she knows she looks absolutely ridiculous. But she’ll be damned before she needs help pulling on a blanket, especially from a kid 10 years her junior.

Admittedly, it seems to help with the persistent chill in her bones. And Daniel seems to take pity on her after that, doing his best to keep the clerk engaged in lighthearted conversation white Kristin seethes quietly in the background.

They’re ushered into a small office, where they’re greeted by the largest man Kristin’s ever seen. Brian McPhearson towers over them as he rises from his chair, his enormous biceps flexing as he leans across the cluttered desk and reaches for a handshake. And —oh god. He really does have absolutely huge fingers. She finds herself mesmerised, Jools Fahey’s enthusiastic reviews floating in her ears, until Brian coughs uncomfortably and she realizes she’s been staring.

Beside her, Daniel’s stifling a laugh. Thankfully Brian doesn’t seem to notice. His skin is freckled from the sun, his hair a sandy, windswept blonde. His eyes are a piercing ocean blue when they meet hers, crinkling jovially at the edges as he gestures toward two chairs opposite his own.

Wow.

They get down to business. Daniel leads the questioning as Kristin casts her eyes around the office appraisingly, trying and failing to keep her gaze from landing on Brian. God, he’s all muscle. His thick, brawny arms seem determined to burst free of his t-shirt, which is stretched tight in every direction. His chest is huge, defined pectorals prominently on display despite the layer of taut fabric. He must run hot too; he’s dressed like it’s summer despite the torrential winter rain.

She’s always thought Daniel was big; both in height and muscle, especially compared to herself. But seated across from Brian he looks decidedly average in build. It’s a surreal experience.

They’re here for a reason though, and she hones in when Brian mentions a series of small craft rescues in the vicinity, ending with the discovery of an abandoned sailboat.

“Sorry,” she interjects, “You found a boat?”

“Yeah,” he says, running a hand through his golden hair and sighing. “Bit of an odd one, that. Usually our calls are for bar crossings; a big swell comes up and folks don’t know how to respond to it. Loads of rescues every year for swamped vessels, usually small craft with inexperienced boaties. We’re doing a big safety campaign on it, actually.”

“Right,” Kristin prods, trying to get to the matter at hand. “But an abandoned boat, that’s unusual?”

“Yeah, nah,” Brian shrugs. “There’s always a typical flow of things, still plenty of swampings and boats coming loose from their moorings during storms. But it’s definitely not common for us to find vessels that have been entirely abandoned, like we did last week.”

“We couldn’t find any reports of abandoned vessels in the past month,” Daniel interjects. “That should have seen that in the records. Don’t you normally coordinate with the police?”

“Of course,” Brian says, smiling reassuringly. “We always do, it’s protocol. But the thing is, we didn’t even get the chance to declare the vessel abandoned. We’d just had the call and made it out in a rescue boat expecting the worst. And then another bloke comes up in an outboard and tells us to bugger off, saying the yacht is his.”

“And you just turned it over to him?” Kristin asks, incredulous. 

“Well, yeah,” says Brian, looking a bit surprised at her reaction. “He had the ownership and registration. What more could we do?”

Kristin’s still staring at him, and she must be letting some of her judgement show, because Brian’s tone turns a tad reproachful. “We’re a civilian organization, detective. We don’t have jurisdiction to seize vessels or hold people against their will. If someone can prove the boat is theirs and they aren’t in need of rescue, that’s where our mandate stops.”

She sighs, feeling her ribs ache at the movement. But he has a point. Daniel takes the moment to continue her line of questioning. “If the owner didn’t want you involved, who reported the vessel?”

“That’s another strange bit,” Brian continues. “Someone phoned it in, though we weren’t able to get a name. It was a bloke; he sounded pretty young. He said he’d seen an old sailboat drifting loose while coming back from a day trip to Lady Alice Island.”

“That’s quite a distance,” Kristin murmurs, her thoughts already leaping ahead. “I didn’t think there was cell reception out there.”

“There isn’t,” says Brian. “I reckon he made the call from shore, since we didn’t see anyone out past Bream Head when we responded. Though it’s possible we missed him, or he may have been using a satellite phone.”

“But he didn’t stop to help when he saw the abandoned boat?” Daniel asks, frowning disapprovingly. 

“Nope,” Brian shrugs. “Not the best attitude, I’ll confess. But some calls are like that. I reckon we only spoke to this bloke for a minute or so; he just gave a rough heading and hung up. We never got through when we tried calling back.”

Kristin’s still mulling over the implications when Daniel circles back to the abandoned vessel, clearly hoping for some indication of its purpose. “Did you board the yacht when you arrived at the scene?”

“Nope,” says Brian. “The owner was hot on our heels; we’d thought he was just looking for a show until he pulled up a few minutes after us. Sometimes folks are like that.”

“And the boat? Did anything appear out of place?”

“Yeah, nah,” Brian shakes his head. “Standard old keelboat, a sloop, probably from the 1990s. A little weatherbeaten, but it was in good enough shape I reckon.”

“And the owner? Do you remember a name?”

“Mmm,” Brian hums, drumming his massive fingers on the tabletop. “Can’t think of it offhand. Didn’t seem to be from around here; I’ve been at the helm long enough to know most of the boaties coming off this coast. But we jotted it down with the registration information when we filed the incident report. It’ll be in there.”

Good, that might get them somewhere. Or maybe that’s just her wishful thinking after the day they’ve had. She can feel the rainwater soaking through her pants and into the cushioned chair. 

“Did he say why the boat had been abandoned?” Kristin asks, before she can get too maudlin. “Seems a bit odd to just leave it out there. And even stranger to come popping up the second you lot show up.”

“You have a suspicious mind, detective,” Brian chuckles. “I suppose it’s part of the job.”

She scoffs, and Brian takes the hint to keep going. “Like I said, it was definitely an unusual incident,” he continues, flashing her an easy, disarming smile. “But nah, he didn’t give us anything specific. Said it had come off a mooring at the outer harbour, which seemed a bit off to me. The way the tides and currents flow down the coast, he should have been much further south.”

“How do you reckon that?” Kristin asks, curious despite herself.

“I knew you’d ask me that,” Brian grins. “The answer is easy enough for anyone who’s worked on the water. There’s a steady stream down from Cape Reinga, though it eddies a bit when you come further off the coast. If you’ve come off a mooring ball here, you’re headed southward to Mangawhai. Not out to Bream Head, and certainly not six kilometres offshore.”

Interesting. “So he must have some from somewhere up the coast,” she murmurs. “Ngunguru, maybe.”

“Or he was headed elsewhere,” Daniel muses thoughtfully. “Six kilometres offshore; how long would it take to make it out there?”

“That far off Bream Head, in a boat like that? Depends on your wind,” Brian shrugs. “On a gusty day like that with an outgoing tide, you’re probably looking at seven or eight knots under full sail. Five with the iron wind.”

Kristin looks at Daniel to see if he’s any less confused. He stares blankly back at her. Brian’s still grinning, like he’s enjoying a private joke.

“Sorry, what?” Kristin asks.

“A knot’s about two kilometres per hour,” Brian chuckles. “So assuming someone skilled was at the helm, you could make it that distance from Bream Head in half an hour. You’re looking at two hours if you’re coming from the inner harbour, or longer if you’re just travelling under engine.

“Could you do it alone?” Daniel asks. 

“Maybe,” Brian hums. “You’d be looking for someone with a little more experience than your typical boatie.” He shifts in his chair, then tips his head to Daniel. “I think you’ve got the right idea, mate. I’d reckon someone was trying to take that boat to the Marotere Islands. Only reason you’d be out that way, really.”

“Why?” Kristin asks. “There shouldn’t be anything out there. Those islands are a protected conservation area; you need a permit just to visit.”

“Doesn’t stop folks from making an off-the-books trip though,” Daniel interjects. “I think you’re allowed to anchor off the coast, but I’m sure people push the boundaries a bit.”

“Well sure,” says Brian. “But it’s not as common as you’d think. There’s plenty of shoals and current through there; you’ve got to be confident if you want to make it onshore.” He sighs, then leans back in his chair, closing his eyes for a moment. “As far as that yacht’s concerned, your guess is as good as mine.”

They probe a bit further on the abandoned vessel, but it’s clear soon enough that Brian doesn’t have much more to offer them. As their conversation begins to draw to a close, the clerk —Kauri, Kristin learns— starts parking sheaths of photocopied documents into a brown bankers box. When he’s finished he wraps the whole thing in plastic sheeting, seemingly having picked up on their inability to stay dry for more than 20 minutes at a time.

“Sorry about that,” she says as they stand to leave, gesturing to their wet imprints on the chairs. “Not a problem,” Brian grins. “You’re definitely one of the nicer things to wash up around here.” He holds her gaze a little too long, his deep blue eyes seeming all the more intense now that she’s their sole focus. 

Oh. 

She can’t say she isn’t a bit flattered, and a few years ago Brian would definitely have been her type. But she’s already learned her lesson about dating someone involved in an active case, and she’s not keen to try it again.

“Well, thank you for your time,” she manages, feeling a flush heating her face as she edges toward the door. “You’ve been very helpful.” 

Beside her, Daniel’s features have gone completely neutral in a way that suggests he’s not thrilled by this turn of events, but he’s too professional to let it show openly.

Brian laughs good-naturedly, seemingly unbothered, then walks them to the door. He stares at the grey sky appraisingly, taking in the continued deluge thundering against the pavement. “You’re welcome to wait out the storm here, if you’d like,” he offers. “No obligation,” he adds, looking at Kristin with a rueful smile. “Just thought you two might like to stay dry for a spell.”

“Thanks,” she nods, “We’ve got other matters to attend to. But I appreciate the offer.”

“We’ll be in touch if there’s anything more needed for the investigation,” Daniel adds, his tone coolly professional. She could almost laugh at how unnecessary this is, if she weren’t also a little stung. Judging by his behaviour, Daniel seems not to have put the spoofing case behind them. It’s very unlike him, not to mention insulting. But now’s not the time or place.

Brian’s nodding, already turning to head back to his office. “Good luck,” he smiles. “You know where to find me.”

They stumble back through the parking lot, heads tucked against the wind and rain, until they reach a main street. Daniel’s carrying the box of files, rain sleeting off the plastic and soaking his pants. She’d feel bad, but he’d insisted on carrying it and she doesn't have the heart to fight him, not while her ribs ache with every shivering step. They’ve both removed the shock blankets; much as they helped, they’d look absolutely ridiculous wandering around with them. And besides, Breen would never let her hear the end of it if he saw them.

Speaking of Breen, his latest text indicates he’s due to pick them up in about forty minutes. To kill time, they wander the main street until they find a cozy-looking cafe with indoor seating visible through the large glass window. A burst of warmth hits her as she pulls open the door, and she immediately knows she’s not leaving until Breen shows up.

Daniel sets the box of documents beneath a small table near the window, flanked on either side by two plush, upholstered chairs. She feels a little bad for dripping all over them, but not bad enough to keep from collapsing into one while Daniel places their order. She looks at the rainy street beyond the glass and sighs contentedly, feeling the chill starting to leave her. Yes, this was the right call.

Soon enough Daniel returns, carrying two large mugs. He places an oat milk latte on the table in front of her with a little smile and she can’t help grinning back at him. “Mmm,” she hums, grabbing the mug and savouring the warmth of the ceramic against her hands. “You’ve outdone yourself this time.”

“Then I guess there’s no sense splitting a warm roast veggie panini, eh?” Daniel teases, sitting in the chair opposite her. “Or two bowls of tomato soup.”

There’s a sudden tightness in her chest that has nothing to do with her ribs, and she can’t quite find anything to say to him. So she gives him another smile before taking a sip of the latte, sighing in satisfaction. “Hits the spot?” Daniel asks.

“Like you wouldn’t believe,” she replies, already going for another taste. “I didn’t know how much I needed this.”

“Me too,” he says, his own mug pressed between two large hands. The warmth and coffee seem to be doing Daniel good; the stress in his jaw is gone and the familiar glint of humour has come back into his eyes, joining his smile to give him an air of happy contentment. They sit in silence for a moment, enjoying the reprieve as the rain patters against the window. 

It’s comfortable, and she finds herself slipping into a bit of a daze. The raindrops leave shifting, trickling patterns on the glass. There’s hardly anyone else in the cafe, but the sporadic hum of muted conversation is a welcome backdrop to her thoughts as she begins idly reflecting on the new information from Coastguard.

Eventually, Daniel breaks the silence. He nudges the box of documents closer to their table with his foot, then asks, “what did you think of Brian?”

“He seemed fine,” she says. “The tip-off about the abandoned yacht is some good intel, not to mention the records. It’s too early to tell, but there might be something in this.”

Daniel nods. “Possibly. We won’t know until we follow up, but it’s nice to think we might have a lead.” He pauses, taking another sip of his coffee, then flashes her a mischievous grin. “His keyboard story checks out, at least.”

She laughs, thinking back to the absolute giant of a man. “Maybe. I still think it’s a bit of a weird flex. I mean, worst-case, they must make bigger keyboards for this sort of situation.”

“True,” Daniel chuckles. “Maybe he just hates paperwork, like Mike.” His eyes flick to hers for a moment. “Pretty rude of him to hit on you, though.”

She doesn’t say anything to that, but Daniel holds her gaze like he’s expecting more of an answer. After a moment of silence she sighs, setting her mug down against the tabletop. “You don’t have to mother hen me,” she says, feeling her good mood start to ebb. “I’ve learned my lesson.”

Daniel’s eyes widen, as though it’s not the answer he’s been expecting. In fact, he seems genuinely surprised, almost confused. “What?”

“The spoofing case,” she rolls her eyes, voice sharp in the quiet cafe. She can feel her ribs aching as she crosses her arms against her chest. “I messed up one time.”

Daniel’s looking increasingly contrite. “That’s not what I meant,” he backpedals, holding up a hand placatingly.

“Then what did you mean?” She challenges, not willing to let it lie.

“I—” Daniel starts, then stops. He looks as though he’s going to duck the question, then thinks better of it and tries again. “You know I trust you completely,” he says, his voice soft and sincere. In spite of her frustration, a thread of warmth curls in her chest. “And I’d never hold something like that against you. Hell, I did the same damn thing with Missy a year later —luck just wasn’t on your side.”

It’s not quite that simple, but she appreciates the sentiment. “Okay,” she says, taking another sip from her mug. She narrows her eyes at him, trying to get a clear read on his expression. “So if it’s not about the spoofing case, what’s really bothering you?” 

A flicker of something new and unreadable flashes through Daniel’s eyes. She’s about to press him on it, but the woman behind the counter calls his name, waving him over to collect their food. He shoots her an apologetic smile —though honestly, it also looks quite relieved— and then rises from his seat. 

She’s left alone with her thoughts for a moment, watching the rain beat steadily against the window. The tension slowly leaves her as she takes another sip of her latte, glad to be in the warmth.

When Daniel returns she feels more like herself. He’s carrying a plastic tray laden with twin bowls of steaming soup, a freshly-toasted panini plated neatly between them. When he sets it down, she nudges the larger half of the panini toward him, a smile quirking her cheek when he raises an eyebrow questioningly. True, it’s not like her to willingly give up something so delicious. But it’s been a long day and she wants to be kind.

And, admittedly, he did cover lunch.

“You’ve earned it,” she says, watching a dusting of pink cross Daniel’s cheeks as he takes a bite. “Thanks for not getting us killed on the road earlier.”

"Anytime," Daniel smiles. "Though hopefully never again."

She thinks about pushing the Brian topic again, but a few spoonfuls of rich, flavourful tomato soup quell the urge. It’s nice to just sit and enjoy each other’s company.

They pass the time easily until Breen arrives, a ginger streak running past the window through the deluge. He must not realize he’s at the right spot, because she watches him overshoot the entrance at a near-sprint. A few minutes pass, then he’s wearily dragging himself through the door, looking substantially wetter than a few moments prior. She waves him over.

“You’re looking damp,” she says by way of greeting. Across from her, Daniel smiles into his coffee. 

Breen huffs, shaking droplets from the sleeves of his jacket. “I’ll dry out. Bloody rain, you can’t see a damn thing.” He takes a moment to catalogue their undeniably dishevelled appearance, still very obviously saturated. “I could say the same for you two though,” he adds. “If I didn’t know better I’d think you’d spent the whole afternoon out in that downpour.”

“Not far from it,” Daniel chuckles. “Luck hasn’t been on our side today.”

“No kidding,” Breen says. He meets Kristin’s eyes again, a little more seriously, and suddenly she wonders how much Daniel’s relayed back to Mike. She’d kept it basic when she’d called him: minor collision, surprise connection to the harbour case, police vehicle damaged, stranded in Whangārei. She’d given Breen even less; just an approximate game plan and a pickup point. But he’s always been an open book and his face is radiating concern.

“How are you, really?” Breen asks, a little gentler than his usual boisterous tone.

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t help a small smile. “I’m fine,” she says. “A little sore, and definitely soaked. But fine.” 

Breen casts a glance to Daniel, who traitorously fills in the gaps. “It was a low-speed collision, but the ute hit Kristin’s side of the car with enough force that the airbag deployed,” he says. “Paramedics recommended a follow up check.”

“That blows.” Breen looks at her sympathetically, but thankfully spares her any further speculation. “You must be freezing.”

“I’ve been warmer,” Kristin admits, though the lunch has definitely helped. Still, a hot shower is calling to her. Mmm, and dry clothes. Suddenly, she can’t wait to be back on the road, heading home.

“Well, hopefully I can help with that,” Breen grins. For the first time, she realizes he’s carrying a black duffel bag. He tosses it on an empty table beside them, pulling back the zipper to reveal an eclectic but dry collection of miscellaneous clothing. It seems to be mainly standard-issue police t-shirts and windbreakers, augmented with an atrociously-designed indie band hoodie, a rugby polo, and some shorts that look like they’ve seen better days. She raises an eyebrow.

“They’re all I could dig up on short notice,” Breen shrugs, looking unbothered. “The standard stuff’s from the CIB. The rest were in my car.”

Gross. “Your car?” she asks, failing to keep the skepticism at bay. “They’re clean,” Breen retorts, throwing up his hands defensively. “I was going to hit the pitch and join in the rugby practice this evening, but —shockingly— it’s cancelled due to inclement weather.”

Daniel chuckles again, taking a sip of his coffee. “Well, your loss is our gain. Thanks for bringing something down. I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t keen to be dry.”

She takes a shirt and windbreaker, turning her nose up at the remaining options. It will be a cold day in hell before she’s wearing Breen’s old rugby shorts. Daniel halfheartedly paws through the bag’s contents before settling on the same. She’s not surprised; where Daniel’s well-muscled, Breen’s tall and wiry. She’d be shocked if any of Breen’s clothes would fit him. 

They take turns changing in the cafe’s small washroom. She goes first, and although she emerges mercifully dry from the waist up, she finds she’s still shivering in the light t-shirt and flimsy windbreaker. Breen gives her a skeptical once-over, then tosses her the hideous indie hoodie. She catches it reflexively, the thick cotton fabric soft against her fingers. 

“Try it,” Breen suggests. “You look like one of those tiny posh dogs from the city, always shaking all over the place.”

She gives him a flat look. “Wow, thanks.”

“Anytime,” he grins. “My aunt had one, actually. I think it was a teacup chihuahua or something. Weird little scrap of a dog, she kept having to knit tiny vests for it.”

“I really have no idea why you’re still single,” she says sarcastically. But she peels off the windbreaker and pulls the hoodie over her head, wincing as the movement pulls at her shoulder and aching ribs. She has to pause for a moment halfway through, fighting her muscles as they spasm in protest. It’s worth it though; almost immediately she feels warmer. Not that she’ll ever admit as much to Breen; he’s already looking at her rather smugly.

“What are you grinning at?” She scowls accusingly.

“Nothing,” he says, throwing his hands up. “Just nice to see you taking my advice occasionally. I’ll mark the calendar.”

She throws him an unimpressed look, then zips the windbreaker overtop for good measure. It’s partially to help with the rain but mainly to obscure the weird design. She likes Breen, but she’ll never quite get on board with his musical tastes.

Soon enough Daniel’s changed as well, and they’re ready to head out. The rain hammers the pavement outside in blustery sheets, shaped by the wind to form strange, twisting designs on the road surface. The three detectives trade bracing looks as Breen pulls open the cafe door, letting in a misty gust of cold air. “Nothing for it, eh,” Breen sighs. “Guess we’ll run for it. I’m not parked too far up the road.”

Kristin nods, stuffing her fists in the pockets of her windbreaker. Daniel picks up the box of documents, then nods toward the door with cautious resignation. “Lead the way.”

It’s a frenzied, sodden scramble to the car. 

She knows they’re all wearing high-visibility police jackets and that they must look absolutely ridiculous, but she can’t find it in herself to care as frigid water seeps down her neck. Breen’s frantically clicking the keys, trying to get the trunk open so Daniel can stow the box of Coastguard documents. She’s shivering alongside them at the rear of the car, sticking it out in a twisted sense of camaraderie, when Daniel shouts at Breen over the noise of the rain. “You want me to drive?”

“Nah, no worries,” Breen shouts back, water running down his face. “You’ve been through a lot already. Take it easy, mate.”

She expects Daniel to drop it, but in a very uncharacteristic display of stubbornness, he persists. “You’ve already made the trip to collect us, it’s no trouble.” Rainwater is sluicing down his windbreaker and into his trousers, which are beginning to cling to his thighs. 

Breen shoots him a look of —challenge? And then he grins, ginger hair plastered to his forehead. “I insist,” he says. “Wouldn’t want you to get any wetter.”

She can’t help rolling her eyes. Men and their cars, honestly. “I’ll drive,” she interjects, reaching an expectant hand for the keys. 

They both stare at her as though she’s thrown an unexpected variable into a complex equation. 

“Uh, okay,” says Breen, after a decidedly lengthy pause. He hands them over and she slides into the refuge of the car, peeling off her wet windbreaker and tossing it in the back. Her ribs twinge again at the movement, but she reckons it’ll be manageable enough for the hour-long drive home. In hindsight, it’s probably why Breen had been so reluctant to pass her the keys.

Outside, there’s a brief struggle as both Breen and Daniel try to claim the front passenger seat. Ultimately, Daniel remembers to shut the trunk, which gives Breen the edge.

She cranks the heat as the men pile into the car, sighing in relief as the burst of warmth hits her. “Man, you’re going to have it like the Soloman Islands in here,” Breen remarks, watching as she dials the temperature up as far as it will go.

“Shut it, you,” she scoffs. “I haven’t felt properly warm since we left the station this morning. I’m going to enjoy this.”

“Fair enough,” Breen remarks, nudging the vent closest to him shut. “How are you doing back there, Daniel?”

Daniel’s wedged in the back seat and looking none too happy about it. “Oh, you know,” he says diplomatically. “Comfortable enough. I appreciate the heat, though.”

“See?” Kristin says smugly. “He gets it.”

Breen pouts, but he doesn’t stay quiet for long. It’s one of the traits she appreciates most about him, when she really thinks about it. His chaotic energy has a sort of buoyancy to it, whirling her along for the ride like seafoam on the tide.

It’s why she can’t help but smile when Breen turns to face her again, eyes bright. He plucks curiously at the vent, his long, spindly fingers fiddling with the hinged plastic as his face splits in a wide grin. “Hey, speaking of warmth, did I ever tell you about the time I fell in a volcano?”

She laughs, falling into the moment as Breen launches into an implausibly detailed story about a hiking trip gone wrong. The movement hurts her ribs more than a little, but she can’t really find it in herself to care as Breen doubles down, gesturing wildly in the dim glow of the dashboard lights. Even Daniel’s joining in, cracking up as Breen describes losing his tent, supplies, and hat into an open pit. 

It’s spreading an entirely different sort of warmth through her chest, deeper than the car’s vented heating can reach. It’s playful and tender. Comfortable.

It’s nice.

Chapter Text

By the time they reach the station, Kristin’s practically forgotten the day’s trials. Yes, the muscles in her sides spasm with every pained, elated laugh, to the point that her voice has taken on a slightly raspy tone. But the car has been warm and bright with laughter, and she can never quite bring herself to stop. Quite the opposite really; she’s been egging Breen on for the better part of half an hour.

They’ve barely made it into the station when Mike comes striding up, looking relieved. “Back from the big adventure, I see,” he says. He’s smiling ruefully, and Kristin can see relief and a touch of concern in his eyes. 

“Well, it wasn’t so bad,” she teases. “We found the prior owner of the Contessa. And we got a possible lead on the harbour case.”

“From what I hear, you got a bit more than that,” Mike replies. “Good work. But I’d like you to go get checked at A&E before you head home.”

She opens her mouth to protest, but Mike beats her to it. “I won’t hear any arguments. This is a workplace accident and I can’t have you running around flouting protocol.”

“But you always do that,” Kristin points out.

“It’s true,” Breen adds. “I remember your first firearms call. You didn’t want to wait for the armed offenders squad, so you just walked right in.”

“Or the Bright Valley wine homicide,” Kristin continues. “When you didn’t want to wait for forensics to test the evidence, so you gave it to a prime suspect to test in her lab instead.”

“My first case here, the armed robbery with Kenny Vance,” Daniel joins in, looking a little surprised to be talking back to Mike so directly. “We knew he was dangerous but you wouldn’t bring a gun. You definitely would have been shot if Kristin hadn’t tackled him.”

“Okay, but I told you, I didn’t need a gun,” Mike jumps in, looking a little harried. “You two had it handled. I stand by that.”

“Do you even carry handcuffs anymore?” Kristin asks. 

Mike purses his lips, looking disapproving. “Stop changing the subject, all of you.” 

Kristin stifles a laugh as Breen shoots her a conspiratorial grin, mouthing ‘no handcuffs.’

Mike sighs, as if asking for patience. “Kristin, you’re going to A&E. Daniel, you’re going with her; I want you checked out as well.”

Daniel nods, but he’s chuckling too, laughter clearly visible in the crinkles of his eyes. “Yes, boss.”

Mike pauses, looking around at the snickering faces of his three detectives. He tries to maintain his scowl, but Kristin’s known him long enough to see the beginnings of a smile pushing at his cheeks. “I’m beginning to feel a bit henpecked,” he says, a teasing lilt to his tone. “Clearly you don’t have enough work around here. Maybe we’ll have to revisit a few additional cold cases?”

“All good,” Daniel says, turning to grab his keys. 

“No thanks,” Breen adds, “I’m good here with the pirates.”

“The what?” Mike asks, a little incredulous. Clearly he’s not been briefed on Breen’s exploits.

“Don’t ask,” Kristin stage-whispers conspiratorially, flashing Mike a grin as she gathers her bag. Breen shoots her a look of betrayal, but she can see the glint of amusement in his eyes that says he doesn’t really mean it. 

Clearly Mike does as well, because he doesn’t dwell on it. “Well, maybe it’s worth further discussion over a round,” he suggests. “My treat, as a welcome home to Breen.”

Kristin watches Breen’s face flush pink in a matter of seconds. It’s a glaringly obvious tell, but it’s kind of sweet; he looks genuinely chuffed. 

“I wouldn’t say no to that,” she smiles, nodding in approval. 

“Snake and Tiger, then?” Daniel grins. “We’ll text you once we’re through A&E.”

“Perfect,” says Mike. Then he turns to Breen, his tone turning serious and a tad judgemental. “Now, tell me about these so-called pirates.”

Kristin’s still giggling as she follows Daniel out of the station.

-

Unfortunately, the rest of the afternoon doesn’t go nearly as well. A&E’s busy, which isn’t unexpected. But it means they wait for nearly three hours before they’re seen. It’s almost as bad as a stakeout; less lengthy but maddeningly indeterminate.

They resort to their usual methods to pass the time. Catching up on emails, talking through their leads, and when all else fails, I Spy. They play until Daniel starts referencing the Geneva Conventions and looks as though he’d truly rather be anywhere else.

Things move much more quickly when they’re through triage and in with a doctor. Daniel’s pronounced fine readily enough, though they warn he may develop some residual stiffness in the coming days.

She’s less lucky. An x-ray confirms she’s got two fractured ribs, which explains the dull, persistent throbbing in her chest that swells to a biting ache when she breathes too deeply. She’d been able to put it largely from her mind in the warmth and laughter of the car, but the stark ordeal in the waiting room has brought the pain back to the forefront. Thankfully, she’s cleared of any concussion symptoms. Her shoulder is deemed satisfactory, just badly bruised. 

They’re both sent on their way at a quarter to seven, and she texts Mike to let him know they’re on their way to the Snake and Tiger.

When they arrive, Breen and Mike have already claimed a table near the far end of the pub. It’s set back from the bar, recessed into a bit of a corner. But it’s got a good view of the room, and the nosy, always-on-the-clock detective part of her appreciates the choice.

“How’d you two make out?” Mike inquires, sipping at a glass of Merlot. 

“All good on my end,” Daniel shrugs. “Not surprising, really.” He looks toward Kristin and she sighs, wincing at the movement. 

“Hairline fracture in two ribs. Not bad, all things considering, but I’ll be feeling it for a bit.”

Mike nods in sympathy. “Want some down time to recover?”

She mulls it over, fleetingly. “Yeah, nah,” she says. “We’ve finally got a lead. Two, possibly. Best to crack on with it.”

Mike nods again, and she appreciates that he doesn’t push the matter. She’ll take a day if she thinks she needs it, but it’s rarely the case. The amount of banked sick leave she’s accumulated is astounding.

But they’re not here to discuss her ribs. 

She turns to Breen instead, watching as he takes a slow pull of his pint. “How’s the first week back?” She asks, grinning. “Still glad you took the posting?”

He laughs and raises his glass to her, eyes shining in the glow of the pub’s ambient lighting. “Couldn’t have asked for a better welcome home,” he smiles. “Good friends, good drinks, a nice cold case to sink my teeth into.” He sighs contentedly, leaning back in his chair. “A bach that’s only somewhat unaffordable, and very barely run-down. What more could a man ask for?”

“A better place to live, by the sounds of it,” Daniel says. 

Breen grins. “Well, okay, there’s that. But I’ve accepted that this is pretty good for a spontaneous move. Not many folks are willing to rent a bach on four days’ notice.”

“Speaking of the cold case, how’s your pirate?” Kristin asks.

Mike grunts into his wine as Breen smiles sheepishly, carding a hand through his hair. “Slow going, I’m afraid,” he sighs. “Our pirate goes by the name of Jessie Williams; he seems to have been pretty familiar with our domestic shipping industry. He was a member of the seafarer’s union and crewed the Moana Chief for a number of years. But that’s about all I’ve been able to get on him.”

Kristin hums, thoughtful. “The Moana Chief runs from Auckland to Marsden Point, right? Think anyone in Whangārei would know him?”

“I don’t see why,” Breen says. “It’s a container ship; it stops all over New Zealand, all the way down to Lyttleton. There’s nothing special about Whangārei from what I gather.”

“Except that Brokenwood is between ports, right along the shipping lane,” Mike fills in, finishing Kristin’s thought.

“So you think a crewmate could have killed him?” Daniel asks. “Weird spot for it, so close to port.”

“True,” Kristin nods. “Wouldn’t you wait for the leg back north to Auckland from Lyttleton? The currents there flow out to sea, away from the coast. It would be a better spot to take care of the body.”

“You would think,” Mike acknowledges. “But we don’t know what we’re dealing with, yet. Let’s not rule anything out at this stage.”

Breen’s been watching the exchange with increasing amusement, and takes the moment to cut in. “You three really don’t know what off the clock means, do you?”

There’s a pause while the table’s occupants consider Breen’s words. Mike’s married to the job; he’s said as much on multiple occasions. And admittedly, Kristin’s social activities largely feature a rotating cast of her colleagues. She knows it’s the same for Daniel, because he spends most of his free time with her. It’s just easier that way. Comfortable, familiar.

Well, no sense dwelling on it.

“Just thought you might appreciate the help,” she retorts, smiling sweetly at Breen. “Since it sounds like you haven’t made much progress on your own.”

Daniel covers a laugh while Breen pouts dramatically at her. “That’s a little uncalled for,” he says. “You said it yourself, there’s not a lot to go on.”

“Aw, a little lost at sea? ” Daniel chuckles.

Mike sighs heavily and Kristin rolls her eyes at the terrible joke. Across the table, Breen is gaping at Daniel, looking impressed and a little shocked. And then, in a moment of colossal stupidity, he doubles down. “Don’t you worry,” he promises, meeting Daniel’s eyes. “I’ll have this wrapped up before your harbour case. You can be shore of it.”

He’s still grinning, but Kristin can see the edge to it, a spark of competition in his eyes. She knows Daniel sees it too, because his face shifts just a fraction in understanding. He gives Breen a small nod, smiling in a way that’s all teeth. “I’ll look forward to you making a splash.”

She looks across the table to Mike, who shrugs back at her.

“Nobody’s solving anything right now,” she interjects, watching with some amusement as Breen and Daniel simultaneously turn to look at her. “But it seems like we’ve all got business in Whangārei tomorrow. There might be some efficiency there.”

Daniel chuckles, and Breen’s mouth twitches in a smile. 

“What?” She asks, a tad suspiciously. For two people who have known each other less than a week, they seem to be on the same wavelength more often than not.

“E-fish-ently,” Breen says. “You know. Like fish.”

Oof.

Kristin rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but smile fondly. It’s nice to be working with Breen again, and she’s hardly going to turn down a chance to investigate a cold case together. Even if he’s adopted Daniel’s atrocious sense of humour.

“We were planning to head back tomorrow to speak with our new friend Jason,” she forges on, nodding at Daniel. “The container port is just on the edge of town, at Marsden Point. We could give you a lift if you’re thinking of dropping by.”

Breen lights up. “That sounds great,” he says, grinning broadly. “I’ll see if I can prod a few memories. The original statements are pretty bare-bones. I don’t think Gary spent much time out at Marsden Point.”

She doesn’t think Gary spend much time on anything, judging by the state of his records for the case. But she doesn’t mention it; it’s nothing they don’t already know.

“Sounds good,” says Daniel. “The more the merrier.”

Breen grins at them, waggling his eyebrows. “Speaking of merriment, I notice neither of you have drinks in your hands. Can I grab you something?”

“Please,” Kristin smiles, just as Daniel cuts in. “Let me.” 

They stare at each other for a brief moment, before Daniel reaches for his wallet. “It’s your welcome back celebration,” he explains, nodding at Breen. “Can’t have you buying the drinks.”

Breen’s eyes widen, matching her own surprise. And then he laughs. “Thanks mate,” he grins. “That’s awfully nice of you. I’ll go easy on the cocktails in your honour.”

Kristin raises an eyebrow, just as Mike cuts in. “Since when do you enjoy mixed drinks?”

“Since someone else is paying for them,” Breen grins. Kristin gives him an unimpressed look and the cockiness in his posture turns a little sheepish. “And since Roxy got me into them. Turns out she makes a mean daiquiri.”

Ah, that would explain it. Breen’s looking a little bummed out at the mention of Roxy, so she throws him a smile. “Make it two, then.” 

“Three, actually,” Daniel cuts in. Kristin looks at him, surprised. She can see Mike doing the same out of the corner of her eye. In all their years of working together, she’s never seen Daniel order a mixed drink. Whiskey on the rocks is as close as it gets. 

Daniel shrugs, looking a little bashful under her and Mike’s scrutiny. “New friends, new traditions,” he says simply. “Who says the Soloman Islands get all the fun?”

Breen’s cheeks flush pink, but he’s looking noticeably more upbeat. “Well alright then,” he grins. “Let’s get this party started.”

The night passes quickly after that, and to her immense surprise, Kristin finds she’s having a good time. She’d thought the day’s exhaustion would have her looking for an early exit, but two hours have flown by before she even thinks to check her watch. A steady flow of increasingly elaborate cocktails –financed equally by herself, Daniel, and Mike– has taken the edge off the pain in her ribs. Over by the bar, a local troupe are doing their best to bring down the house with two fiddles and a guitar. By the look on Mike’s face and the way his boots tap the old wood floors, it’s working.

Surprisingly, Breen and Daniel are getting on like old friends. Their earlier competition seems all but forgotten as the four of them partake in an increasingly unhinged game of pool. Daniel’s sipping something pink and fruity between shots —a pink chihuahua, she recalls Trudy explaining— and Breen’s swirling a margarita between two long, spindly fingers. The remaining three are wrapped around the end of a pool cue as he tries to take a shot backwards and under a leg, with predictably dismal results. She teases him as margarita sloshes down the knee of his trousers, then eats her words as she stumbles on her shot and whacks a ball straight off the table. Breen goes crawling around to look for it as Daniel cracks up, riling her up enough to miss the next three attempts entirely.

Even Mike’s getting in on it, throwing teasing jabs at all three of them as their uncoordinated antics grow increasingly wild. Pool isn’t her game, but she’s shocked to realize Mike’s rather skilled at it. She’s never seen him play before but clearly he once spent a lot of time at it. They’re on the same team, but she still gets the distinct impression that he’s wiping the floor with her.

It doesn’t matter though. She’s feeling relaxed and loose, surprisingly lighthearted in the warm glow of the bar lights.

It’s another hour before Mike suggests they pack it in. She knows he’s right, but by that point she’s in no shape to be driving. Neither are Breen and Daniel, for that matter, though neither is looking particularly concerned about it. 

Only Mike’s in fine form, having switched to water some time ago. He closes out their tab, exchanging some muted words with Trudy as he gestures toward their table. Likely thanking her for tolerating their antics, she reflects. They’re probably in for the cold shoulder next time they need a statement from her. Oh well.

Beside her, Daniel’s sporting a loose, happy grin, his eyes vaguely glassy as he presses Breen for details of his time playing rugby with the Brokenwood Cheetahs. Breen’s gone a familiar shade of maroon, beaming from ear to ear and waving his arms exaggeratedly as he retells the often-heard story of the game they almost won back in 2015. She’s heard it no less than 20 times, but it feels fresh and new tonight, and she can’t help cackling with laughter when Breen describes the agony of scoring on his own end in the final minute of play. 

“How did you even manage that?” Daniel keeps asking, laughing as Breen flushes an even deeper share of red.

“They were a very special team, back when Breen played,” Kristin giggles. “Maybe he can give you a demonstration now that he’s come home.”

“You sure seem to remember a lot for someone who says she’s not into rugby,” Breen alleges, laughing as she takes a protesting swipe at him.

“I’m not into rugby, I just enjoy good comedy,” Kristin laughs, a grin pulling at her cheek. 

“Methinks the lady doth protest too much,” Daniel chuckles.

“Don’t try and quote Shakespeare at me,” she challenges. “That’s not even the line.”

“Alright, the tab’s settled,” Mike cuts in, looking amused as he makes his way back to their table. “Let’s get you home.”

There’s some spirited logistical musing amongst the four of them, followed by a fleeting but enjoyable moment where she’s sure Breen and Daniel are going to race home on foot. And then Mike is calling the three of them a cab and bidding them a very fond, albeit firm, goodnight.

Soon she finds herself wedged in the backseat between Daniel and Breen, a little squashed but not really minding. They’re doing their best not to crowd her, but their shoulders and thighs still bump against each other, and she can feel the resulting ache in her ribs each time the cab takes a turn.

Beside her, Breen yawns loudly. He smells like alcohol and deodorant, sharp and familiar. “Oh man,” he murmurs, “I’m going to be feeling this tomorrow.”

“That’s what you get for not drinking any water,” Kristin retorts. “Don’t think I’m going to cover for you.”

“I’m pretty sure Mike knows what he’s getting into,” Daniel chuckles. He also smells like alcohol, underlain with a hint of something earthy and comfortable. It’s equally familiar to her after years of working together. “He bought quite a few rounds. A pretty good welcome back though, eh Sam?”

“Mm, yeah,” Breen acknowledges. “Couldn’t have asked for anything better.”

“Won’t stop you trying, though,” she teases.

He gives her an amused smile, and for a beat she sees something new flash in his eyes. Something warm and tender, and a lot more meaningful than his languid posture conveys. And then the moment’s gone, and he laughs. “True. A morning sausage roll wouldn’t go amiss.”

“I’d get in on that,” Daniel nods in agreement. “Nothing better to chase a hangover.”

“Deal,” says Breen. “You in, Kris?”

“Sure,” she grins, still reeling a little as she meets his eyes. “I’ll even pick them up. And make the coffee.”

Breen and Daniel side-eye each other for a moment. Probably the beginnings of another of their little competitions. She can’t imagine what else it would be.

“Okay,” says Daniel, sounding a bit strained. Then he brightens. “Actually, come to think of it, could you pick me up? My car’s back at the Snake and Tiger. We could grab coffee at Frodo’s on the way over.”

Breen laughs, and she shoots him a questioning look. “Me too,” he says, sounding a bit as though he’s covering something up. “Totally forgot Mike and I carpooled. Mine’s still at the station.”

“So now I’m the chauffeur?” she asks, feeling a smile tug at her cheek. “So much for sleeping in.”

“Like you would sleep in,” Breen retorts. “You’d be at the station first thing either way.”

She’s about to argue —mainly out of spite, because she knows Breen’s not wrong— when the car takes another sharp turn around a hill and Daniel slides a bit more into her side. His elbow is pressed right against the fractures and she can’t help but wince as the motion jostles her ribs. 

Predictably, he notices. “Shit, sorry,” he murmurs, withdrawing his arm from between them. He reaches carefully behind her, draping his arm across the back of her seat. Beside her, Breen catches on and does the same, lazily tucking a hand behind Daniel’s headrest.

Immediately, she’s got a lot more room. Her ribs rejoice, though she’s surprised to find there’s a large part of her that misses the warmth of having them pressed up against her. 

She shrugs it off. Must be the cocktails hitting her.

How’s that?” Daniel asks, watching her curiously.

“Much better,” she grins, recovering a bit from the moment of unexpected discovery. “Maybe I won’t leave you stranded after all.”

“Thanks Kris,” Breen sighs, relaxing against the seat contentedly. His arm brushes against the top of her shoulder as he gives her a soft, languid smile. “You’re the best.”

“Sweet as,” Daniel adds, his eyes warm and kind.

“You’re both three sheets to the wind,” she retorts. But secretly she’s a bit pleased, and the sudden warmth in her chest lingers through the rest of the ride. It hangs around as they drop her off, calling overly-sentimental farewells through the open windows as the driver rolls his eyes. And it stays long after the cab disappears into the stillness of the winter night.

Chapter Text

Kristin dreams strange dreams that night.

She sees ships pitching and rolling on a frothing sea, silhouetted unnaturally by the flash of oncoming headlights in the pouring rain. The wind whips her hair around her face, screaming with the force of a gale and buffeting her across a dark, black, shore. Between whirling torrents of water and light, she dreams of sun-warmed ginger hair, golden brown skin, and two sets of eyes alight with mirth. It’s all interspersed with far too much warmth and affection, and it leaves her groggy and disoriented when she wakes.

She lies in bed for a few moments, staring at the ceiling as the first whisps of pale morning light filter in through the window. It’s not the first inkling she’s had that there’s been something more to the way Breen and Daniel are acting. But it’s as if the pieces have suddenly fallen into place, clicking in the same way they do when she makes the solve on a particularly challenging case. Only this time, it feels like she’s been in the dark the whole time, only to have the resolution sprung on her unexpectedly. 

Which, she supposes, isn’t far from the truth.

Breen is flirting. Daniel’s flirting, or whatever his best approximation of it looks like. They’re both flirting, and they’re flirting with her.

And she likes it.

She pushes that treacherous thought aside. It’s barely six thirty and she’s feeling dazed enough as-is; she can have a personal crisis when she’s not trying to gear up for another trip to Whangārei.

Thankfully, she doesn’t have time to dwell on it further. She’s due to pick up Daniel and Breen in less than an hour, and she’s desperate for a shower and some water before she hits the road. She’s not hungover per se, but the late night seems to have done a number on her regardless.

Her ribs ache in protest as she rolls out of bed, and when she looks in the mirror she’s greeted by a mass of purple and green-ish bruising down her side. Another issue to address later, though admittedly there’s not much to be done for it.

The weak winter sun has already crested the horizon when she stumbles out of her house, looking at the laneway for a car that isn’t there.

Right. She’d carpooled to the pub with Daniel. But she’d taken her own car to work that morning, and had simply left it when they’d gone to A&E. Bugger all.

Ultimately, Mike ends up picking her up. He’s looking entirely too refreshed for the kind of night they’d enjoyed, though she supposes he’s not had nearly as much to drink. There’s a note of playful teasing in his tone when he asks her how she’s feeling, to which she throws him a sour look.

“Perfectly fine, thank you,” she scoffs, although it’s not entirely the truth. She can’t quite tell if the rolling in her stomach is from the cocktails or her morning revelation. On top of it, her ribs are aching fiercely, the dull pain exacerbated as she shivers in the crisp morning air.

Mike spares her further scrutiny and hands her a steaming coffee, warm in spite of the crisp chill in the air. “I thought it wouldn’t go amiss,” he says by way of offering. She takes it gratefully, her snippiness forgotten.

“Mmm,” she hums, savouring the warmth against her fingers. “You’re a lifesaver.”

“So I’m told,” Mike chuckles, absently selecting a new cassette. Holly Collins, his favourite.

“Oh really?” She raises an eyebrow, watching his face. “Playing the hero often these days?” She hasn’t forgotten his mysterious absences, the strange phone calls, or the woman who’d appeared at the station a few days prior. 

He gives her one of his enigmatic smiles, humming noncommittally as he pops the cassette into the tape player. Immediately, mournful country fills the car.

She recognizes the tune and sighs, giving him an exasperated grin. “We’re back to this, are we?”

Mike side eyes her as he pulls out onto the main road. “They’re the best three-minute crime stories ever sung.”

“They’re depressing-as, Mike,” Kristin chuckles. “We’re listening to an album called hung, drawn, and divorced, for god's sake.”

“They’re songs from the heart,” he admonishes, with a touch of reproach.

“You’ve strung me up like a county hog and taken our love to the slaughter,” the tape laments, sounding somewhat warbled through the Kingswood’s antique speakers.

“Yeah, yeah,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes fondly. “Whatever you say.”

They ride in companionable silence for a while, alone with their thoughts and the familiar maudlin melodies of Holly Collins.

They’ve just pulled up to the station when Mike turns to her, throwing the car in park and meeting her gaze. “Tell me,” he asks, “have you noticed anything odd with Daniel and Breen?”

Immediately, she feels caught out. She’s barely had an hour to process her morning revelation. The thought that Mike’s already ahead of her is disconcerting, to say the least. 

She tries to school her face into a somewhat casual expression, conscious of Mike’s eyes on her. “What do you mean?” She asks, buying time.

“You’re a forbidden temptation, the sweetest of sins, cowboy take me away,” the tape player croons.

Mike gives her a flat look. “You must have picked up on it.”

“You mean the stupid competitions?” Kristin asks, a little too hopeful. “That’s just Breen stirring the pot. And Daniel rising to it, for whatever reason.”

“Sweet turtle dove I’m a comin’ home, gonna make sweet love to you—” 

She flicks off the cassette player.

Mike chuckles, but he seems satisfied. “Maybe you’re right. They’ve never worked together before; it’s natural to have some growing pains.”

“I reckon so,” she says, wondering if she’s off the hook. “You and I didn’t exactly see eye to eye at the start.” 

It’s an understatement, to say the least. 

He’d been nothing short of an ass, relegating her to paperwork while he imperiously took command of the station. Accusing her mentor of incompetence had made it worse, as did the news of Gary’s terminal cancer, though admittedly that wasn’t actually Mike’s fault. She’d contemplated putting in for a transfer, though thankfully Breen had managed to talk her off the ledge in those rough early days. 

They aren’t fond memories, really. But they’re a testament to how far her relationship with Mike has come. She now considers him a close friend, and she knows he does the same.

“It’s true,” he murmurs, flashing her a small smile. He looks reassured for a moment, then pauses, his forehead creasing as a new thought occurs to him. “Although I wouldn’t say they’re not getting along. Quite the opposite, really. By the end of last night they were like two peas in a pod. I just don’t know where the competition is coming from.”

Ah. Kristin’s on firmer ground here. “Well, it makes sense, doesn’t it? You’ve got two blokes who know the role well, one of whom is Breen. There’s bound to be a little jockeying.”

“Mmm,” Mike hums, seemingly unconvinced. “I suppose.”

Well, she’s not going to throw out her other guess. Romantic posturing in the workplace seems exactly like the sort of thing Mike wants least to deal with. She wonders if he’s figured it out already, or if he’s genuinely oblivious. The long line of ex-wives suggests it could go either way.

“Hey,” she says, hoping to change the subject. “Speaking of mysterious behaviour, where did you dodge off to last weekend?”

Mike takes the opportunity to pull his keys from the ignition, throwing open a door and smiling ambiguously. “I don’t see how that’s got anything to do with this.”

She laughs, then exits the car, shutting the door and glancing at him across the bonnet. “You know I’m just going to keep asking.”

“I do know that,” Mike sighs, smiling patiently. “Though I’m hoping I can hold you off a bit longer.”

With that he strolls into the station, leaving her to trail along behind him. She thinks about pressing him more —she really wants to know what he’s been up to— but she’s promised to pick up Breen and Daniel and she’s already running late.

Something for another day, she supposes.

She’s a little nervous on the drive over to Breen’s, given her revelation earlier that morning. She can’t stop thinking about the cab ride home, about the press of his and Daniel’s arms against her side. Their laughter, smiles, scents. How had she not noticed?

More to the point, how the hell is she going to handle this? It’s wildly inappropriate, given their team structure. While neither report to her, she has a strong hunch HR won’t be pleased to learn all three of Mike’s direct reports are implicated in…in what? She doesn’t even know what they want. And there’s two of them, seemingly competing. What would that even look like? Would she have to choose? Oh god.

Okay. She takes a deep breath, fingers flexing on the steering wheel. Calm down. At the end of the day, they’re still Daniel and Breen. They’ve both been among her closest friends for years. 

She feels the tension start to leave her shoulders as she slowly talks herself down. They’re her friends, good friends. They’ve handled worse, probably. Certainly they’ve handled more conventionally dangerous situations together, at least. 

Okay. Whatever the future holds, she knows they’re in it. She just isn’t sure how.

She doesn’t have much time to dwell on it further before she’s pulling into the laneway of Breen’s rented bach, tires bumping down the uneven, muddy track. Breen’s out on the porch waiting for her, three travel mugs in hand. “Thought I’d surprise you,” he grins, rubbing a palm across the back of his neck. “You know, as a thank you for dragging my hungover carcass to Whangārei.”

Immediately, the curling tendrils of warmth are back in her chest, pushing away the last fragments of panicked dread. “I won’t say no to a coffee,” she smiles, taking a mug. The cheap plastic is adorned with screened-on images of the yellow power ranger, and she realizes all three mugs seem to be part of a set. They’re well-loved, by the look of it. “Mike beat you to it though,” she teases.

“Yeah, well, I bet he’s feeling a lot better than I am,” Breen sighs. “Do me a favour and drive slow, will you?”

She rolls her eyes, but he looks wrecked, so she does as he asks. He murmurs a tired “thanks, Kris,” as they pull away from the bach, his head flopping against the window.

It’s a quiet drive as they head to Daniel’s. Breen takes the opportunity to shut his eyes against the morning light, looking a little green. At one point she thinks he’s fallen asleep, but he manages a strangled groan when the car rolls over a pothole. 

Unlike Breen, he strolls down the walkway with a chipper spring in his step, looking for all the world like he’s never once seen a cocktail. She’s almost jealous, until she realizes what he’s carrying: three travel mugs. She doesn’t have to be a detective to know what they contain.

Breen’s watching too, an amused grin stretched across his tired features. Daniel piles into the back seat, smiling broadly at her as he holds out a mug. “Kia ora,” he practically beams at her. “I brought—“

“Coffee, yes,” she finishes, giggling. Daniel’s gaze tracks from her face to the cup holder, which already sports the coffee Mike had given her earlier, alongside a new one from Breen.

“Ah,” he says, looking a little put out. “Seems I’m not the only one with this idea.” 

“Yeah, nah,” she laughs, “great minds think alike, it would seem.”

“True that,” says Breen, twisting in his seat to accept the proffered coffee, exchanging it for one of his own mugs emblazoned with a red power ranger. “Honestly though? This is probably a good thing. Feels like a two-coffee morning, if not three.”

Daniel chuckles, perking up a bit as he examines the cartoonish graphics. “Not quite used to the cocktails?”

Breen hums into his coffee. “Not quite. You’re looking sharp though. What’s your secret?”

Daniel laughs. “Water, mostly. And a morning run.”

“Oh my god,” she can’t help interjecting, horrified. “You went for a run this morning? How?”

“I always go for a morning jog,” Daniel says, looking a little smug. “Starts the day off right. Besides, some of us can hold our liquor.”

“Whatever you say,” Kristin shrugs dismissively, taking over Breen’s indignant squawk. “Hangover or not, you won’t find me out there in the cold. Especially after the night we had.”

“It’s too early for all this health talk,” Breen says tiredly, running his fingers across the buttons for the car’s sound system. “What are you listening to these days?”

“Don’t—” she starts, but he’s already turned on the stereo before she can stop him. There’s silence for a beat, and Kristin almost thinks she’s in the clear. And then, to her horror, the audiobook resumes.

“She climbed the stairs soundlessly,” a sultry voice purrs, “feeling a frisson of excitement that was almost like a sеxual pleasure as she thought of the knife about to penetrate his flesh.”

“Oh my god,” Breen grins teasingly, looking like Christmas has come early. “You’re still listening to these?”

“She could see his shadow on the wall,” the sensual narration continues. “His long legs, his mane of hair, those shoulders. The back she had clung to in raptures, the neck she dreamed of kissing.”

“They’re good for engaging the brain while driving,” she says defensively, reaching across the dashboard to quickly flick off the stereo. She can feel heat rushing to her cheeks as she stares resolutely at the road, refusing to acknowledge either of the car’s occupants.

“Right,” Breen snorts. “Very intellectual.”

She can hear Daniel chuckling in the backseat. Traitor. 

“Kristin and I actually worked this case,” Breen says conversationally, looking a little more alive now that he’s had a chance to tease her. “The author, Jack Rudd, turned out to be a real creep. It’s kind of why he ended up murdered.”

“Really?” Daniel asks, clearly interested.

“Aw, yeah,” Breen affirms. “Killed just like the victim in this book, actually. Stabbed in the back at his own book signing. We had, like, a million suspects to deal with too, since he’d managed to piss off just about everyone at the event.” 

“Sounds familiar,” Daniel nods. “Self-absorbed author with more enemies than friends? Pretty sure we worked on that one this year. Ended up drowned in a floatation tank, actually.”

“Yeah, that’s what you get with literary types,” Breen nods sagely, as Kristin rolls her eyes. “We had another one with a poet, Decklan O’Grady. Faked his own death and tried to run off to sea. Good times.” 

Daniel whistles. “Sounds like it.”

Breen sighs, slumping contentedly back against the window. “Gotta hand it to them though, those authors really know how to reel in women.”

‘Which begs the question,” Daniel continues, a playful tilt to his voice, “why is Kristin listening to the audiobook?”

Damn him. She takes a stab at crafting a reasonably plausible answer. “In literary critique, it’s important to be able to separate an author from their work,” she explains primly. “Besides, I like a good mystery while I’m on the road. Like I said, it’s good for the brain.”

“Right,” says Breen, in a tone of amused disbelief. “Whatever you say.”

She takes it back. She doesn’t know what she sees in him. Might see in him. Maybe. She’s still not sure.

Thankfully, they reach the Snake and Tiger without further incident. From there it’s on to the station for a morning briefing, and then on the road again to Whangārei. Daniel takes a turn at the wheel this time, so Breen’s relegated to the back seat while she stares out at the ocean through the window, trying not to think about the last time they’d taken this same route.

Not for the first time, she finds herself admiring the speed at which the weather can turn. When she looks through the windscreen today, the terror of headlights flashing through heavy rain is replaced by streaks of sunlight dancing across gentle waves. The ocean is a bright, inviting turquoise —nothing at all like the roiling grey of the day prior.

They reach Marsden Point without issue, dropping Breen at the Northport office before continuing on to Whangārei. Her mood continues to improve when they reach the Whangārei police headquarters, where they’re informed Jason Willians is ready for their questioning. “You’ve got great timing,” a uniformed officer remarks as she escorts them down a long, brightly lit corridor to the interview room. “We just finished taking his statement for the impaired driving charge.” She swings open the door with a smile, gesturing for them to enter. “He’s all yours.”

Jason seems to think otherwise. He’s clearly had a rough night at the station, and one look at his surly features suggests he’s keen to be on his way. His deep brown eyes are tired and bloodshot, and his curled brown hair sticks up where he’d clearly slept on it. For all his scowling though, he doesn’t look much older than herself. Late thirties or early forties, maybe, with a lean, well-muscled build suggestive of several years’ manual labour. 

She schools her face into what she hopes is a friendly expression; she knows they’re walking a fine line with this interview. Jason’s technically free to go once the Whangārei officers process the charge for impaired driving. She can only hope he’ll be cooperative.

Admittedly, it doesn’t seem likely.

Belligerently, he crosses his arms as she and Daniel take up seats across the table. “Good morning, Jason,” she leads, hoping to establish some semblance of rapport. “How are you feeling?”

“Poorly,” he grouses, scowl deepening. Alright then.

“I’m sorry to hear that, Mr. Williams,” she says, carefully maintaining a straightforward, clear tone. “We’ll try to get through our questions quickly and not to take too much of your time.”

“You’d better,” he murmurs, but his posture softens minutely. 

Sensing that small talk will get them nowhere, she cuts to the point. “I understand you once owned a boat. A Contessa 32, I believe.”

At once, Jason freezes. His eyes dart between her and Daniel as he wets his lips, looking remarkably shaken by such a seemingly innocuous question. She glances at Daniel from the corner of her eye, and she can see the same surprise reflected on his face.

“Why do you want to know?” Jason challenges. “I don’t see what that has to do with the crash.”

“It’s background for another incident we’re following up on,” she says shortly. “So, the Contessa?”

Jason looks around the room, clearly uncomfortable. He almost seems as though he’s afraid to be seen, as though someone is watching him. “You’ve no right to ask me about that,” he frowns, leaning back in his chair. “I don’t have to tell you a damn thing.”

He’s not wrong, but she’s not going to say as much. “We would appreciate your cooperation,” she says instead.

“And I’d appreciate a decent cup of tea and a shower,” he bites back.

Daniel blows out a breath slowly through his nose, looking as though he’s rapidly losing patience. “Mr. Williams,” he interjects, tone sharp. “Answer the question, please.”

For a moment, she thinks Jason’s going to hold out. And then he folds with a sigh, all the fight leaving him as he stares at his hands. They’re calloused, she notes, rough with wear. 

“Yeah,” he mutters, looking away. “I had a boat, once. Haven’t seen it in years.”

“Thank you,” Daniel nods, his tone gentler. “What happened to it?”

Jason looks as though he’d rather be anywhere else. “Couldn’t tell you, if I’m honest,” he shrugs. “Just walked away.”

“And when was this?” 

“About a decade ago, I reckon. A good while. Long enough that you’ve no bloody reason to be bringing it up now.”

“Like I said, it’s background,” Kristin says shortly, nodding to Daniel in thanks. “You didn’t try to sell the vessel? Must’ve been worth something.”

“No,” Jason grouses. “Never got a damn penny. Never wanted one either.”

Very curious. “And why is that?”

“Just wanted to get away.” And then Jason clams up again, scowling. 

Okay. They’re barely five minutes into the interview and already she’s having to rethink her entire line of questioning. Clearly there’s something more at play than they’d realized; something beyond unpaid storage dues or storm damage. Something Jason doesn’t want to tell them.

“Get away from what?” She presses, curious.

“It doesn’t matter now,” Jason says curtly. “And it's none of your damn business.”

She thinks about pressing him harder, but ultimately decides against it. They have other avenues to explore, and there’s no sense gambling them away in the hope of gleaning something new on the boat.

She pulls out a printed photograph of the harbour victim, turning it face down on the table. It’s a long shot, but there’s no harm in trying it. 

“What we’re about to show you could be disturbing,” she leads. “But this individual made inquiries to purchase the boat two weeks ago, and was subsequently found drowned in the Brokenwood harbour. We understand the boat hasn’t been in your possession for some time; nonetheless, do you recognize this man?”

She flips over the photograph. Almost immediately, Jason goes green. He sputters for a moment, then shakily nods. “Yes,” he croaks. “Yes, I knew him. That’s Craig Walker.”

Immediately, she feels the familiar spark of adrenaline at a fresh lead. They have a name. Finally, they might be getting somewhere.

She presses Jason again, trying to tamp down her sudden excitement. “How did you know him?”

Jason glances worriedly between her and Daniel, chewing at his lip. “He’s —he was an old acquaintance,” he murmurs. 

She sighs at his reticence, exchanging a frustrated glance with Daniel. “From where?”

“We met down at the port in Auckland. A mate introduced us.”

“And when did you last see him?”

“Not for a decade, at least. Like I said, he was an old acquaintance.” He trails off for a moment, looking longingly at the door. “We weren’t close.”

“Any idea why he would be trying to buy your boat, then?” Daniel asks, drumming his fingers on the tabletop. “Bit of a coincidence, wouldn’t you say?”

“That’s all it is, though,” Jason growls, rallying in the face of Daniel’s implication. “A bloody coincidence. And besides, it isn’t my boat. As I told you, I haven’t looked at the damn thing in years.”

“Right,” Daniel nods, wisely choosing to lay the topic aside for the time being. “And what can you tell us about Mr. Walker? His life, his work?”

“He was an acquaintance. Stevedore at the Port of Auckland, I think. Couldn’t tell you a whole lot more than that.”

She watches his expression, noting the way his eyes dart away from her own when he catches her stare. His fingers twitch against the tabletop.

“You seem to have many acquaintances,” she observes. “What can you tell us about individual who introduced you and Mr. Taylor?”

Jason swallows, looking a little somber. Then he steels himself again and meets her gaze head on. “That would be Jessie Taylor.”

She can’t help glancing at Daniel in surprise; he looks just as taken aback. Breen’s mysterious pirate is the last person she would have expected to turn up in this investigation. 

“Jessie Taylor, eh?” She finds herself asking, leaning forward to rest her elbows on the tabletop. “Tell me more.”

Looking back later, she’ll realize it all snowballs from there.

-

An hour later, she’s walking out of the Whangārei station feeling like the harbour case has flipped right over on her. She’s got a strange feeling of disorientation, mind racing as she replays the interview from every angle she can think of. Something big has clicked into place, but she doesn’t have enough of the story to piece together the significance. It’s infuriating and exhilarating all at once.

She calls Mike to relay what they’ve gleaned. Apparently Jason and Jessie had been friends from high school, having both grown up in Riverstone alongside Jessie’s brother, Michael. And while Michael had opted to remain in the district to fish the family’s share of the snapper quota, Jessie had decided to try his luck working at the Port of Auckland. Better money, Jason had said.

“And this Michael, he’s still around?” Mike asks, a little surprised. 

“Apparently,” Kristin shrugs. “Jason says he and Jessie weren’t close; he never shared much about his brother. But he doesn’t have any reason to think otherwise.”

“Right,” Mike hums, his voice trailing off. “I’ll follow up on that. I don't recall Breen mentioning a brother in the case files. It’s a bit strange that he wouldn’t have come forward at the time of Jessie’s murder.”

“That’s what I thought,” Kristin nods. “Thanks, Mike.”

She ends the call with a sigh, feeling the now-familiar ache in her ribs at the movement. It’s been a low, steady throb for most of the morning and shows no sign of improving. Resignedly, she thinks of the many weeks of healing to come. Best get used to it.

Daniel’s quiet beside her, his features pensive as they head back to the car. By the looks of him, he’s just as thrown as she is.

“Jessie Taylor’s hiding something,” she says, to break the silence.

“Yeah, I got that,” Daniel nods. “The question is, why?”

“He could be implicated in the murder,” she suggests, though there’s no evidence to suggest it.

“Maybe,” Daniel nods. His eyes scan the street, skimming from storefront to storefront as though he’s searching for something.

She leaves him to it, still focused on the morning's developments. “The background on him came up clean, eh?”

“Yeah,” he nods again. “No prior convictions, no involvement in past inquiries, no fingerprints on file. We can follow up with the farm owner to confirm his employment; if he’s been working as a farmhand for as long as he says, it shouldn’t be hard to verify.”

“He sure looks it,” she suggests. “He’s been doing some kind of manual labour. Did you see his hands?”

Daniel grins, tearing his gaze away from the storefronts to waggle his eyebrows. “Checking out his fingers?”

She throws him an unimpressed scowl, but the effect is entirely ruined when he laughs. The sound sends a burst of bright affection shooting through her chest, and she can’t help but join him. “Shut it, you,” she chuckles, “I was observing. To verify his statement.”

“Sure you were,” Daniel teases. He stops suddenly, and she stumbles before throwing him a questioning glance. Her ribs ache at the sharp movement. 

“We never got that treat this morning,” Daniel smiles, nodding to the bakery beside them. “I took the liberty of looking up a few options before we left. Apparently this place does a great cream tea.”

Oh.

She can feel the flush spreading across her cheeks as she takes in the crinkle of Daniel’s warm brown eyes. He’s watching her, clearly noting her reaction and looking pleased with himself. 

“I’d like that,” she manages, suddenly feeling a bit shy. It’s a strange sensation; she hasn’t experienced it often, and certainly not within the last few years. She’s suddenly acutely aware of herself, spun sideways by the nervous, affectionate giddiness of new romance. If that’s what this is, anyway. She’s still not entirely sure.

She pushes it down, heading for the door. “I’ll get it,” she asserts. “It’s only fair; you brought the coffee this morning. And you paid for lunch yesterday.”

“Whatever makes you happy,” Daniel shrugs, but the grin doesn’t leave his face. “Don’t think I’m going easy on you, though. I’m famished; it’ll be two scones for me.”

She rolls her eyes, biting her lip against a smile. “I think somehow I can manage the extra expense.”

“And extra clotted cream,” Daniel insists, trailing behind her as she steps into the quaint little shop. Immediately, she’s hit by the strong, tantalizing scent of fresh baking. She’s never been able to manage cookery herself, but it’s certainly a skill she’s learned to appreciate in others. She fully intends to indulge while she’s here.

A smiling, middle aged woman takes their order, looking amused as Kristin hungrily surveys the selection of scones behind the glass counter. And then they’re making their way to a small table by the window, where bright sunlight paints golden streaks on the worn wooden floorboards.

She can't help but notice the way the sun catches in Daniel’s hair when he sits. He’s still smiling at her, a little knowingly, and she hopes it’s just in response to her obvious enthusiasm for the cream tea.

“Something on your mind?” Kristin asks, as he drums his hands on the white tabletop.

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel grins, shaking his head. “Just enjoying the morning. Far cry from yesterday, eh?”

“Don’t jinx it,” she warns. But she can’t help returning his smile. “I wonder how Breen’s making out. He hasn’t texted for a pick-up yet.”

“We’ll see what he comes up with,” Daniel shrugs. “Hopefully he makes some headway, given that it seems our cases are formally linked now.”

She nods in agreement, making a mental note to review Breen’s case file in detail when they get back. “Hopefully,” she sighs. “To be honest, this is a really weird one.”

“I know what you mean,” Daniel says, shaking his head ruefully. “For the longest time we had nothing. And now, every time I think we’re nearly on stable ground, we get a new curveball.” 

“Yeah.” She blows out a breath, feeling the ache in her side. “It’s all so muddled, and I can’t see the big picture.”

“It’s not all bad though,” Daniel says, meeting her eyes. “At least we’re getting some intel.”

“That’s a pretty low bar,” she chuckles wryly. “At least it’s a good challenge, though. Keeps you guessing.”

“We see what we think we see,” Daniel muses, his tone thoughtful. “And sometimes it just takes a push to make you see what’s actually there, right in front of you.”

“Weird way to put it, but I guess so,” she laughs. Daniel chuckles too, but as the conversation lapses he’s still watching her. A soft, almost shy look has come across his features.

It strikes her that his comments might have less to do with the case than she’d initially thought. 

Before she can think too hard about it, the woman from behind the counter takes that moment to arrive at their table, carefully balancing their respective orders. With a warm, steaming cranberry scone singing to her, there’s no time to worry about the warm, fluttery feeling in her chest. 

And if Daniel just happens to be a little friendlier, his eyes a little brighter as they converse, it's probably just an effect of the baked goods.

Breen texts about a half hour later, indicating he’s wrapped up his inquiries. Strangely, he asks if she’s got a car blanket. She does, but she nonetheless takes the time to grab tea and a scone for him on their way out. Whatever trouble he’s found, he’ll probably appreciate the gesture.

She’s not wrong. They arrive at the port office to find a very beleaguered Breen sitting on a bench by the roadside, cloaked in the shadow of a towering pile of logs in the stockyard behind him. Very quickly, it becomes apparent that he’s absolutely soaked, dripping from head to toe in his suit. His freckled face is set in a deep scowl, which lessens only somewhat when he sees them approach. 

“That’s not good,” Daniel murmurs, throwing the car in park. She nods in agreement, pushing open her door and taking in the salty pungence of the ocean air. She makes her way over to Breen, who’s slowly raised himself from the bench at the sight of her.

“What happened?” she asks, shocked and more than a little concerned. She’d been absolutely freezing when they’d been out in the rain a day prior, and Breen looks as though he’s just been fished straight from the harbour. His skin is so pale she can hardly see the sunburn; it’s just a faint tint to his otherwise pallid features.

“It’s a long story,” Breen dodges, looking annoyed at himself. He shakes the sleeves of his suit jacket mournfully. “How much do you think it will cost to get the salt out of this?”

“Probably a lot,” she says, still taking in his dishevelled appearance. “And you probably won't get it back in a hurry.”

Now that she’s closer, she can see small drifts of algae sticking to his cuffs, staining the grey fabric a dull green. He’s enveloped by a strong organic smell consistent with aquatic life, like a rocky shoreline at low tide. It reminds her of kelp baking in the sun: strong, fermented, and salty.

“Breen,” she says again, a little gentler. “What happened?”

He sighs, staring at the seawater ponding on the cracked asphalt beneath his wet loafers, then relents. “I was speaking with Nikau Pukeroa, general manager of the port office,” he explains. “I was trying to get some background on the Moana Chief, so he ended up walking me out to the quay to see the berth.”

“Okay,” she nods encouragingly. She’s beginning to see where this is headed.

“I may have gotten a bit too close to the edge,” Breen shrugs, rubbing the back of his neck with a wet hand. “Nice thing is, it’s a new port. They’ve got all kinds of safety ladders at the water, so I wasn’t in for long. Pretty well put an end to the interview though.”

“Ah well,” she says, biting her lip against a giggle. “At least you got some background.”

She feels for him, she really does —but it’s just such a Breen thing to happen. She doesn’t know how he does it. He catches her amused gaze and she tamps down her smile guiltily. But he just sighs, giving her a small grin of his own. “Go on then,” he says. “Get a laugh out of it. You know you want to.”

She grins, plucking at his sodden sleeve critically. “You look like the market special, straight off the docks.”

“Well, I am pretty special,” he teases. “You’d pay a premium for me.”

“Yeah, right,” she scoffs, though she’s still smiling fondly at him. “You’re lucky I don’t throw you back. Come on, I’ve got a blanket in the boot.”

“Aw, yes,” he crows. “Thanks Kris, you’re the best.”

“Tell me something I don’t know,” she teases, though she can’t fight the curl of warmth in her chest.

There’s the sound of a car door shutting, and then Daniel’s strolling around to the boot to meet them. She sees his eyes widen as they approach, likely noticing Breen’s newfound aquatic aroma. “You alright, mate?” he asks, looking a little taken aback as Breen comes to stand next to him. “Looks like you’ve had a morning.”

“I’ve had better starts,” Breen chuckles. “Pretty nice to see the two of you right now.”

She pulls open the hatchback, rummaging around in the boot until she finds the thick wool blanket she keeps for emergencies. “Here,” she says, thrusting it in Breen’s direction. “You can take my seat in the front; you’ll get more heat.”

“Thanks,” Breen says, and there’s a little more pink to his cheeks when he meets her eyes. “Guess you didn’t have to wait long to return yesterday’s favour.”

“Yeah, nah,” she smiles. “Forgot to bring your hoodie, though. Sorry about that, it slipped my mind this morning.”

“No rush,” Breen shrugs, peeling off his suit jacket and throwing it in the trunk. He plucks at his dress shirt for a moment, looking a little indecisive, and then he peels that off too. 

She thinks about averting her gaze, but honestly, it’s Breen. They’ve known each other for years and it’s nothing she hasn’t seen before, usually after a particularly exuberant rugby match. Still though, there’s undeniably a bit of a different undercurrent now. She’s never really focused on his toned muscle before, or the way his fading sunburn drapes across his shoulders like a faint pink cape. There’s a smattering of freckles across his ribs and a little trail of soft-looking ginger hair leading down from his navel. 

She realizes she’s staring and looks away. If he notices, Breen doesn’t say anything about it.

“We brought you some tea and a scone as well,” she offers, largely to cover her embarrassment.

Beside her, Daniel’s shrugging off his coat. “And here,” he says, extending it to Breen in offering. “Should warm you up a bit.”

Breen chuckles, seemingly already rebounding from the morning’s events as he shrugs on the jacket. It’s very obviously too big for him, hanging off his shoulders. “Thanks Kris,” he grins. “You too, Daniel. This is shaping up to be the best time I’ve ever fallen in a harbour.”

“Is this a common occurrence?” Daniel asks, a little surprised. Beside him, Breen cloaks himself in the woolen car blanket, sighing contentedly.

“Don’t ask,” Kristin stage-whispers conspiratorially, grinning at Breen as they make their way back inside the car. 

Before long they’re headed out. The towering cranes and stockyards of Marsden Point are fading from view, replaced by the familiar trees and coastline that signal their way home. Breen takes the opportunity to brief them on the results of his morning at the port, though by the sounds of it, he hasn’t gleaned much.

“Nikau says he doesn’t remember Jessie, not specifically,” he recounts, holding his fingers in front of the vents. He’s got the heat cranked to it’s maximum and Kristin’s running out of layers to shed as she broils in the backseat. “He recognized the photo but couldn’t tell me more than that. Apparently there’s hundreds of people active at the port. Most are transient in some nature; he says they get more than 600 trucks coming in daily. Not to mention the ships themselves.”

“The perfect place to blend in,” Daniel murmurs, his eyes on the road.

“No kidding,” Breen snorts. “Turns out, the Moana Chief is only in port a few hours; the containers don’t take much effort to unload. It’s enough time for the crew to grab a bite at the on-site diner, and that’s about it.”

“Interesting,” Kristin hums. She finds her eyes are straying toward the coastline, searching for the faint grey lines that indicate ships on the horizon. “Anything else useful?”

“Not directly, but I learned a lot about shipping. Might come in handy given the nature of the case,” Breen suggests. “Turns out, Marsden Point mainly handles raw resources, though container cargo has been increasing steadily these past few years.”

“And that’s relevant because?” Kristin probes, still watching the water. In her mind’s eye, the prow of a rusted bulk carrier cleaves through the ocean’s swells. She imagines the creaking of massive welded plates as it rolls with the force of the waves, and the deep, heavy thrumming of an engine larger than her house.

“Because apparently, it doesn’t have the same problems as the Port of Auckland,” Breen replies. “And by that I mean crime. Gambling, drug imports, stolen goods, and gang affiliations. It’s harder to smuggle a stolen SUV in a pile of logs.”

“I can see why a shipping container would be better for that,” Daniel concedes, drumming his fingers on the wheel. “With drugs though, you could find a way to make it work.” He pauses, mulling it over for a moment as she glances at his reflection in the rearview mirror incredulously. “You could hollow out a log,” Daniel finally declares, looking pleased at the scenario.

“You’re welcome to go back and test that theory, if you’d like,” Breen grins. “Personally I’m all for it, just to see what happens. But I don’t think Nikau would be impressed.”

“Can’t imagine why,” Kristin scoffs, coming back to herself as the road pulls away from the shore and the ocean disappears from view. “Also, you’d have to keep track of that one specific log somehow, when the ship carries thousands.” 

“Actually though, Nikau is rigorous like you wouldn’t believe,” Breen continues. “He’s nuts about shipping schedules. He might just explode if you suggest anything that could cause a delay.”

There’s not much to say to that, and she lapses into contemplative silence as the conversation up front slowly turns to rugby. Daniel and Breen seem to be getting on well this morning, enough that she can push aside the nagging worry over their competition. It’s nice, being with the two of them. Comfortable. She can let the sound of their conversation wash over her as her mind takes her back to the ocean, trying to make sense of the case.

They’ve been on the road for about a half hour when Mike calls. “We’ve got Michael Taylor coming in to give a statement this afternoon,” he reports without preamble. “Apparently he wasn’t asked to give a formal statement on his brother, though he was aware of the suspicious nature of the death.”

“We didn’t get one during the original investigation?” Kristin asks, a tad incredulous. 

“No,” Mike sighs, and his tone tells her everything she needs to know. “But we’ll make up for lost time this afternoon.”

“Sounds good,” she affirms. “By the way, your hunch about Breen’s pirate turned out to be correct. The cases seem to be connected; Jessie Taylor was a friend of Jason Williams, our former boat owner and impaired driver. And both of them knew Craig Walker, our mysterious harbour victim.”

“Isn’t that interesting,” Mike muses. “How do they know each other?” 

“Acquaintances, Jason claims. Jessie was a friend from high school and Craig was a mutual contact. He and Jessie met at the Port of Auckland, apparently.”

“Hmm,” Mike hums. “We keep coming back to the ocean. Curious.”

“That’s not all,” she says, thinking back to their interview in Whangārei. “I think Jason’s hiding something. He was really reluctant to answer our questions once he realized we were interested in the Contessa.”

“We’ll have to keep on him,” Mike sighs. “In the meantime, let’s see what our friend Michael has to say this afternoon.”

“I’m looking forward to it,” she grins, already a little emboldened by the fresh challenge.

“I’m sure,” Mike replies, and she can hear the smile in his tone. “Drive safe. I’ll see you three back at the station.”

She relays the development to Daniel and Breen, who shelve the rugby conversation as they mull it over.

“Bit odd, isn’t it?” Breen murmurs eventually.

“Not following up on your brother’s suspicious murder?” Daniel asks. “Could be. Or they weren’t that close. It’s not unheard of.”

“True,” Kristin hums. “At least we’ve got a name now. Craig Walker.”

“Still though, that’s not much to go on,” Breen shrugs. “Even I have more than that, and my case is over a decade old.”

She watches Daniel’s eyes flick away from the road momentarily as he surveys Breen challengingly. “Best solve it quick then,” he grins. “Shouldn’t be too hard, eh? Especially with a head start.” 

To his credit, Breen rises to the obvious challenge with relative dignity. “Nah, she’ll be right,” he retorts, drumming his fingers against the windowsill as he takes a sip of his tea. “Best worry about your own case, mate.”

She can see the playfulness behind the challenge, but still, a tendril of worry curls in the pit of her stomach. If their posturing really is what she thinks it is, she knows it won’t end well. 

“Oi,” she cuts in, startling both of them. “In case you’ve forgotten, we’re all on the pirate case now, and the Walker homicide in the harbour.”

Breen has the grace to look suitably chastised when he turns back to face her. From what she can see of Daniel’s expression reflected in the rear view mirror, he looks equally abashed.

“You’re right,” Breen says after a moment, flashing her a small smile. “I like that we’re calling it the pirate case now, though. Seems way more exciting.”

Daniel laughs, and she watches his features smooth out in a happy grin as the competitive tension dissipates. “Are we calling ourselves the pirate posse?”

“Not technically,” she retorts, though she can feel a smile pulling at her cheek. “If we’re using the original meaning of the term, a posse is a group of men summoned by a sheriff to enforce the law.”

“Well, sure,” says Breen. “We’re cops, but that’s close enough I reckon.”

She coughs. “Not a man.”

“Daniel flashes her a grin in the rear-view mirror. “We’ll let it slide.”

She laughs, watching the bright blue winter sky through the windscreen, the way it frames Breen’s amused features, the way the sun slants across Daniel’s jawline.

“You know,” Breen says conspiratorially, “we’ve still got half an hour until we reach the station. I wouldn’t mind a little entertainment for the rest of the trip.”

“What have you got in mind?” Daniel chuckles, seemingly picking up on whatever Breen’s plotting.

“There’s a certain audiobook that might have caught my ear,” Breen remarks, casting Kristin a cheeky glance.

Immediately, it clicks. A weirdly giddy, embarrassed horror fills her chest.

“Don’t,” she half-heartedly warns, but Daniel’s already cutting in. “I’ve always thought mysteries engage the brain,” he says slyly. “Especially while driving. Sounds like a good plan.”

“Couldn’t agree more,” Breen cackles, shooting her another triumphant, shit-eating grin. There’s a hint of something else though, just for a second, as though he’s giving her an out. She scoffs and rolls her eyes, meeting his gaze defiantly. “Go on, then,” she says.

Breen barks out a laugh, then turns back to the stereo with an eagerness that’s all too telling. There’s a moment while he fiddles with the touchscreen, and then a familiar velvety voice purrs through the speakers. 

“ The cool, fleeting kiss of the knife as it penetrated his flesh. Those shoulders, flexed in an agony bordering on ecstasy, as though…”

She falls into the narration as it continues uninterrupted, realizing with some surprise that Breen and Daniel seem to be doing the same. There’s a little chuckle here and there, and even she has to grin when the female protagonist begins sensually butchering the corpse of her former lover. Held in contrast to their line of work, it’s a little hard to take everything seriously.

But all in all, both Breen and Daniel seem genuinely interested. It's…not what she’d expected.

Breen says as much when they reach the station, regretfully pausing the track. “Man,” he breathes. “I genuinely liked that. I really, really wasn’t expecting that.”

“Same here,” Daniel nods, sounding just as surprised. “The descriptions are a little,” he coughs, his expression twisting as he tries to find the words, “unique. But it was good.”

“Well, I’m glad the two of you had fun,” she remarks. “Maybe next time you’ll think twice about judging a book by its cover.”

“Maybe,” says Breen, his eyes alight with mischief. “No promises though.” He slides out of the car with a damp squelch, still smelling of seawater. Draped in the car blanket and swaddled in Daniel’s jacket, he cuts an amusing figure. Mike’s going to have an absolute field day when he sees him.

Daniel gives her a teasing look as they make their way toward the station, and she can’t help grinning back. All in all, it’s been a good morning. 

She’s keen to see where things go from here.

Chapter Text

The afternoon passes in a blur. 

Mike sends Breen home to track down a new outfit, though their senior sergeant looks undeniably amused when he first spots the sodden, underdressed detective slinking back into the station. The situational comedy isn’t enough to spare Breen from some gentle teasing, but it feels oddly nostalgic this time. Like Mike has missed it, in a way. 

She gets it; she hadn't realized how much she’d missed Breen until he’d arrived back in Brokenwood the week prior. And increasingly, she’s finding it hard to imagine a future without him. 

He just seems to round them out so well; his chaotic energy is a fitting complement to Daniel’s steadfast, easygoing presence. It’s no surprise that they work well together. And it’s undeniable that the three of them are getting plenty done; their newfound momentum on the case is evidence enough of that. The only issue is the weird rivalry between Daniel and Breen. But if it weren’t for that, she’d think Breen and Daniel would be best mates.

She considers it as Daniel, Mike and herself take a moment to debrief the morning’s findings. Daniel seems to be in an unusually chipper mood, and he’s taking the opportunity to exercise his terrible sense of humour to its fullest.

“It sounds as though your trip was worthwhile,” Mike’s saying, pinning a new mugshot of Jason Williams to the whiteboard. “It’s looking like this case runs deeper than we expected.”

“All the more reason to dive into the Coastguard documents,” Daniel grins. She rolls her eyes, but can’t help a chuckle when she catches Mike’s patiently unimpressed stare. 

Undeterred, Daniel continues. “With any luck, it will be smooth sailing from here.”

“That was terrible,” she says, biting her lip against a smile. “Just awful.”

“You two just don’t have a refined sense of humour,” he chuckles. “If Breen were here he’d get it.”

“Breen’s not exactly a great barometer for comedic wit,” she points out. If she’s being honest, most of his humour comes simply from his personality, bolstered by truly horrific luck.

“I wouldn’t say that,” Daniel grins, a sparkle in his eyes. “But don’t worry, you’ll sea it my way eventually. I’m shore of it.”

Mike scoffs, but she can see the faintest flicker of amusement beneath it. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” he says, before turning and heading back to his office.

She retreats to her desk to help Daniel with the files, patiently sifting through reams and reams of old reports. The Coastguard office has certainly provided comprehensive records, if nothing else. She has a newfound appreciation for Daniel’s insistence that he carry the box through the rain-swept streets of Whangārei. Seeing the volume of its contents, she isn’t sure she could have managed with her ribs.

And then Michael Taylor arrives. She almost doesn’t recognize him at first; she’s scanning the reception area for a broad, heavy-set seafarer who looks as though he’s spent a lifetime on the water. What she gets is a gentle, soft-spoken man with a slight, wiry build. He’s wearing a thick woolen sweater the colour of Northland's fields in springtime, and his intelligent green eyes seem to shine when he introduces himself. 

He can’t be much older than herself, she realizes.

They decide to divide and conquer. Daniel foregoes the witness statement to continue his methodical review of the Coastguard documents, and Mike joins her for the interview. He sets a fresh mug of coffee in front of Michael before seating himself at the table alongside her.

“Thank you for coming in today,” Mike leads, as Kristin continues to take in the subtle nuances of their guest. Like everyone else they’ve interviewed for this case, he’s got rough, calloused hands suggestive of regular physical labour. He’s stroking his fingers absently through the short, brown strands of his beard as he surveys the two detectives seated across from him.

“Not a problem,” Michael nods. “I understand this is about my brother?”

Mike sighs, shooting a glance toward Kristin. “Yes, I’m afraid. We’re investigating a recent homicide in the Brokenwood harbour, which may be connected to the death of your brother some years ago.”

Kristin’s expecting surprise, maybe a flash of disbelief or grief. She’s not expecting Michael to nod calmly at them, his green eyes still studying the two detectives closely. “I’m happy to help however I can,” he says. “What do you need from me?”

“For now, we’d like to know more about your brother and the circumstances of his death,” Mike says. “What can you tell us about him?”

Michael gives a small sigh, leaning back in his chair. “That’s a hard one to answer succinctly,” he murmurs. There’s a pause while he seems to mull over the question, and then he resumes speaking. “Jessie was my older and only brother. Our parents worked the snapper quota, so we had a lot of time to ourselves while they were on the water.” He chuckles, a little ruefully. “You’d think all that time alone would have made us closer, but you’d be wrong. Jessie was always the extrovert, sneaking off to parties and getting into god knows what.”

“And you?” Mike prods. 

“I wasn’t,” Michael smiles. “More often than not, I was down by the water poking in tide pools. Or up on a hillside, watching the stars. We take them for granted, you know.”

“The stars?” Mike asks, looking a little taken aback.

“Yeah,” Michael nods. “There’s not much light pollution up here, so you see everything. The southern sky at your fingertips, lit by the moon and Sirius, Canopus, and Alpha Centauri.”

“You’re into astronomy?” Mike questions.

“Of course,” Michael smiles. “It’s the earliest form of navigation. Mind you, it’s pretty much a lost art nowadays; marine technology has come a long way in the past 20 years, let alone the prior few centuries.” He flashes them an excited little grin, the corners of his eyes crinkling pleasantly. “I still use a sextant sometimes, just for the fun of it.”

Kristin finds herself leaning forward across the table, intrigued. She remembers taking an astronomy course in university; a free credit for the sake of it. She’d been enraptured during the first class, marveling at the beauty of the constellations and the mythologies spun from their alignment. She’d then spent the rest of the semester bemoaning her existence and working through countless equations.

She hasn’t thought much about it since, though she still makes a habit of admiring the night sky. It’s rare to find someone so passionate, someone who’s stuck with it without any career prospects;  at least in her experience. 

Michael seems to catch on, and flashes her a knowing smile. “Do you find yourself looking at the stars often, Detective Sims?”

Caught out, she fumbles an answer. “A bit,” she hedges. “I took a course in university. It’s a fascinating discipline.”

“Indeed it is,” Michael nods, his steadfast gaze holding her own. “It favours patience, mind you. And dedication. But the rewards are as broad as the horizon and as dazzling as the Magellanic Clouds.”

She nods, mind whirring. Just who the hell is this guy? Even for Brokenwood, home to a higher density of eccentric weirdos than anywhere else on earth, he’s a surprise. And he won’t stop looking at them. Like he’s studying them, scrutinizing their behaviour and cataloguing every indicator. Like a biologist studying a particularly interesting pair of specimens in a lab. 

She clears her throat, trying to get back to the matter at hand. “So Jessie was the extrovert, and you found yourself taking up… quieter pursuits,” she summarizes.

“Yes,” Michael affirms. “That trend carried through for the entirety of our lives together. I nurtured an interest in fishing and started planning to take over the family share in the quota. Jessie had no time for patching nets or logging a catch; he thought it was lonely, hard work. He wasn’t wrong on that front, mind you. But he always dreamed of bigger things. It wasn’t a surprise when he went down to Auckland.”

“And what did he do in Auckland?” she asks.

“As I’m sure you’ve long since discovered, he crewed the Moana Chief,” Michael patiently replies. “He was a member of the maritime union.”

She shares a quick glance with Mike, conscious of Michael’s unwavering gaze from the corner of her eye. He nods, then cuts to the chase. Clearly, Michael isn't’ one for drawing things out. “Can you think of any reason for his murder?” Mike asks. “Any debts, grievances, or persons who would want to see him harmed?”

“On an individual level? No.” Michael shrugs. She waits, sensing he’s not quite done. She’s rewarded when he continues in a disappointed tone, “but in a general sense, yes.”

“Jessie wasn’t one to shy away from risk,” Michael explains. “I don’t know exactly what he got up to, but he came into quite a bit of money shortly before he died. He called me up to gloat about it.” 

He gives a long sigh, finally averting his gaze as he stares hard at the table. “I would have stayed on the line longer if I’d known it would be our last conversation.”

She can see the sadness in his eyes, the tension in his hands. It looks genuine, though she’s learned at this point that looks can be deceiving.

“Why would he call you to brag?” Kristin asks, feeling the pieces start to fall into place. 

“Because I could have shared in the cut, apparently,” Michael shrugs. “Given how it ended, I’m glad I had nothing to do with it.”

“And what cut was this?”

“Drug money, I would expect,” Michael sighs, meeting her eyes again. “Or other contraband. He came to me about a month before he died, asking to borrow my boat. He needed something that could go offshore, something that could manage in the heavier swells to reach a drop point. He didn’t share more detail than that, I’m afraid.”

“And you said no,” Mike finishes.

“Of course,” Michael says, smiling wryly. “Wouldn’t you? The quota’s my livelihood, and you can’t fish it without a boat. There’s no chance I’d part with it, especially not for a scheme like that.”

“Why would he need to go offshore?” Kristin asks, surprised. “There are far easier ways of distributing illegal substances around the country.”

“Have you ever been to sea, Detective Sims?” Michael asks. “Truly offshore, where the horizon stretches in every direction, unbroken?” 

She shakes her head; it’s never been high on her list, not that opportunities are abundant regardless.

Michael nods. “Not many people do. But for the few who have made the venture, the ocean is a very lonely place. It’s all too easy to hide, even when you’re not intending to. No phones, save for satellite models. Help is hours away, and radar only reaches so far.” 

He sighs, twisting his fingers together and averting her gaze. “That’s how I ended up taking over the quota early. Our folks were trawling offshore when a bad squall whipped up; we’re generally more sheltered on this side of the island, but they got unlucky. A main seam on the hull let go. Their bodies were recovered a few days later.”

“I’m sorry to hear that,” she murmurs, suitably chilled.

“The ocean can be a harsh, lonely, and unforgiving place in the best of circumstances,” Michael warns. “It wouldn’t surprise me in the slightest that some individuals have found a means to exploit that.”

“And that they would kill to maintain that secrecy,” she finishes, thinking aloud. 

Michael nods gravely. “Jessie is evidence enough.”

Mike takes the opportunity to pivot the conversation, sliding two photos across the table. One is Jason’s photo, the other is of Craig Walker. “Do you recognize either of these individuals?” He asks, his tone gentle.

Michael takes his time examining the likeness of each man. “Yes,” he murmurs, indicating to the one on the right. “This one looks to be Craig Walker. I’m not exactly sure how he met Jessie, but I think it was at the Port of Auckland. He works at the Pullman mussel farm now, I believe. At least, that's what he said when he came around to my home not long ago, with the same stupid request as Jessie.”

She sees Mike's eyes widen in her periphery, and she knows the surprise must be plain on her face as well. Suddenly, calm, soft-spoken Michael Walker is looking a lot more involved in the case. 

She forces an air of polite interest, trying not to show her excitement. “When was this?”

“About two weeks ago,” Michael says, taking in their surprise. Preemptively, he continues, “I barely knew the man; Jessie had only mentioned him occasionally. That visit was the first time I’d ever laid eyes on him. He tried to feed me a yarn about how he missed taking a boat out with Jessie, and how he just wanted to borrow mine for an evening to toast his old friend on the water. Of course, I suspected it was all crock and sent him away. He didn’t look too happy about it, mind you.”

Mike hums thoughtfully. “Did you hear from him in the days following?”

“No,” Michael shakes his head. “He was pretty upset when he left, though. He didn’t want to take no for an answer. I ended up watching the wharf that evening to make sure he didn’t try something. Made me a right mess the next morning, truth be told. I could barely make my coffee. Spilled milk all over the kitchen counter.”

Hmm. She leans forward, resting her forearms on the tabletop and watching him closely. Something isn’t right. 

“Let’s get this straight,” she challenges. “You drove down to the wharf to keep an eye on your boat, then came all the way back home for coffee, only to drive back and head out on the water?”

“Very observant,” Michael chuckles, smiling knowingly. “Though I suppose you’re a detective. No, I didn’t head to the wharf to keep an eye on the boat. You see, my home’s up on the hill overlooking the water. And telescopes are good for more than just watching the stars.”

Oh, she hadn’t expected that. She makes a mental note that Michael is far more cunning than he appears. That’s definitely something to keep in mind.

“And did you see anything at the wharf?” Mike asks, taking the opportunity to jump in.

“I’m afraid not,” Michael smiles. “I didn't see anything suspicious, and when I arrived at the docks the next morning everything was how I left it. I assume Craig must have cooled off and gone home.”

“Cooled off is one way of putting it,” Kristin murmurs. 

Michael’s gaze sharpens. “What do you mean?”

Mike sighs, then adopts the tone Kristin’s come to associate with breaking bad news to grieving families. His posture softens, and he clasps his hands together as he meets Micheal’s expectant gaze.

“I’m afraid Craig Walker was found dead in Brokenwood harbour last week.”

Kristin watches the man’s deep green eyes widen in shock, then regret, then finally resignation. He seems genuinely cut up about it, despite having only met the man once.

“I’m very sorry to hear it,” Michael says, after a long silence. “I didn’t know him well, but the fact that he was murdered… well, it’s hard not to see the similarities with Jessie.”

The rest of the interview is coloured by a sense of subdued melancholy, though Michael never wavers from his calm, measured responses to their questions. He’s not able to offer much more, save for the suggestion that they follow up with the mussel farm. 

He still manages to surprise them, however. Just as they’re escorting him back to the station’s entryway, he turns to address them. He looks agitated for the first time, and his eyes are hard and distant. Regret is plainly etched in every line of his young face.

“It wasn’t right, what happened to Jessie,” he says, pointedly meeting Mike’s eyes, then Kristin’s. “He had his problems, but he didn’t deserve that.”

She finds herself nodding. “We’ll do our best to find out what happened to your brother,” she replies. At the end of the day, she can’t promise more than that.

“Thank you.” Michael nods, looking somewhat mollified. He’s still watching her with his oddly evaluating gaze. And then he turns away, exiting the building and leaving her to gape at Mike in surprise.

“Well now, that was certainly unexpected,” he murmurs. 

“No kidding.” 

“What was unexpected?” Daniel asks, his voice carrying across the room. He’s sitting at his desk, a fresh cup of coffee steaming beside him as he leafs through the weather beaten box of photocopied Coastguard documents. Breen’s also returned, sporting a new navy suit and looking decidedly drier. 

She does a bit of a double take at the colour; it’s far more flattering than the grey. The effect of the sunburn is considerably lessened, for a start. He looks…quite handsome, actually. 

She thinks back to the moment he’d peeled off his soaked shirt, the sight of his lean muscle pebbled with goosebumps in the cool morning air. The constellations of freckles stretching across his shoulders, and the trail of ginger hair drawing her gaze steadily downward.

She shakes it off. Now’s not the time.

“It seems Craig Walker was more desperate for a boat than we’d thought,” Mike replies, bringing her focus back to their conversation. “He tried to borrow Michael Taylor’s trawler.”

“That’s certainly unexpected,” Daniel nods, glancing between herself, Mike, and Breen. “Any idea why?”

“Apparently not, though he may not be giving us all of the story,” Mike says, pinning a glossy photo of Michael to the whiteboard. “Something’s not adding up here.”

She nods her assent, making her way over to Daniel’s desk and flipping absently through a few of the scattered pages. “What about our mystery boat?” She asks, curious. “Did you find anything in the files?”

“Possibly,” Daniel hums, a frown creasing his forehead. “The records for the abandoned boat are here; everything seems to line up with Brian’s description.”

“Any idea of the owner?” Mike asks.

“Someone by the name of Greg Banks,” Daniel says, thumbing through photocopied pages until he comes across the report. “I ran the registration, and apparently he keeps a sailboat in Whangārei. No marina listed, but it seems to match up with the boat described in the report.”

“We can call up the local marinas, see if there’s a match,” Kristin suggests. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Good idea,” Mike nods. “While you’re down there, see if you can get a hold of our friend Greg.”

She nods, already bracing for yet another trip to Whangārei. It’s looking like plenty more time on the road, at least for the foreseeable future. Although, that does present an opportunity to try and get a read on Daniel and Breen. And given the nature of their little competition, it’s highly likely at least one of them will suggest they stop for a bite or a coffee.

Maybe Whangārei isn’t so bad.

Mike’s still talking, pulling her back from her internal musings. “Anything in the report about the cause of abandonment?”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel sighs. “The report lines up with Brian’s recollection, but it’s pretty sparse.”

“Not all that surprising though, eh?” Breen chimes in. Catching Mike’s expectant gaze, he continues. “It was essentially a false alarm, the way you’ve relayed it. No rescue, no need for follow up. The guy’s probably not going to pour hours of his time into a report.”

Mike raises an eyebrow. “True,” he says, “though I would hope our incident reports are thorough regardless.”

Breen’s ears go a slight pink, and she can’t help but snicker. She knows his reports are perfectly fine, and she knows Mike knows it too. But sometimes Breen’s just too easy to tease.

“Regardless,” Daniel chuckles, “the Coastguard report mentions a second volunteer who attended the call alongside Brian. The name here is Mary James.”

“Could be a good point of verification,” Kristin suggests, though she doesn’t really think it’s necessary. Right now, they have nothing connecting the yacht to their homicides.

“Put a pin in it for now,” Mike suggests. “Let’s press Jason a bit first.”

“And we’ve got some questions to ask at the Pullman mussel farm,” Kristin adds. “If Craig really did work there, it’s possible some of the staff could shed some light on his behaviour.”

“Keep at it,” Mike nods, turning to head back to his office. “I’ll get on the line with the Port of Auckland and see what I can dig up on Jessie and Craig.”

He’s nearly at the door frame when he turns to Kristin, a slight smile crossing his face. “By the way, I’ll be out for the latter part of the afternoon. Hold the fort, will you?”

She raises an eyebrow. “Off to see your secret beau?”

Mike chuckles, gives her a knowing smile, and then ducks into his office without providing any further response. She’s not surprised, though her decade of experience dealing with Mike’s enigmatic nature does nothing to lessen the burn of curiosity.

Although this time, he’s not the only one with a secret.

She turns back to Breen and Daniel, clocking their obvious interest in Mike’s latest development.

“Another woman, eh?” Breen asks, raising an eyebrow. “I thought he’d finally sworn off them.”

“We don’t know that for certain,” Daniel cautions, giving Kristin a look. She rolls her eyes; much as Daniel pretends he’s not a gossip, she knows he wants the truth just as badly. He just denies it out of some weird sense of professional loyalty.

She likes to think her relationship with Mike has moved past that, though perhaps he’s just come to terms with her inquisitive nature. Or she’s wearing him down, gradually.

“Well, no sense sitting around trying to find out,” she shrugs. “He’s gone to ground.”

Daniel hums doubtfully, but he’s smiling. Breen takes the opportunity to chime in. “We could always try and get him blitzed.”

“Because that went so well for you last night,” she scoffs, though she can’t help but smile.

Breen shoots her a grin, not looking remorseful in the slightest. “I mean, yeah,” he laughs. “Sure, this morning was a little rough. But I had a lot of fun last night.” His voice softens, losing a little of its boisterous tone. “I couldn’t have asked for a better welcome home.”

Something flutters in her chest as her mind flashes to the cab ride home. It’s still so fresh; the press of their shoulders against her own, the sharpness of alcohol underlain with the scent of their skin. She feels heat rising to her cheeks and hurriedly busies herself gathering her coat and bag, not looking at either of them. “Well, good,” she manages. “I had a lot of fun.”

When she turns back to face them, Daniel’s chuckling knowingly, and Breen’s outright beaming at her. 

“Enough to do it again?” Breen asks.

She can’t help but grin, pressing a finger to her chin as she pretends to think. “Hmm, I’m not sure. I think you’re going to be pretty busy the next little while; weren’t you planning to solve this case by the end of the week?”

Daniel barks out a laugh, then rises from his desk to clap a hand on Breen’s shoulder. “She’s got you there.”

“It’s only Wednesday,” Breen argues, flapping a hand dismissively. “Besides, that was before our cases merged. The way I see it, we all have to solve this thing now. It’s a collective pledge.”

“I’m not sure that’s how it works,” Daniel retorts, raising an eyebrow. “Getting a little nervous you won’t follow through on your word?”

“Hardly,” Breen shrugs, grinning challengingly. “Just thought you’d appreciate the gesture. I’ll still have things wrapped up regardless.”

Okay, time to head things off.

“Best crack on with it, then,” she declares, clapping her hands decisively. Breen gives a small start, then chuckles. “Right you are.”

She nods approvingly, then flashes Daniel a smile as she twirls her car keys around a finger. “How do you feel about mussels?”

“I’m white wine, a little garlic and butter? I’d be down,” he grins, pulling his coat on. “Pullman’s office or the shoreline compound?”

“Let’s take the compound,” she decides. They’re more likely to get intel from Craig’s coworkers if there’s anything interesting at play.

“Breen, could you follow up with Wes Pullman in the meantime?” Kristin asks. 

“Sure,” he grins. “I’ll call up the marinas in Whangārei too. Should set us up well for a repeat visit.”

“Thanks,” she smiles. “See what you can find on Greg too, if you get a chance.”

“Yes boss,” Breen teases. “Anything else you want me to do? Wash your car, make you dinner?”

“You could comb through some of the Coastguard files if you’re still looking for work,” she says sweetly. Beside her, Daniel chuckles, throwing Breen a smug smile. 

They’re just about out the door when a spontaneous thought strikes her. It’s a little bold, especially by her standards, but she can’t help adding, “and maybe if you’re successful, we can think about dinner. For all of us.”

For a moment, Breen looks just as shocked as she feels. And then his face is breaking out in a bright smile, one of his big goofy ones that stretches from ear to ear. “I’ll hold you to that,” he calls. She shakes her head, laughing as she walks away.

The trip to the mussel farm is a little quiet. Daniel’s at the wheel again, providing her the opportunity to watch the coastline as they head steadily toward the Pullman compound. She finds her eyes tracking cargo ships on the horizon, the faint grey outlines somehow more noticeable now that she’s deeper into the case.

“You’re probably not going to see the drop point from here,” Daniel smiles, throwing her a quick glance. “Might have to ask Michael Taylor for his telescope, if that’s your plan.”

She pulls her focus back from the water, taking in the teasing set of his features. “I know that,” she retorts. “I just can’t get my head around it. Why would Craig need a boat? And apparently on pretty short notice too. It just seems too haphazard to be organized.”

“Maybe Michael’s right and he’s running drugs,” Daniel suggests, frowning thoughtfully.

“But that’s just it,” she insists. “If he was running drugs, he’d presumably have set up some kind of access to a boat. And he’d likely be meeting someone. Contraband doesn’t just wash up on the tide.”

“So you think this was spontaneous,” Daniel says, looking at her from the corner of his eye. 

“I think so,” she hedges. “I mean, that or it’s a really disorganized group. But they’re clearly willing to kill.”

“Better hope our friends at the mussel farm have some intel on Craig, then,” Daniel says. “Given that we’re looking for a possible accomplice… or competition.”

“Let’s hope,” she sighs. It’s barely one in the afternoon and she’s already feeling weary from the day. Maybe it’s the late night, or all the time on the road, or the ever-present dull ache in her ribs. 

Or the insidious, creeping worry gnawing at her stomach, spurred by Breen and Daniel’s little competition.

If it’s what she thinks it is, she can’t put it off forever. Because if she’s right, and all the affectionate smiles, offers of coffee and treats, and fleeting glances mean something more… what does that mean for their friendship? Their working relationship?

A spike of anxiety cuts into her chest as the familiar thought resurfaces. Is she going to have to choose? Because the more she thinks about it, the more she just can’t. She’s never felt more greedy in her life, but she can’t seem to separate Breen’s mischievous grin and Daniel’s warm, dimpled smile. The heat of both their arms against her. Their friendship, their easy company.

Fuck, she wants both of them.

To her horror, Daniel takes that moment to try and start a conversation.. 

“So, uh,” he begins, wetting his lips. “What are you up to tomorrow night?”

Objectively, nothing, she thinks. Probably an attempted exploration of her newfound romantic panic, accompanied by the Downton Abbey DVD box set. She’s on call tomorrow, and she’s long since learned not to schedule anything significant.

“No firm plans, as of yet,” she replies instead. She doesn’t know why she bothers playing coy, but she’s still reeling from her moment of personal discovery —those are becoming far too common for her liking— and she can’t quite manage the conversational whiplash.

“You’re on call, right? I could keep you company for a bit, if you’d like,” Daniel suggests.

“Sure, that would be great,” she smiles. It will be nice to have the companionship, even if Daniel isn’t much into British dramas. Maybe she’ll go easy on him and watch a bit of the rugby, as a peace offering. 

Fleetingly, she thinks about the cab ride again, about the heat of his arm pressed against her own. What would it be like having the rest of him relaxed against her, curled up together on her loveseat? The weight of his arm around her shoulders, the tickling warmth of his breath in her ear as he whispers an awful joke…

“Great,” Daniel grins, snapping her out of her wildly inappropriate reverie. “I’ll come by after work.”

“Okay,” she nods, trying to find her equilibrium again. “I’ll order something. We can make an evening of it.”

“Actually,” Daniel coughs, his cheeks going a little pink, “I could cook, if you wanted. There’s a new recipe I’ve been meaning to try.”

What.

“Uh, sure,” she fumbles, feeling giddiness flutter up into her lungs. “If you’d like to.”

“Done,” Daniel chuckles, sounding pleased. It’s not hard to see that he’s excited. There’s a broad smile stretched across his face, dimpling his cheeks, and he keeps stealing little satisfied glances in her direction. She can feel the heat rushing to her cheeks, much as she tries to tamp it down.

It’s new, to say the least. It’s been a while since she’s felt…pursued? Desired? She’s not entirely sure. But she’d be lying if she said his enthusiasm wasn’t endearing regardless, and it’s definitely stroking her ego. More than a little, if she’s honest.

If only it weren’t for her…complications.

They reach the Pullman mussel farm without further incident, bumping their way down the gravel access road as they make their way to the waterfront office. 

The company’s shoreline compound is as sprawling as she remembers it. A series of warehouses and outbuildings borders the laneway, buzzing with activity as workers move vast quantities of fresh green shell mussels for processing. They keep going, driving past rows and rows of neatly-stacked longlines before coming to a stop by the main dock.

It’s only once they’ve parked that she remembers her offhand comment about dinner with Breen. Suddenly, the nagging worry comes rushing back. 

Is Daniel’s offer to cook dinner another piece of their competition? Is it just a game for them? It seems unlikely, almost impossible that either of them would be so deliberately cruel. But she's feeling a little raw and tired, and she’s not sure of anything right now.

She’s relieved when Dominic Nichol comes striding out of the site office, glaring at them with a familiar wariness cultivated through his many dealings with the Brokenwood CIB. Last time she’d seen him, he’d been a suspect in the murder of Bryce Fahey. Before that, he’d been briefly suspected of murdering Paul Winterson, a wine judge.

Suffice to say they don’t have the best rapport.

Nonetheless, his obvious agitation successfully forces her attention back to the case, temporarily quelling her growing sense of unease with Daniel and Breen. 

Right. They’re here to confirm Craig Walker’s employment and gather intelligence on his final movements.

She’ll figure the rest out later.

She hopes.

Chapter Text

The salty, pungent, ocean air fills her lungs as Dominic Nichol leads them through the bustling shoreline compound.

“So you’re here about Craig, eh?” He grouses, gumboots crunching in loose gravel as they briskly make their way toward the docks.

“Yes,” Kristin confirms, struggling to keep up. Her ribs are aching fiercely again, but she’ll be damned before she shows it.

“Well, there isn’t much to say,” Dominic shrugs. “Bit of an odd bloke, but he did his job right enough.”

“Odd how?” Daniel interjects, striding along beside her. His eyes are roving across the busy yard, watching as workers shift vast quantities of freshly-harvested greenshell mussels onto trucks. 

“Curious, I suppose you could say,” Dominic reflects, stopping short as they reach the docks. His brown eyes rove over the waterfront as he mulls over the question. “He came asking for a job about a year ago. Worked the processing side first, washing, grading, and packing the mussels. But anyone could tell he wanted to be on the water, and eventually that’s where he went: out on the longlines. Don’t ask me why. Most folks want off the water soon enough.”

“And how would that make him odd?” Kristin asks. She doesn’t know much about the mussel harvest, but wanting to be on the water doesn’t seem too unusual.

“It’s cold, hard work. Folks on land don’t understand,” Dominic replies scornfully, in a tone that suggests she’s among them. “They picture boating around under a summer sun, plucking individual mussels from lines. Not pulling up cultivation ropes in the pouring rain and driving wind, or having to dive in winter to inspect the anchors and lines.”

Daniel hums thoughtfully. “So he wanted to work on the water. Any idea why?”

“Hell if I know,” Dominic shrugs. “Maybe he was bored. He was always checking the instruments, despite it not being his bloody job.”

Interesting. “Any idea what he was searching for?” she presses.

“No clue,” Dominic replies. “Our harvester vessels are equipped with radar, but it’s only standard commercial spec. It’s not as though we’re headed out in deeper waters; the boats don’t leave the farm.”

She takes in the assortment of watercraft tied up at the dock. There are two large harvesters taking up the lion’s share of space along the main pier, forested in an array of small cranes and winches. A small fleet of eight zodiac skiffs is tied up along a finger dock, each outfitted with high-power twin engines. 

“Did he mention anything about persons who would have a reason to harm him?” she asks, still looking over the fleet.

“I wouldn’t know,” Dominic says, following her gaze. “He didn’t talk much about himself.”

Beckoning for them to follow, he leads them down the narrow finger dock, stopping in front of a zodiac seemingly identical to the others. “Since you’re so keenly interested in our fleet, I may as well report some recent trouble we’ve had,” he explains. “We found this boat adrift in the farm last week, missing a pile of gear. Given what happened to Craig, I reckon he may have had something to do with it.”

She can’t quite keep the surprise from her face. To her left, Daniel’s much the same. His deep brown eyes are wide and searching, his brow furrowed in concentration.

“What sort of gear went missing?” he asks, kneeling beside the skiff to get a closer view. 

“We use these for seeding and managing cultivation ropes,” Dominic explains, gesturing to the neighbouring skiff. It’s loaded with a series of cotton stocking-like tubes, assorted lengths of cultivation rope, plastic floats, and a large anchor secured with a heavy-gauge chain.

She looks back to the rescued skiff. Sodden cotton stockings are bunched on the hard plastic flooring, alongside some scattered floats. Gone are the anchor and lengths of rope. Given how Craig’s body was discovered, it’s obvious where they went.

“There’s most of a tank of fuel gone too,” Dominic adds.

“Why didn’t you bring this to the police?” she demands, her voice coming out harsher than she’d intended as she snaps a few photos of the boats. She’s still tired, and her ribs ache, and she can’t believe how bloody stupid Dominic is.

“I only put it together when you lot arrived,” he replies defensively. “We didn’t know Craig was dead; nobody contacted us until today. I just assumed he’d up and quit. It’s not entirely unusual.”

“To disappear at sea?” she asks, incredulous. She knows she hasn’t quite managed to keep the disdain from her tone, but it’s not every day someone’s employee vanishes alongside several hundred pounds of weighted fishing gear.

“Like I said, I only put the two together when you arrived,” Dominic mutters. “I just assumed it was kids stealing a skiff to go for a joy ride.”

She catches Daniel’s eye, watching as he raises an eyebrow. She can see he’s just as disbelieving as she is, and rapidly losing patience with the farm’s hapless manager.  She breathes out slowly, feeling her ribs ache as they contract. “Do kids often sneak in and borrow your boats?”

Dominic kicks absently at the dock’s faded, weather-worn decking. “No,” he sullenly admits. “Though neither does bloody homicide. It’ll be an absolute nightmare if this has any connection to our operations.”

She barely keeps from rolling her eyes. “And your security systems?” 

“We’ve got cameras on the entrance to the compound, though they only cover the main road,” Dominic explains. “I checked the footage myself the morning we recovered the skiff. Nothing unusual showed up.”

Daniel sighs, running a large hand across the zodiac’s rigid gunwale. “How many people have touched this boat since you retrieved it?”

Dominic shrugs. “Myself and a few others. Can’t say for sure; anyone on staff can access the docks.”

“We’ll need to keep anyone else from going near it,” Daniel instructs, reaching for his phone. “Our forensics team will have to take a look.”

“Best hurry it up, then,” Dominic warns. “We’ve got a new batch of spat to seed this Monday, and it’ll be all hands on deck. We can’t be down a boat in this business.”

“We’ll let you know when the team has finished,” she says diplomatically. It’s not an agreement, but it’s enough to settle the conversation.

Dominic gives her a frustrated sigh, turning away without further comment. He meanders down the dock until he reaches a trio of workers who have gathered, presumably hoping to get the latest on their unexpected arrival.

Not her problem. Pulling on her gloves, she climbs into the zodiac as Daniel relays the new development to their forensics team.

Carefully, she starts looking over the vessel. Yesterday’s rain hasn’t worked in their favour; it’s obvious the boat has been drenched. They’ll be lucky to get much from forensics; any blood or fingerprints that may have been left on the smooth, weather-resistant gunwales will be long gone.

She’s only been in the boat for a few minutes when she feels something crunch underfoot. A quick examination reveals a small shard of clear glass stuck to the heavy rubber sole of her boot. Feeling around the rigid plastic decking yields several additional fragments, each no larger than a grain of rice. She collects what she can in a specimen bag, then moves on.

Buoys. A VHF radio. The wheel and throttle, seemingly unmarked. Twin engines showing no obvious signs of tampering.

She peers closely at the heap of cotton seeding socks, still sodden from the rain. They look new, but already she can see flecks of algae and muck staining the material. She looks closer, a little optimistically, and is rewarded by a diluted, rust-coloured spot atop the uppermost one. Blood, possibly. She can’t be too sure.

She snaps a few pictures, then climbs out of the boat to join Daniel on the dock. He flashes her a smile as he wraps up the call with forensics.

“They’ll be here in a half hour,” he relays, slipping his phone back into his pocket. “Anything interesting in the zodiac?”

“Glass shards and a potential blood stain,” she relays, keeping her voice low. Further up the dock, Dominic is still conversing with the workers. Every once in a while, he shoots a suspicious look in their direction.

“Interesting,” Daniel murmurs. “You reckon someone here might be involved?” 

“It’s too early to rule it out,” she hedges. “I think Dominic is telling the truth, but there are plenty of employees working at the yard. We don’t know what other connections may exist.”

“Or who else may have access to the property,” Daniel adds dryly. “Their security leaves something to be desired. Anyone could have come in along the shoreline unseen, by the sounds of it.”

“True,” she acknowledges. “We’ll need to get copies of that footage.”

“And do a sweep around the shoreline and gate,” Daniel suggests. “The rain hasn’t worked in our favour, but you never know.”

Thankfully, they have time. Daniel disappears to investigate the compound’s entryway while she accompanies Dominic to the site office, intent on seeing the security footage. A quick review shows it’s accurate to Dominic’s recollections, with nothing significant showing during the crucial window. Disappointed, she takes a copy of the 48 hours encompassing the event anyway, making a mental note to review it in detail back at the station.

Daniel meets her by the car a short while later, looking filthy but victorious. There’s mud caked on his shoes and trousers, as well as a large streak up one sleeve of his jacket.

“Had an adventure, did we?” she teases, grinning as he gives her an exhausted smile. He’s got one leg off the ground, scraping mud from his shoes against a tire. 

“Something like that,” he chuckles. “I walked a short stretch of forest by the entryway. The ground’s soft up there; enough that you’d sink in a bit if you hiked through it. And I came across a set of tracks.”

“Really?” She’s surprised, to say the least. After the rain they’ve had she’s shocked to hear there are any traces. Although, Daniel clearly looks as though he’s managed to leave his own lasting impression in the woods. Her eyes stray to his thighs, watching as the thick muscles bunch and flex as Daniel continues to balance on one mud-streaked leg.

“Just depressions in the ground, really,” Daniel clarifies. “They’re sporadic and washed out, but they really look like a trail.”

His eyes are playful when they meet her own, and she realizes she’s been caught staring. She tears her gaze away, looking toward the mussel farm’s busy shoreline as she tries to regain some professional focus. 

Unfortunately, Daniel seems to have other ideas. “So, you like mussels?” he asks, his tone teasing. His eyes are shining in the bright winter sunlight as he studies her. 

“In curried broth, sure,” she retorts. She can feel the all-too-familiar blush creeping across her cheeks again, and she knows he’s trying to get a reaction.

“Only curried?” Daniel grins, seemingly intent on chasing the line of questioning. He’s a good cook, but there’s no doubt in her mind he’s not talking about the kind of mussels you eat.

She won’t give him the satisfaction. “Steamed in white wine’s fine too,” she adds stubbornly. “I’m not picky.”

“So you like them big and steamy,” Daniel clarifies. He looks far too pleased with himself, and it‘s enough to break her composure.

“Shut it, you,” she laughs, slapping at his bicep. “Why do you care so much, eh? Worried yours are undersized ?”

Daniel barks out a surprised laugh, then doubles down. “I wouldn’t say that’s something I worry about, no.”

“Mmm,” she hums, turning her focus back to the hillside. “We’ll just have to see about that.” She can see him watching her out of the corner of her eye, his features a mixture of amusement and…something else. Something far more affectionate.

Something warm and self-satisfied is curling in her chest. She pushes it aside before she loses the last threads of her professionalism entirely.

“We’ll get forensics on the trail too,” she decides, watching Daniel’s features shift back into his usual focused attentiveness. “If there’s a trail, we need to know where it leads.”

She looks around at the yard, eyes following the winding gravel lane as it snakes its way up a steep hill and away from the water. It disappears at the top of the rise into a thick copse of trees, which obscure the main roadway beyond. It’s possible, she thinks. But the mussel farm is a solid 20 minute drive from town. 

“Whoever left that trail didn’t get here on foot,” she muses, still watching the trees sway in the breeze atop the rise.

“A vehicle,” Daniel finishes her thought. “Somewhere on the road, or a side road maybe.”

“Mm hmm,” she nods. “And if Craig is our mysterious hiker, he will have left it behind.”

-

About an hour later, they’re marching into the station with a new view of Craig Walker. 

“How’d you make out?” Breen asks, coming to stand by the whiteboard as she shrugs off her coat and bag. She winces at the jostling movement and he gives her a sympathetic look. 

“It went pretty well, actually,” she says, flashing him a reassuring smile. A week ago, she would have found his concern frustrating, but a lot seems to have changed in the short time they’ve been reunited.

“Well that’s good,” Breen remarks, plucking a copy of the Brokenwood Courrier from atop his desk. “Because we’re front page news now, so we’re going to need some successes.”

He holds out the paper, watching as she and Daniel lean closer to take in its headline. “Did he need a bigger boat? Death in Brokenwood Harbour! ” the paper proclaims. Below the headline is a large photo of the marina, shrouded in fog. “Another one bites the dust…is anyone safe? ” the caption reads. 

Beside her, Daniel blows out a slow breath. “Okay,” he says. “That’s a little dramatic.”

“I’m pretty sure they’re trying to play off Jaws,” Breen supplies. “That or Queen. Maybe both.”

“I’m pretty sure it’s wildly insensitive,” she scoffs, snatching the paper from Breen’s hands. She scans the grey rows of type for the byline, then scowls further as she reads it. “Why am I not surprised? Another masterpiece by Cushla McLeod.”

“She’s still at it, eh?” Breen asks, raising an eyebrow. 

“Unfortunately,” she says, wrenching her gaze away from the paper. “Her writing hasn’t improved either; this is almost entirely speculation.”

“Not surprising, given that she didn’t reach out for a statement,” Daniel notes. “It’s a good thing they don’t have competition; they’d have to change their slogan.”

She glances at the tagline beneath the Courrier’s banner: Brokenwood’s Best Newspaper. 

She sighs. “Alright, I’ll brief Mike on this, although I’d be surprised if Comms hasn’t reached out to him already.”

Breen nods, then turns his attention to Daniel, taking in the streaks of mud coating his trousers and jacket. “Seems like you had an eventful morning, at least. You go for a bit of a tramp?”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel shrugs, looking unconcerned. It’s not particularly convincing, given how his cheeks are going a little pink. “Just tracking down a lead.”

“It was a pretty interesting visit, actually,” she says, giving Daniel a grateful nod. “Turns out, Craig Walker likely stole a zodiac from the mussel farm the night he was killed. It was found floating a ways offshore the next morning.”

“We found his car parked up the road,” Daniel adds, a little smugly. “It’s likely he hiked around the main entrance to avoid the security cameras. He would have known where the farm kept the keys to their watercraft and the limitations of their security.”

He pauses a moment, then grins challengingly at Breen. “At this rate, we might have Craig’s story wrapped up soon.”

Immediately, a small tendril of worry curls in the pit of her stomach. Not this again.

But Breen doesn’t seem bothered. “Productive visit,” he smiles, looking impressed. “Way to go.” His grin turns a little self-satisfied as he returns Daniel’s stare. “Want to know what I got up to?”

“I have a feeling you’re going to tell us regardless,” she retorts. She can see where this is going, and much as she’s come to dread the weird competition between Daniel and Breen, her curiosity wins out.

“Of course,” Breen preens. “I’ve got a match for Greg’s boat in Whangārei, at the same marina you visited earlier. The one near the Coastguard office. And I got a very interesting report from our favourite religious nut, claiming the Pullman farm has a slew of worker safety violations in the making.”

“Really?” Daniel questions, his gaze tracking across the whiteboard to the pinned photograph of Wes Pullman, the farm owner.

“It wouldn’t be too unlike him,” Kristin murmurs thoughtfully. “Wes was making payments to Noel’s predecessor to keep violations off the books. He may not have changed his ways.”

“Apparently Noel Clelland had arranged to meet with a worker to gather some additional testimony,” Breen says. “But the man never showed. Clelland never had a name; he says it was a highly confidential undercover sting operation.”

She can’t help but roll her eyes. “Right. Did he have a name for this secretive undercover contact?”

“No,” Breen sighs, frustration creeping into his tone. “Apparently that would have compromised the operation.”

“Of course,” she scoffs. Noel Clelland’s unfettered religious zeal for maritime law enforcement ensures he’ll never successfully bring forth a charge, despite working nearly 16 hours a day.

“Wes Pullman didn’t have much to say on it, unsurprisingly,” Breen adds. “Didn’t mention the zodiac thing either, and didn’t know Craig Walker. By his account, things at the mussel farm are sweet as.”

They lapse into silence for a moment, peering at the whiteboard. Jessie and Craig’s headshots seem to stare back at them, haloed by a ring of witnesses. She hesitates to call them suspects; as of yet, they haven’t been able to identify a clear motive. It’s frustrating, having two bodies wash up with seemingly no link to any persons of interest. Just a drop point somewhere in the Pacific, hidden in plain sight.

“Well, we’re not getting any closer to solving this by sitting around here,” she decides, after the silence has stretched on for a good few minutes. “I reckon our friend Jason might be able to shed some light.”

“Roger that,” Daniel nods, heading to the station’s equipment cabinet to grab the keys to a fleet car. Beside her, Breen is collecting his coat and wallet. He stops by her desk as she shrugs her jacket back on, picking up her bag. “I’ll throw this in the car for you,” he says, his voice a tad questioning. She can tell he’s waiting for her to insist it’s fine, but truthfully, her ribs ache.

“Thanks,” she says, pleased and a little embarrassed.

“Anytime,” he smiles, a little softer than his usual eager grin. His grey-blue eyes are gentle and kind, and for a moment she sees another flash of…something. Something she can’t quite put a name to yet, but it makes warmth bloom in her chest.

Again. 

She’s definitely going to deal with these feelings at some point.

The clinking of keys brings her focus back to the station. Daniel’s waiting patiently by the entrance, twirling the keys to a fleet car between two large fingers. Breen throws her a little wink, then trots toward the entryway, slinging her bag across his shoulder. She feels a flush coming across her cheeks as she hastily zips up her coat, following after him.

This time she takes the front passenger seat, and Breen folds himself into the back. Daniel flashes her a smile as she buckles her seatbelt, and she can’t help but feel a little guilty when their eyes meet. But he doesn’t seem affected by…by whatever just happened. He just throws the car in drive and starts fiddling with the radio dials, settling on classic rock.

From the back, Breen’s stomach growls loudly.

Daniel chuckles, meeting Breen’s eyes in the rearview mirror. “Hungry back there, mate?”

“Oi, not all of us were up at the crack of dawn living the health-nut lifestyle,” Breen says reproachfully. “I’m still running on two coffees and a hangover. So yeah, I could eat.”

“We could pick something up in Whangārei,” she suggests. She hadn’t thought of it until now, but now that he’s mentioned it, she’s just as hungry as Breen seems to be. All the coffees probably haven’t helped with the low-grade anxiety curling in her stomach either. Suddenly, lunch sounds like an excellent idea.

“Sounds like a plan to me,” Daniel affirms. “What are you thinking?”

“Cream tea,” Breen announces, without missing a beat. 

She twists to look at him questioningly, feeling the motion pull at her ribs. “You sound very sure of yourself.”

“Yeah, well, the leftovers you brought me this morning looked amazing,” Breen says. “It’s my turn to get in on this little dessert club you have going.”

“You want the full experience,” Daniel clarifies, as Kristin interjects “it’s not a dessert club.”

Breen levels a flat stare at her. “Right,” he says, clearly not buying it. “Well, whatever you want to call it, I want in. I haven’t had cream tea in forever.”

“You could have made it yourself anytime,” she retorts. “Not my fault you’re too lazy to bake.”

“That’s rich, coming from you!” Breen’s eyes are so wide they’re practically bugging out of his head, mouth open in disbelief. “Do you even know how to bake?”

“I made you an amazing goodbye cake, as you’ll recall!”

“Alright kids,” Daniel interjects, sounding equal parts amused and exasperated. He’s still fixedly watching the road ahead, but she can see the smile tugging at his cheek. “We’ll get cream tea in Whangārei. Nobody has to bake.”

“What are you, my dad?” Breen asks, but he’s smiling too. “Actually, that would just be weird. Too weird.” He scrunches up his face in displeasure, and Kristin can’t help but laugh.

“Got some issues to work through, have we?” she giggles.

“No,” Breen protests, his ears turning pink again. “Just don’t either of you grow a mustache. Or ask me to go mini-putting.”

“Noted,” she remarks dryly.  

There’s a moment of silence as conversation ebbs, and then Breen’s piping up again from the backseat. “Hey, Kris. Do you have that racy audiobook on your phone?”

“It’s not racy,” she argues, feeling her cheeks flush pink. “Yes, there are subtle hints of desire—”

Daniel coughs pointedly, and she spares a moment to scowl in his direction. “—but it’s not my fault you two can’t appreciate the emotive range in literature.”

“Right, the subtle hints,” Breen says doubtfully, waving a hand placatingly in her direction. “Okay. So, do you have that esteemed work of prose on your phone?”

“So what if I do?” she challenges.

“We’ve got a ways to go until Whangārei,” Breen replies knowingly, a mischievous grin spreading across his freckled face. “Book club?”

“I like the sound of that,” Daniel chimes in, already fiddling with the touchscreen. “We never resolved the subplot with the ex-fiancee and the tennis instructor.”

“And clearly I’ve got to brush up on the whole subtle desire thing,” Breen adds, laughing at her squawk of indignation.

“Might take more than an audiobook for that, mate,” Daniel chuckles, though Breen doesn’t seem to mind. He waggles his eyebrows at Daniel through the rearview mirror, retorting, “best I get practicing then, eh?”

Suddenly, she’s aware of both their focus shifting to her. Breen and Daniel are wearing matching expressions of impish excitement as they eye her reaction from across the dashboard and through the reflection of the rearview mirror.

She gives a theatrical sigh, but dutifully pairs her phone with the car’s audio system. “Okay, but just remember, you asked to listen,” she remarks, finding the track. “I don’t want to hear any complaints.”

“Of course,” Daniel replies. “We have to save critiques for the end, right? That’s how a book club works.”

“We can discuss over cream tea,” Breen adds, before she can object. “I think you’ll find I’ve got a deep and profound sense of literary critique.”

“I’ll believe it when I see it,” she grins, and presses play.

“The warm evening breeze sensually teased the nape of her neck, caressing, much like she’d cradled the neck of the man whose blood now stained her crimson dress…”

The rest of the trip is uneventful —which, in hindsight, should have been her clue that things were about to slip sideways.

They ride mostly in silence, punctuated with little teasing comments from Daniel or Breen at particularly salacious parts of the narration. She’s enjoying the audiobook, their company, and the chance for a little rest. It’s only mid-afternoon and she already feels run off her feet; an hour in the car isn’t such a bad thing, all things considered. 

But the worry is still there, gnawing at her stomach as they finish the drive into Whangārei. 

For reasons she can’t seem to articulate, it seems to worsen when they park, twisting low in her belly as she listens to Breen and Daniel bantering like they’re old mates. They seem to be having a great time, each giving as good as he gets as the three of them make their way down the sidewalk toward the bakery. But every once and a while, the undercurrent of competition shines through. It’s making her nauseous, even more than the residual effects of her three coffees.

It comes to a head abruptly, when they’re waiting in line. Breen and Daniel are arguing about Lord of the Rings, something about feminism and Shelob. She’s not really listening, too caught up in worry and distracted by the vast array of scones and baked goods. She’s surprised when Breen bumps her good shoulder gently, trying to draw her back into the conversation.

“They frame Aragorn as the hero; that’s why he ends up marrying Arwen,” he’s saying, flashing her a smile as he gestures expressively with his hands. “But she still makes this huge decision, right? She’s an eleven princess with immortality on the line —and let’s be real, she’s got options— but she chooses him.”

She has no idea what he’s going on about. But in her increasingly stressed, tired, pained state, she latches onto the only context she can think of.

“Sorry, what?” She asks, trying to keep the turmoil off her face as her stomach sinks.

“Nevermind,” Breen laughs. “I know you’re not into Tolkein.” He takes in her expression, which is doubtlessly looking increasingly apprehensive, and she watches concern creep over his features.

The question’s out of her mouth before he can speak. “She has to choose?” 

The words hang in the air between them. There’s a lump in her throat.

Daniel’s watching her worriedly, a small crease forming on his forehead. Breen’s eyebrows have shot up his face in surprise. She can see his Adam’s apple bob as he swallows, tries to speak.

She beats him to it.

“You know what?” She mutters, ducking her gaze as she fumbles for her phone. “I’m going to give Mike a quick call, update him on the case. Be right back.”

She ducks out of line and through the bakery door before they can try and stop her.

Immediately, the cold air starts to clear her head. She can’t believe she’s just fled the bakery over such a trivial comment. She should know better. She’d only realized her feelings this morning and she’s already making a mess of things. She keeps picturing Daniel and Breen’s concerned faces, and her cheeks burn with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. 

She doesn’t know what to do, so she really does call Mike. He’s an absolute workaholic, so she’s not surprised when he picks up on the first ring. Right now that’s exactly what she needs.

“Mike,” she practically sighs in relief, clutching the phone a little too tightly.

“Kristin,” Mike says, sounding surprised. “What have you got for me?”

Glancing back through the bakery’s large front window, she sees Breen and Daniel deep in conversation. Daniel glances up, catching her gaze through the glass, and she gives him a strained smile before hurriedly turning away. 

She walks down the block a bit while she relays the day’s developments. The zodiac, the worker safety violations, and the marinas. The stupid article in the Brokenwood Courrier, which will need to be addressed.

“Keep at it,” Mike suggests, when she’s finished. “Leave Comms to me. I’ll put a call in to central; it’s looking like this may be bigger than Brokenwood’s small harbour. We might need to get some intel on the ports as well.”

“Sounds good.” She hangs up, mourning the loss of a good distraction. 

She stands on the sidewalk for a moment, trying to take stock of the situation. The chilly winter breeze tosses her hair about her face. She absently brushes it back, staring into the clear blue sky and trying to enjoy the faint warmth of the weak winter sun on her cold cheeks. 

It’ll be okay. She can figure this out. She can apologize to Daniel and Breen, who are doubtless wondering about her abrupt departure. They’ll be okay.

A gull soars overhead, riding an updraft as it circles toward the coast.

She squares her shoulders. Back into the fire.

The bakery is just as she’d left it, though it takes her a second to find Daniel and Breen among its patrons. They’re bent across a small, circular table by the window, talking animatedly. Even from here, she can see the tabletop is blanketed in an assortment of baked goods and tea. They’ve thoughtfully commandeered a third chair from a nearby table for her.

They don’t seem to notice her approaching, too focused on their intent conversation.

“That's a good one,” Breen is eagerly nodding at Daniel. “Bikes are flash, I can definitely work with that.”

“Okay,” Daniel replies, “so we’ve got—“

He finally spots her when she’s a few feet from their table, and cuts himself off abruptly.

“You’ve got what?” She asks, trying to play off her unexpectedly hasty departure. She can still see a worry in his eyes, but it’s eclipsed by obvious relief and a little bit of…something else.

“Scones,” Breen exclaims, gesturing to the assortment on the table. His eyes are bright and eager, though she can see the same undercurrent of relief. “Daniel says they’re amazing, so we got heaps. Probably a few too many, but hey, life’s short.”

“Got you an oat milk latte too,” Daniel adds, nudging a mug toward her as she pulls out a chair to join them. “Decaf,” he adds, as she gives the coffee a suspicious look. The treats smell heavenly, the ceramic mug is warm against her palms, and Daniel and Breen don’t seem upset. She feels herself start to relax, slowly.

“Thanks,” she says, sipping gratefully. She nods at the baked treats. “I see you went a little overboard.”

“Nah,” Breen grins, seeming to pick up on her improving mood. “Got to get a good assortment for dessert club. Plus, Daniel paid, so I’m sure as hell not going to complain.”

Hm. Not entirely surprising, given how Daniel’s been transparently plying her with treats for the last few days. But still, it’s a lot of food. She raises an eyebrow. “Worried we’re going to starve?”

He smiles, taking a sip of his tea. “Not exactly. I thought we might be having a late dinner.”

She doesn’t miss the implication. “We?”

“It was Breen’s idea, actually,” Daniel says, nodding appreciatively at him.

“Yeah, I mean, I’m paying way, way, too much to rent some posho’s shoreline bach,” Breen explains, speaking around a mouthful of scone. “Like seriously, way too much. I basically don’t have a salary.”

He takes a moment to swallow. She watches his Adam’s apple bob, the tendons along his neck flexing, then gets distracted by a fleck of clotted cream perched on the end of his nose. 

“Anyway,” Breen continues, “since this is slowly draining me financially, why not make the most of it? A little bonfire on the beach, good food, great company?”

He looks right into her eyes, and his grin turns a little soft. “If you’re down for it, obviously. It’s been a wild couple of days.”

Suddenly she feels very warm. “Sure,” she nods, feeling the blush creep across her cheeks again. She bites her lip against a smile that she knows will be altogether too affectionate. “That sounds nice.”

She considers his proposition further. “You’re cooking?”

“Well, nah,” Breen clarifies. “I can, but I hear this guy’s a real magician in the kitchen.” He claps Daniel heartily on the shoulder, smiling as though he’s marketing a prized sheep at auction. “No sense getting in the way of that.”

“Thanks, mate,” Daniel chuckles, taking another sip of his coffee. “You’ve got some cream on you.”

She’s expecting Breen to wipe it off, but suddenly Daniel’s reaching across the table, gently cupping Breen’s cheek between his fingers as he swipes his thumb across the freckled tip of Breen’s nose. 

For a fraction of a second, Breen looks surprised. And then he’s smiling, his warm hazel eyes keenly watching as Daniel draws back, slowly licking traces of cream from his thumb.

What. The. Hell.

For a moment, she thinks she’s having some kind of neurological fit. A stress-induced hallucination, maybe. But then Daniel throws Breen a wink, and then they’re both turning to look at her, grinning as though they’ve pulled off the greatest trick in the world.

Forget warm. She feels like she’s absolutely sweltering, though she can’t quite discern whether it’s from embarrassment, confusion, or outright lust. Probably all three.

She ducks her gaze, taking a long sip of her latte as she tries to calm herself down. The coffee does absolutely nothing to allay the heat licking through her veins, but the precious few seconds are enough to gather some semblance of composure.

When she looks back up, she catches Breen and Daniel trading smug glances. And then the moment’s gone, and Breen’s passing her a plated cranberry scone and a small pot of clotted cream.

“So what’s our next move?” Daniel asks, as though nothing at all significant has occurred.

She takes a moment to recalibrate, still trying to get the image of Daniel tenderly cradling Breen’s cheek from her mind. “Let’s deal with Jason, and then we can get out of here,” she suggests, at last. 

“Looking forward to dinner that badly, eh?” Breen grins, raising an eyebrow. He shoots Daniel a pleased, evaluating look. “You must be one hell of a cook.”

“Looking forward to being off the clock,” she counters, before things can get out of hand.

Daniel gives her a suggestive wink. “And whatever comes after.” He takes a long, slow sip of his coffee, then licks his lips. It could be nothing; an entirely unconscious response brought on by dehydration and the dry winter air. But she can’t help but think he’s doing it deliberately. 

“Shut it, you,” she retorts, reaching across the table to slap reproachfully at his bicep.

“Oi,” Breen interjects, his eyes playful. “That’s workplace harassment. He could take you to HR for that.”

“He’ll survive,” she says, flatly. Breen barks out a laugh in response, and Daniel chuckles into his coffee. She doesn’t miss the fleeting, smug glance passing between the two of them.

She’s beginning to feel as though they’re playing a game, and she doesn’t know the rules. But she can’t bring herself to mind too much, not when Daniel’s strong fingers brush against her own as he passes her a savoury scone topped with egg and vegetables. And then Breen’s launching into his early reflections on their so-called book club, eyes shining in the cafe’s warm lighting as he drops his voice to mimic the narrator’s seductive purr.

It quickly becomes apparent that he’s intent on disproving her comments about subtle desire earlier. He pulls out his phone, scrolling through quotes he’d saved from the trip down as he practically croons his literary analysis. 

“I found the main thrust of the plot to be especially satisfying,” he says with a slow, gratified grin. “And what a climax, excellently drawn out. Full bodied, you might say.” He’s somehow managed to drop his voice a full octave lower, though his hazel eyes are still light with humour as they meet her own. 

From the corner of her eye, she can see Daniel looking equal parts intrigued and impressed as he sips his coffee.

“There’s a slow, sonorous, pleasure in narration,” Breen continues, looking absolutely sinful as he holds her gaze. “The way it slowly, eagerly teases out new developments, little bursts of pleasure.”

The reenactment is anything but subtle. Even still, she finds she can’t fight the growing undercurrent of desire humming in her veins. 

Fuck, he’s good at this.

By the time they’re back in the car, her weariness is all but forgotten. If anything she feels too energetic now, as though there’s electricity cracking under her skin. Something’s changed; she can feel it in their dynamic. There’s an undercurrent of anticipation between the three of them, a focused playfulness that feels too pointed to be innocent. Their interactions pull at her like the tide, twirling her about until she’s breathless and confused. She hasn’t a clue how to approach it. 

It nags at her all through the drive to Jason’s residence, making her restless. They’ve met him at his current address, which turns out to be a caravan on a sheep farm just outside of town.

They’ve parked the black station vehicle at the bottom of a steep hill, from which a winding track leads toward the distant hilltop caravan. Scraggly trees dot the slope, mixed among tall grasses that roll like ocean waves in the breeze. 

They’ve just started to make their way up the path when a gunshot rings out, cracking sharply in the brisk winter air.

She drops to the ground, adrenaline spiking in her veins as her attention immediately shifts to Daniel and Breen. For a fleeting second she fears the worst, but they’re both crouched in the dirt near her, wearing the same wide-eyed, alert stare that she can feel across her own features. A brief flash of relief passes through her, and then she’s pushing her feelings aside and scanning the hilltop for the source of the shot. 

None of them are wearing their vests, and none of them are armed. There’s virtually no cover on the path. Not a great tactical position, to say the least.

“Stay away!” A man’s gruff voice bellows from somewhere above her. “Or I’ll kill you.”

Another sharp crack rings out, and this time she hears the telltale thud as a bullet strikes the earth somewhere further up the hillside. She pushes down the spike of panic that cuts through her chest, acutely aware of her two unarmed, unprotected colleagues at her back. She waves a hand behind her, hoping they get the message and retreat toward the cover afforded by the car. It won’t do any good having them all clustered here, three sitting ducks in one convenient, exposed location.

“Jason Williams,” she calls out, crouching low to the ground as she projects her voice as best as she can. She hears shuffling behind her as Daniel and Breen begin slowly withdrawing down the hillside. Her pulse is pounding in her ears. “This is Detective Kristin Sims from the Brokenwood CIB, with DC Chalmers and DC Breen. We don’t mean you any harm.”

A tall, stocky figure appears on the hilltop, a shotgun raised squarely in her direction. It’s hard to tell the angle from this distance, but she’s fairly certain the next shot won’t be hitting the earth. Her breath catches in her throat as she slowly raises her arms in a gesture of surrender, still keeping the rest of her body as low to the ground as possible.

“Get out of here,” the figure yells down at her. The gun shakes unsteadily in his grip, and she feels ice creep up her spine. “How do I know you’re actually cops?”

It would be colossally stupid to reach for her badge. “We spoke earlier,” she calls back instead, forcing a degree of measured calm. “About your former boat and the murder of Jessie Taylor.”

“Don’t say that name!” Jason roars, and she’s almost sure he’s going to fire.

She thinks of Daniel and Sam. Hopes they’ve made it to the car, that they’ll be well out of range by the time Jason’s firing his fourth shot. 

She doesn’t shut her eyes, and she waits. Hopes.

And then a second figure suddenly appears atop the hill. From what she can make out, the woman has red hair and a build similar to Jason’s. The most telling feature, however, is her booming voice, which rings out across the landscape.

“Jason Williams, what the hell do you think you’re doing!”

Immediately, Jason’s posture shifts. She can tell he’s less certain of himself, caught between watching the three officers at the base of the hill and the new, unknown speaker.

There’s some muttering from atop the hill, too distant for her to make out. And then Jason’s turning the shotgun over to the woman and calling out a surly, half-hearted apology.

“Come on up.” The woman’s thunderous voice echoes down the hillside. “I’ll put the jug on.”

Incredulously, she looks behind her to see Breen and Daniel halfway to the car. They look just as stupefied as she feels, and a little green. Surprisingly, Breen looks particularly shaken. She’s not quite sure why; he’d been involved in plenty of shootings back before his departure, including the memorable time Rory Parks had taken her hostage. 

She chalks it up to his time in the Solomon Islands. Maybe he’s out of practice.

She gives him a once-over as he and Daniel come back up the hill to join her. She notices his hands shaking, and before she can second-guess herself, she’s stepping in close to brush dirt from the lapels of his suit. “You alright?” she asks, meeting his worried hazel eyes. Her hands smooth over his chest, and although she knows it's impossible, she almost thinks she can feel his pulse racing beneath them.

“Yeah,” he swallows. “That was just,” his voice trails off.

“Entirely unnecessary?” Daniel supplies, coming closer. She can hear the tension in his voice as he continues. “More than enough to charge him with a weapons offence?”

“Yeah,” Breen breathes, managing a weak grin. His hazel eyes are still boring into her own, his breath warm on her cheeks. She can smell his deodorant, the fresh artificial scent mixing with something distinctly Breen.

“Not much armed crime on the beach?” she asks, trying for humour. She’s long since brushed the last of the loose earth from his suit, but she keeps her palms pressed lightly to his chest. She can feel the heat of his skin seeping through the fabric. 

“Actually, we got a fair amount,” Breen manages, beginning to sound a little more like his usual self. “But it’s different when it's people you care about.”

Oh. She feels another wave of fluttery warmth wash through her chest, a small smile tugging at her cheek.

She can’t think of anything to say, but thankfully Daniel bails her out. “Glad that’s over, at any rate,” he declares, clapping Breen on the shoulder as he looks toward the hilltop. His other palm lands gently on her good shoulder, and the warmth in her chest grows when she realizes he’s trying his best not to jostle her. “I reckon we’re due for a cup of tea?”

“Bit of an unconventional start to a tea party,” Breen retorts, some of the colour coming back to his face. “Not sure I’d thank the hosts for their hospitality.”

“Best we take it up with them personally, eh?” she grins, finally pulling her palms from Breen’s chest as she turns to watch the hilltop. A curl of vengeful pleasure settles in her belly as she watches Jason’s large figure meandering by the caravan. “Besides, I want to see what Jason’s so afraid of.”

It’s not long before she gets her answer.

“I don’t see why you lot are coming back to me,” Jason growls, stirring his mug of tea absently as he lounges in a plastic chair. He’s pulled out two more for herself and Daniel, each with a view of the farm’s sprawling pastures. Breen’s lanky figure can be seen stumbling through the flock in the distance, having been promptly commandeered by Jason’s as-of-yet unnamed wife upon their arrival. Apparently she’d needed to find an ewe who’d been exhibiting signs of illness, though by the way she’d cackled as she said it, the supposed errand may have been more for her own vicious enjoyment.

Kristin tries to focus on the conversation, though thankfully Daniel had offered to lead the questioning this time. Her thoughts are still scattered from the trip to the bakery —not to mention their little adventure on the hillside— and she’s having a hard time focusing. The day feels unnaturally long, dragging at her bones, though she supposes it’s likely just the adrenaline crash. Whatever it is, it’s making her ribs ache fiercely.

In the distance, Breen trips over a resting ewe and falls flat on his back in the turf. A gleeful, cackling laugh echoes through the air.

“We have witness testimony suggesting that Craig Walker and Jessie Taylor may have been looking for something,” Daniel is saying, his brown eyes watching Jason closely. “A drop point, on the ocean. Would you know anything about that?”

“Of course not,” Jason scowls. “Why would I?”

“Because unlike Craig or Jessie, you owned a boat,” Daniel answers patiently. “And that boat was abandoned very soon after Jessie died, based upon the unpaid dues accumulated at the Brokenwood Marina.”

“It’s circumstantial,” Jason scoffs, taking a sip of his tea. A printed cartoon cheetah leaps across the white ceramic, framed by the slogan: Brokenwood Cheetahs…next year is our year!  

She watches as Jason’s eyes rove nervously across the pasture, avoiding Daniel’s gaze while he drinks. “A friend died at sea,” he says eventually. “I lost my taste for boating.”

“Are you sure there’s nothing more to it?” Daniel inquires. “Because around that time, you moved house. You left Brokenwood for Whangārei.”

“Christ, it’s only an hour away,” Jason says, rolling his eyes. “I’ve not exactly fled the country. Can’t a man live his life in peace?”

“Not if you’re Craig Walker or Jessie Taylor,” she interjects, irritation mounting. “Jason. We’re trying to find whoever killed Jessie, but to do that we need to know why he was out on the ocean.”

“You need to tell us what happened,” Daniel urges, his tone grave.

Jason sighs, still watching the pasture. After a moment his expression softens, and he looks at them with more worry in his eyes than frustration. 

“You can’t reveal your source,” he says uncertainly.

“All the information disclosed will remain within the bounds of the investigation,” she assures him. Beside her, Daniel nods in confirmation, his gaze not wavering from Jason’s increasingly hunted expression.

And then he tells them. 

“Auckland is New Zealand’s largest port,” Jason explains. “You get over 800,000 containers coming in annually on more than 1,200 vessels. Most of that cargo is legitimate. Some of it isn’t.”

Daniel nods, waiting.

“It’s always a game of cat and mouse,” Jason continues. “Police and port officials try to stop contraband from reaching our shores, and certain individuals find ways around that. Craig was one of those people.”

“He hung around some rough folks and heard about cocaine coming in on one of the Vancouver-Seattle routes, intended for a drop point offshore. I reckon container inspections were increasing. Much easier to drop it in the Pacific, where there’s only a skeleton crew onboard keeping watch.”

“So Craig decided he wanted in on it,” Daniel states, waiting until Jason gives a curt nod.

“That’s right. He convinced his contact on the ship to hold back a small share of the goods and drop it a little closer to shore. And it worked; we retrieved the package good as gold, and Craig sold it off to another contact. But it wasn’t enough for him. He wanted more.”

“So you did it again,” Daniel guesses, watching as Jason’s face contorts in regret.

“Yes. We did it again, and at first everything seemed sweet. But I guess word got out, because Craig’s contact never made it back into port. The official verdict was a workplace safety accident. They thought he’d gone over the deck in heavy sea; they never did find the body. But we all knew different. And then Jessie—” 

Jason’s voice breaks, and he cups his head in his hands. She and Daniel lock eyes over his heaving shoulders as he takes a series of long, shaking breaths. Daniel raises an eyebrow, his gaze flicking over Jason’s trembling form. She can see the question in his eyes —do they bring him in?

She shakes her head, no. Not yet, at least. They’re well past the statute of limitations for drug offences, and he’s more useful to them while he’s collaborative. Daniel gives her a subtle nod, and she’s relieved to find they’re on the same page.

Jason seems to collect himself. “I couldn’t keep going, not with what they did to Jessie. I knew his death was a message and I’d have been next if I’d stuck around. My only hope was to abandon the boat and move house. I turned to the drink for a few years before managing to turn myself right way ‘round, and then I met Lisa.” 

He gestures toward the pasture, where two sheep are doing their best to graze on Breen’s increasingly grass-stained slacks. Behind him, the older brunette woman —Lisa, she supposes— is cackling madly, an ewe cradled in her muscular arms.

“She changed me for the better,” Jason says, smiling a little weakly. “I’m not perfect, I know it. And she was right upset when she heard about yesterday’s collision. But I thought we were through the worst of it, until Craig came asking for my boat.”

“I’m sorry, he came here?” she interjects. “Why didn’t you mention this earlier?”

“Same reason I didn’t mention the rest of it,” Jason replies. “These are dangerous people. I don’t want to be involved, and I especially don’t want to be the one responsible for bringing the law down on their backs.”

“So you weren’t happy to see Craig,” she supplies.

“No,” he says dryly. “It was enough to drive me to drink again, having him track me down. He came here the other day, saying he wanted to borrow my boat. I told him it wasn’t mine any longer.”

“And how did he respond?” Daniel asks, his large fingers drumming absently on one knee.

“He didn’t take that too well,” Jason sighs. “But at the end of the day, it's not mine anymore. He left in a huff and I never saw him again. Never wanted to either.”

His eyes return to the pasture, where Lisa is trudging back toward them with a very bedraggled Breen in tow.

He lowers his voice as the pair approach. “To be entirely honest, it came as a bit of a relief when you told me he was dead.” She can’t help but narrow her eyes, thinking through the potential motive.

Jason takes in their expressions and backpedals, clarifying, “I didn’t kill him. I just don’t want any connection to what we did back then. Given what happened, maybe Craig would have been better off thinking the same way.”

“We’ll need you to stay in the district,” Daniel states, rising from his chair. Evidently he’s had enough for the time being. “Thank you for your time.”

“Don’t have much choice about that regardless,” Jason retorts, staying seated. He jerks his head toward the pasture. “Got to earn a living.”

Breen and Lisa are almost upon them now, and now that they’re close, she can see the exhaustion in Breen’s gait. Still though, much as he’s grass-stained and tired, he’s looking far healthier than he did at the base of the hill. There’s colour in his cheeks again, and his eyes have regained their mischievous sparkle.

“Have fun out in the field?” she teases, as they set off down the hillside. Daniel's striding beside them, looking pleased as he shoulders the confiscated shotgun.

“Not exactly,” Breen grouses, though he’s managing a smile. “That woman is something else. She had me running all through the pasture trying to find that stupid ewe.”

 “I saw,” she laughs. “Looks like you came off worse than the sheep.”

“Yeah, well,” Breen shrugs, “Let’s see you try it next time.”

She smiles sweetly. “And why would I need to do that, when you’re already so experienced?”

“ Ewe shouldn’t knock it until you’ve tried it,” Daniel interjects, chuckling at her resulting scowl.

“I swear, those jokes are getting worse and worse,” she gripes, as Breen laughs lightly beside her.

“Time wool tell,” Daniel retorts, throwing her a wink as he unlocks the car.

“What’s the matter, Kris?” Breen teases. “Do you find them baaaad?” He exaggerates the pronunciation, bleating like a sheep while she rolls her eyes.

“You’re both terrible,” she laments, throwing herself into the welcome comfort of the backseat. Breen can take the front; he’ll probably appreciate it after the afternoon they’ve had. 

Breen and Daniel seem to notice her exhaustion, because they drop the puns, for now. She’s sure they’ll be at it again soon enough.

They’re pulling out of the narrow, winding laneway when another thought occurs to her. “Hey, do you suppose it was Craig that Brian saw when he encountered the abandoned yacht?” she asks, leaning forward to prod at Daniel’s shoulder. She tries not to focus on the well-defined muscle flexing under her touch.

“Could be,” Daniel nods thoughtfully. “Brian mentioned a man in a zodiac, which could be the missing boat from the Pullman farm.”

Interesting. She’s inclined to agree, though it wouldn’t explain the yacht. “Speaking of, did you ever manage to get through all the Coastguard documents?”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel smiles ruefully. “I’ve still got a ways to go. There’s a lot in there; I had no idea they respond to so many calls.”

“Don’t worry about it,” she shrugs. “I’ll take them home after dinner tonight and give them a read through.”

She watches Daniel and Breen pass each other subtle looks. A small, unspoken discussion plays out across the front seat. Then Daniel ventures a suggestion. “How about I take some?” he says. “It will be faster that way.”

“I can help out too,” Breen adds. “Bit of an evening read never hurt anyone.”

She gives him an incredulous look in the rearview mirror, meeting his eyes. “I thought you don’t work off the clock?”

Breen shrugs, flashing her a grin. “Well, when in Rome, do as the Romans do. Besides, you can’t spend all evening working. Not when you’ve got two excellent companions in a horrendously expensive bach.”

“Good food, great company,” Daniel adds, his fingers drumming on the wheel. “You won’t believe the meal I’ve got planned.”

She’s already sold, more than a little giddy at the prospect of spending the evening together. The newfound excitement is eating away at her exhaustion, thrumming in her bones as she perks up. She can feel the smile tugging at her cheeks, dimpling them.

She knows Sam and Breen know it, too. But they keep going, as though they still need to convince her. 

“Maybe some stargazing or a bonfire on the beach, if we’re feeling up to it,” Breen muses, in a tone that’s definitely meant to be enticing.

“The wood will be wet,” she feels compelled to point out. “It poured all day yesterday.”

“Aw, I wouldn’t worry about that,” he grins mischievously. His eyes shine in the late day sun as he meets her gaze in the rearview mirror. 

“You never know what’ll catch a spark.”

Oh.

Chapter Text

For all his complaints, Breen’s rented bach is undoubtedly nice. She’s seen it from the exterior already, but the view from the laneway is nothing compared to what’s inside. 

She stands on the porch, peeking in through a glass panel in the large wooden front door. From what she can tell, the world beyond is immaculately decorated and very expensive. Admittedly, she’s more interested in finding Breen —she’s already rung the bell— but in the absence of anything better to do, she’ll gladly pass judgement on his landlord’s opulent tastes.

It’s helping take her mind off….things.

She hasn’t felt this on edge in a while. At least, not in a non-life-threatening capacity. She’s still buzzing with excitement from their day together, acutely aware of the change in their dynamic. Daniel and Breen had continued their outlandish attempts at flirting for most of the drive back to Brokenwood, save for a precious period of peace while they listened to another installation of Jack Rudd’s audiobook. She hasn’t had much of an opportunity to calm down since, save for a quick trip home to change into some clean jeans and a plaid shirt. 

It’s frustrating and exhilarating at once, not knowing what the evening will hold. But she’s impatient to find out. 

As if on cue, Breen —or is it Sam now?— appears behind the glass. After the events of the past few days, it’s starting to feel strange calling him by his surname. Especially as she stands on his doorstep holding a bottle of wine, a little giddy to be seeing him, and not entirely oblivious as to why he’s invited her over.

Bre–Sam ushers her in with a warm smile, swinging the tastefully modern door open to reveal a cozy-looking living room with vaulted ceilings and expansive windows looking out over the ocean. It’s not the largest bach she’s seen, but the view makes it look like something out of a magazine.

“Wow,” is all she can think to say. She doesn’t think she’ll ever be able to afford a home like this; even if she combined her salary with Daniel and Sam’s it would be a stretch. An enormous chandelier hangs from the wood rafters, casting golden light across deliberately-weathered hardwood flooring. It’s abundantly clear from the well-made, modern furnishings that Sam is most definitely not the true owner.

A smattering of moving boxes heaped in one corner further underscores this fact.

“You can throw your coat anywhere,” he offers. “I haven’t managed to buy hangers for the coat closet yet, so I just drop mine over a chair.”

“Thanks,” she nods, still a little overwhelmed by the home’s decadence. “You weren’t kidding when you said this place was posh.”

“I know, right?” Sam chuckles. “Just wait ‘till you see the kitchen. Daniel’s having the time of his life.”

She toes off her boots and follows him deeper into the bach, tossing her coat over a well-stuffed sectional positioned in front of an enormous fireplace. She recognizes a second jacket draped over an armchair as Daniel’s. A box of cupcakes from the French Baker is tucked on a side table beside it. She can see through the cellophane cut-out that they’re chocolate, each one topped with a bright red cherry.

She sets a bottle of wine beside them; nothing fancy, just something she’d grabbed from the Pack n’ Save on the way over. Suffice to say, she’s starting to feel a little out-classed.

She trails after Sam as he leads her into a small but tastefully furnished kitchen, outfitted with what appear to be very high-end appliances. Daniel has a selection of scallops marinating in a delicious-smelling mixture of lemon zest, garlic, and something she can’t identify. He glances up when she enters, looking pleased to see her. “You’re just in time.”

“And you look like you’ve been busy,” she grins, leaning closer to get a sense of the rest of the meal. A large wooden salad bowl rests atop the marble-topped kitchen island, already filled to the brim with an assortment of diced fruit and vegetables, greens, and some kind of warm aromatic grain. Suddenly, she realizes she’s very hungry.

“You’re pulling out all the stops, eh?” She plucks a piece of chopped apple from the salad and pops it in her mouth, grinning as Daniel gives her an unimpressed look. 

“You keep your hands to yourself,” he warns teasingly. “Dinner will be ready soon.”

She nicks another piece of apple, just to spite him. Daniel sighs in faux-resignation, but she can see the humour in his eyes as he turns to Sam. “I suppose she’s always been like this.”

“Yeah, nah,” Sam grins, laughing as she starts to protest. “Independent, this one.”

“You’re one to talk,” she counters, smacking him lightly in the chest. 

“Hey,” Sam exclaims, capturing her palms and linking their fingers together. He raises their joined hands gently above her head, smiling smugly. “That’s workplace harassment, you know. Bullying, even.”

“We’re off the clock. I can do whatever I want,” she challenges, squirming in his grip. She sees him falter for a split second, watches his eyes dart quickly to her ribs before he’s meeting her stare once more. “Don’t make me pull a takedown on you,” she threatens, “because I will, and I won’t show mercy.” She raises a knee, just to see what he’ll do.

He laughs, loud and bright, and she can’t stop the answering giggle that escapes her. “Threatening violence already?” Sam chuckles, his thumbs stroking distractingly along her fingers. “Is that any way to treat your host?”

“If this is how you treat your guests,” she retorts, nudging at the backs of his knees with her heel. “You sure you want to push your luck?”

His body curves cautiously away from her own as he looks down, weighing the odds. She sees the moment he gives up.

“Always so aggressive,” Sam remarks, his tone playfully aggrieved as he releases her. She preens at the victory, though a little part of her misses the warmth of their joined hands. 

Oh god, has she really got it that bad?

“Was there any doubt?” Daniel chuckles, turning to grab a large object from the counter behind him, covered by a tea towel. “But she can be persuaded, I reckon.”

He uncovers a large cutting board laden with different cheeses and spreads, setting it down on the island in front of herself and Sam. She doesn’t miss the large pot of chutney at one end, unmistakably sourced from the Brokenwood Farmers Market.

“Go on,” Daniel prods, and she realizes she’s been caught staring again. “Dig in. You know you want to.”

She can't help but fight him on it, just a little. “Confident, are we?”

“Am I wrong?” Daniel retorts, raising an eyebrow.

“No,” she admits, already reaching for the cheese knife. “Not this time, at least.”

She cuts herself a slice of brie, selecting a cracker and spreading an ample portion of chutney overtop of it. She doesn’t miss Daniel’s vaguely nauseated frown; he still hasn’t come around to the condiment, despite her enthusiastic reviews. She supposes the chef’s potential role in a homicide might not be helping matters.

“You’ve really pulled out all the stops tonight,” she remarks, deciding not to push the chutney thing for now.

“Of course,” Sam says, looking smug.

“How could we not?” Daniel adds. “It’s a special night.”

“Special how?” she asks, trying to feign indifference. There’s a fluttery feeling in her stomach again and she’s having trouble tamping it down.

“I think you already know,” Daniel replies lightly, heating a pan on the enormous propane cooktop. 

Oh.

She doesn’t quite know what to say. She knows what their over-the-top antics have been building toward, and she hasn’t missed the looks they’ve been giving her. She’s not oblivious; she came here with certain intentions of her own. But this really isn’t how she imagined the inevitable conversation unfolding, salivating over a cheese platter with chutney starting to dribble down her fingers. 

The words are sticking in her throat. Thankfully, Sam never seems to have that problem.

“Eat your cheese,” he suggests, his warm, solid hand coming to rest on her good shoulder. “You haven’t stopped staring at the platter, and you’re beginning to look like my aunt’s dog when she’s forgotten to give him breakfast.”

“You always know just what to say,” she says flatly, though she’s a bit relieved for the easy out. He seems to know it too; when she looks, there’s a soft smile pulling at his cheek. And then it’s promptly replaced by a different sort of mischievous grin, one she’s coming to know all too well.

He’s already cutting a slice of brie from the wheel when he calls to Daniel, “you want one, mate?”

“That would be great,” Daniel nods, his tone playful and a little knowing. He’s just about to toss the scallops into the pan, both his hands occupied.

Apparently, that’s just what Sam’s angling for. He trots around the kitchen island with a small piece of brie, looking for all the world like the cat that’s caught the canary.

She can see what’s coming next —anyone could, really. But it doesn’t stop her breath from hitching as Daniel’s plush lips close around the tips of Sam’s long, dexterous fingers, his eyes fluttering shut. He gives a soft, appreciative hum as he evidently savours the taste of the cheese, then slowly withdraws, licking his lips.

His deep brown eyes blink open, and then they’re both turning to look at her, grinning smugly.

Oh god.

“Enjoying the cheese?” Sam asks, once it’s evident she doesn’t have the words to respond to whatever the hell just happened.

“Yup,” she says, stuffing another piece in her mouth before she can say anything incriminating.

Absently, she wonders whether she’ll survive the evening.

“Good,” Daniel grins, “because there’s plenty more where that came from.”

Good lord. She’s going to need more brie.

-

By the time they’ve finished dinner she’s picked up on the game. One of them will find an excuse to reenact an exaggeratedly seductive gesture pulled straight from the worst kind of romance novel —not that she’d know about that, of course— and then they’ll both pause to gauge her reaction. 

Usually, they’ll trade congratulatory looks, or a sly wink if she’s been particularly negligent in camouflaging her reaction. And then the clock resets and they’re at it again.

Daniel drops a serving spoon, then gives Sam a sharp slap on his shockingly pert ass as he bends to retrieve it from the kitchen floor. Sam sensually unties a difficult knot at the back of Daniel’s apron, stroking his hands languorously down the dense muscles of Daniel’s back. 

At one point Sam trips while carrying a glass of water, spilling a calculatingly small amount across Daniel’s chest. He nonetheless spends an unconscionable amount of time dabbing at the firm muscle with a tea towel before Daniel sighs with barely-concealed delight and strips his shirt off entirely.

If she happens to look at his chest, it’s just because she’s curious. Not for any other reason.

And if her eyes linger, well, it’s not a crime to appreciate the human form.

She needs more cheese.

Of course, she knows exactly what they’re up to. The problem is, the knowledge isn’t helping her in the slightest. She’s never felt this warm in her life. She could run straight into the frigid winter waters of the pacific and it wouldn’t make a degree of difference.

Given how transparently Daniel and Sam are congratulating each other, they know it too.

But despite their antics, dinner is…nice. It’s comfortable and easy, and when they’re not trying to rile her up, she finds herself falling into the conversation instead. They talk about their lives, about the case, about their ex-lovers. Daniel even opens up a bit about Missy, and how they’d amicably broken things off when the demands of Daniel’s job became clear.

“It’s hard finding someone who gets it,” Sam nods understandingly. “Coming home at all hours, reeking of possum fat or whatever other hellish substance someone’s smeared on your face.”

“Well,” Daniel coughs, looking a little taken aback as Kristin giggles into her scallops. “I can’t say I’ve had that specifically happen.”

“Count yourself lucky, mate,” Sam warns gravely. “It’s only a matter of time.”

At Daniel’s suggestion, they head down to the beach for a fire after their meal. Daniel brings the cupcakes, and true to his word, Sam’s managed to scavenge an acceptable selection of driftwood. Before long he’s got a jaunty fire blazing in a small dug-out sand pit, crackling and shooting occasional sparks into the cool sand.

Daniel’s shirt is still damp from their earlier antics, so he’s commandeered one of Sam’s largest pullovers. It leaves absolutely nothing to the imagination, but she can’t find it in herself to mind too much.

She’s sitting between them on the windward side of the fire, feeling its heat radiate into the tips of her toes as she takes in the vast, glittering array of stars lighting the clear sky above them. They seem dazzling tonight, extra bright in the darkness above the Pacific.

“Makes you think, eh?” Sam asks, cutting into her thoughts.

“Yeah,” she murmurs, still looking up. “They’re beautiful. I think Michael Taylor might be onto something, buying a telescope.”

“Sure,” Sam nods. “Could be all kinds of stuff up there. Aliens, for starters. Maybe a Death Star or an interstellar highway.”

She scoffs. “That’s not what I meant.”

“You don’t believe there’s life out there beyond our own planet?” Daniel asks.

“Well, you can’t rule it out,” she admits. “I don’t think there’s a Death Star and a bunch of little green men… but it’s one of life’s great questions, isn’t it?”

There’s a silence while Daniel seems to mull it over. The sounds of the night fill the void; waves lapping at the shoreline, logs cracking and snapping in the fire, and the rustle of dry grasses twisting in the breeze atop the dunes. 

For all their antics earlier, it’s peaceful.

Daniel shifts in the sand next to her. “I prefer the great questions closer to home,” he says finally, a little too casually.

She pulls her gaze from the stars to meet his eyes. He’s got an odd expression on his face, something she’s not seen often.

She takes the bait. “Like what?”

He wets his lips absently, in a gesture that’s quickly becoming one of his more obvious tells.  She’s not sure he even realizes he’s doing it. 

“Like,” Daniel begins, as though he’s mustering some courage, “whether you might want to go on a date sometime.”

Oh.

Immediately, she knows she wants to. She really, really wants to, workplace consequences be damned. It’s not technically against the rules anyway. She’s not been impervious to Daniel’s less than subtle overtures, and events of the past 48 hours have effectively sealed the deal.

She wants to.

But she hasn’t forgotten that they’re not alone. She can’t stop herself from looking traitorously at Sam, who’s sitting beside her with —oh. With an absolutely devious grin.

That’s…not what she expected.

“Uh,” she flounders, looking between them both. 

“I’d go for it,” Sam stage-whispers. “Did you know he’s got a bike? You could go up the coast and see the stars off Cape Reinga, now that would be something. No light pollution.”

“I think the stars right here are pretty good, actually,” she manages. Does this mean Sam hasn’t been flirting with her? Has she misread things again? Or—

“Stars aside,” Daniel nudges her gently, bringing her focus back to the question at hand. “What do you think?” He’s got a slightly amused, slightly bashful look about him. Like he’s nervous but can’t help seeing the comedy of the situation.

Sam gives her a thumbs up.

And then, in a flash, she makes her decision. She squares her shoulders, shuffling backward in the sand until she can face them both. Immediately, the cold ocean breeze begins replacing the fire’s warmth.

“I’d quite like that, actually,” she tells Daniel. His features break into a huge grin, and even in the darkness she can see he’s going pink. “But,” she continues, before he can get too excited, “I need to know what’s going on with the both of you.”

Sam and Daniel exchange a look. “Maybe I can take a crack at that,” Sam shrugs, though he’s got a glint in his eye suggesting further antics.

“It so happens that Daniel here has impeccable taste,” he begins, clapping Daniel heartily on the shoulder. She catches Daniel’s quiet “thanks, mate,” before Sam forges on. “The man’s a rugby connoisseur, he’s got a great sense of humour, and he likes a good challenge. I can see why you like him so much.”

“His humour is dodgy at best,” she corrects automatically.

“For you, maybe,” Sam replies. “But it didn’t take long to realize we have some common interests. One in particular, really.”

He gives her a meaningful look, and suddenly the fluttery feeling is back in her stomach. “ Someone caught our eye. And yeah, we both had an interest, but,” he shrugs, “we figured there’s no harm letting her know. She’s headstrong; she’ll have no issue telling us what’s what.”

“What we didn’t expect,” Daniel adds, picking up where Sam left off, “was for her to misread things. Catastrophically.”

“Although really, that’s on us,” Sam muses. “It’s kind of your thing.”

“Hey,” she cuts in accusingly, a thread of annoyance pushing through the giddy butterflies. “You could have said something. How was I supposed to know?”

“That’s where the subtle romancing was supposed to come in,” Sam chuckles ruefully. “We only realized today at the bakery that subtlety isn’t really your thing.”

“Our mistake,” Daniel acknowledges, although he looks more than a little amused by the situation.

“I can be plenty subtle,” she scowls at him. “You’re just not very good at romancing.”

“Sure Kris,” Sam says placatingly, and there’s a lot more warmth in his grin than she’s used to. 

“We both fucked up, so we decided it was only fair that we team up to make things right. Plus, it’s always fun to razz you a bit.”

She wants to argue, but there are bigger questions that need answering. “You’re not competing with each other?” she presses. 

“God no,” Sam grimaces. “Can you imagine? That would make things so complicated. And the workplace relationship too, I mean, no.”

Immediately, the sense of relief crashes over her. She feels a million tonnes lighter. She doesn't have to choose. 

She doesn’t have to choose!

Daniel seems to understand, because he smiles gently at her. “You can have us both, if that’s what you want. Or one of us, or neither.”

“I want you both,” she says immediately, feeling light and a little dizzy with relief and excitement.

“I was hoping you’d say that,” Sam laughs, and now he’s beaming at her too. 

They must look like three smitten fools, she thinks distantly. Grinning stupidly at each other in the firelight, surrounded by the rustling of sedges in the breeze and the hissing of waves on the shore.

It’s all very cheesy and romantic, and just as cliche as their attempts at seduction. But the longer she looks at them, at their playful smiles and kind eyes, the more she realizes she can’t find it in herself to care. 

Quite the opposite, really.

“Come back over here,” Daniel murmurs, patting the sand between them.

She doesn’t hesitate. 

They shuffle apart enough that she can squeeze between them, and then immediately draw closer around her. Daniel’s arm curls around her waist as Sam’s drapes gently across her shoulders.

Immediately, the warmth starts seeping through her clothes. Coupled with the bonfire and her building excitement, she feels like she could stay out here forever.

But there’s something she wants. 

She turns to Daniel, cupping his jaw in one hand. She can feel the faintest traces of stubble under the pads of her fingers, the flex of muscle as he wets his lips again. His eyes are warm and curious —if a little nervous— and ringed with gold from the firelight.

She wants him. She pulls in a deep breath, and takes.

It’s the easiest thing in the world, pressing their lips together. She watches his eyes flutter shut, feels the curve of his smile against her own. His lips are soft and warm, and her heart soars for a moment before she pulls back. 

Daniel opens his eyes, a bright smile stretched across his face. “Sweet as,” he breathes.

She laughs, feeling his warm fingers stroking down her spine, and then turns to Sam. He waggles his eyebrows as their eyes meet.

He’s grinning cheekily at her. “My turn now?” 

“Maybe,” she teases, watching his eyes crinkle at the edges as he laughs.

“Come here then,” he says, cupping her cheek and coaxing her into a kiss. It’s warm and light, and she can’t help the giggle that escapes her in the middle of it. 

Sam sighs contentedly when they part, licking his lips. “I’ve been wanting that for a while,” he admits.

“You only got here a week ago,” she feels compelled to point out.

“Feels like ages.”

She spares a moment to wonder if they’re moving too fast. It really hasn’t been long, and they have work to think about—

“Quit overthinking things,” Sam snorts, squeezing her good shoulder gently. “She’ll be right.”

Daniel’s thumb traces absent circles in the small of her back. “There’s much better ways to occupy ourselves, I reckon.”

She arches an eyebrow. It absolutely sounds like a pickup line, and she’s curious to see where it leads. “Like what?”

“Like this, for starters,” Daniel grins, before pulling her into another kiss. It lingers a little more this time as he catches her bottom lip between his own. When they part, she already wants to do it again.

Sam fills the gaps nicely. She catches his jaw in one hand, tugging him toward her and claiming his lips again. He smells like deodorant and ocean and Sam, and suddenly she can’t get enough. She feels him card a hand through her hair, stroking behind her ear as she deepens the kiss just a bit, and then she finally releases him. His lips are pink and shining, and pulled into a playful smile.

She could get used to this.

In the time it’s taken her to indulge in Sam, Daniel’s managed to pop open the box of cupcakes. Decadence upon decadence, she thinks absently, watching as he doles them out. The hedonism of the evening isn’t lost on her.

The firelight dances in his eyes as he raises a cupcake skyward in a mock toast. “To new beginnings.”

“To new beginnings,” she echoes with Sam, their voices carrying on the wind across the dark sand and surf. 

She takes a decadent first bite, savouring the chocolate across her palette. Around a mouthful of icing she asks, “so, does this put an end to the cheesy seduction?”

“I don’t see why,” Sam replies easily. Already, he’s managed to get chocolate on the corner of his mouth. She kind of wants to lick it off.

“Seems a little sad to take the spark out of things on day one,” Daniel chuckles. “Besides, you like it.”

“I do not.”

“You do,” Sam grins, traitorously siding with Daniel. “Your cheeks go all pink.”

“And you get really quiet,” Daniel adds.

“I’m afraid you’re both mistaken,” she says, feeling her cheeks heating even as she denies it. To compensate, she throws them each a superior, pitying look. “Not surprising, really. It happens often enough.”

“Wow, okay.” Daniel barks out a laugh, but his palm returns to its spot at her lower back, rubbing absent circles in the muscle. Sam just sighs good naturedly, flashing her a long-suffering smile.

“Hey, speaking of seduction,” he begins after a pause, “have either of you tried that thing where you knot a cherry stem with your tongue?”

She has, back in her university days. She’d been young and excitable, high on the thrill of early independence and self-discovery. She remembers flirting with a girl from her psych class, who had enthusiastically referenced the cherry stem trick as an indicator of good oral. She’d never quite believed her, but that hadn’t stopped her from dedicating a fortnight to learning it. Just in case.

Daniel’s already plucking the cherry from atop his cupcake. “Sure, it’s easy.”

She separates the stem from her own, then looks between Daniel and Sam. “Are we racing, then?”

“Uh, sure,” Sam nods, “Something tells me I’m about to get destroyed though.”

“Aw, not much for oral dexterity?” she teases. She doesn’t mean anything by it, but it’s nice to watch Sam squirm for once. He’s long overdue for it, given how he’s been teasing her.

Sam flushes pink and nips the stem off his own cherry with a muttered “I’ll show you oral dexterity. Just you wait.”

She can’t help but push him further. “You promise?”

Sam blows out a breathy laugh. “Christ, Kris.” His cheeks are steadily turning maroon, but his eyes are huge with surprise and a little flash of challenge. “If you’re asking me to prove it, just name the time and place. I’ll be there.”

“Good to know,” she smiles sweetly, then turns back to Daniel. “Ready to kick his ass?”

Daniel laughs too, though there’s a spark of competition to his smile. Now that she knows what it is —and what it's not— she can't help falling into it. “As I’ll ever be.”

They start. Both Daniel and Sam look absolutely ridiculous, their faces twisted up in concentration. She knows she’s not any better; it’s been a while, and besides, she was never especially graceful at it to begin with.

The fact that she can’t stop giggling probably isn’t helping.

Daniel finishes first, looking far too smug about it. She rolls her eyes good-naturedly as he preens, making all kinds of so-called jokes about his prowess. 

“You could say I’m just cherry good at this,” he chuckles, looking even more amused when she throws him a disappointed look. “I know you’d be saying the same, you’re just a bit tied up at the moment.”

She groans protestingly around a mouthful of stem, then grins triumphantly as she feels it slip into a knot. “Your jokes are terrible,” she informs him, when her mouth is finally free. “Just the worst.”

“And yet you keep coming back for more,” Daniel smiles smugly.

“Stockholm syndrome,” she retorts. “You’ve worn me down. Congratulations.”

They watch Sam as he struggles for a good few minutes, then gives up.

“Better luck next time, mate,” Daniel says, in a tone that suggests the cherry cupcakes may have been more premeditated than she’d initially thought.

But Sam looks far from upset. “Guess I’ll just have to give a different demonstration,” he shrugs, giving her an absolutely sinful look. “Shame, really. Not sure I’ll get over it.”

She scoffs, even as she feels the heat creep back into her chest. “We’ll see.”

It sparks off a new chain of thought. Much as she’d worried about competition, Daniel and Sam seem fine. Quite close actually, especially for their limited time knowing each other. She really does seem to have misread things. 

But relaxed as she is, she finally has the clarity to realize it never would have worked otherwise. She’d worried about a choice, but really, the idea of being fought over —something to be won— doesn't sit right with her. Sitting here, surrounded by warmth and laughter beneath a blanket of stars, feels much more like what she wants. It feels right in a way she can’t quite parse out yet.

Suddenly, she wants to protect it.

“How do we see this working?” she asks, staring into the glowing coals at the heart of the blaze. She knows it’s ridiculous, but she nonetheless feels a little embarrassed as she adds, “I’ve never done this before.”

Sam chuckles. “Well, I know the art of romance is increasingly lost around here, but usually in a relationship you go on dates, you might even kiss every now and again, that kind of thing.”

She rolls her eyes, but the teasing is still something of a relief. “Wow, thanks.”

“Anytime.” Sam squeezes her shoulder gently.

“I’ve also never done this,” Daniel admits, a little sheepishly. “The uh, sharing a person thing. Polyamoury? That.”

Sam puffs out his chest, turning to give them both a smug grin. “Well, you’re both lucky you have me,” he pronounces.

Now that’s a surprise.

“What? Really?” she asks, a little incredulous. “You and Roxy?”

“For a time,” Sam nods. “Variety is the spice of life, right? And Roxy liked a lot of variety.”

She considers this. She’s beginning to realize her knowledge of Sam and Roxy’s relationship is far more superficial than she’d previously thought.

“How did it work?” Daniel asks curiously. He shifts closer in the sand, his hand never wavering from its place at the small of her back.

“Same as you’d expect,” Sam replies offhandedly. “She’d see me some days, Clara others. You make time for each other, you know? And you talk, like a lot. Open communication and all that.”

She gets a sinking feeling in her stomach. Open communication hasn’t exactly been her strong suit. She’s about to say as much, but when she looks at Sam, he’s already giving her an understanding smile. He squeezes her shoulder gently.

“It definitely took some getting used to,” he adds. “Everyone makes mistakes at first; hell, I know I made more than a few. But with the right people it can work.”

“I like the sounds of that,” Daniel says thoughtfully. His features break out in a bright grin when she turns to face him. She knows what’s coming when he throws her a wink. “You could say we’ve cherry picked the best people for this.”

Unbelievable. Absolutely unbelievable.

“You’re horrible,” she says, biting her lip against a laugh. Stupidly, because she knows it will just encourage him further, she presses another giddy kiss to his lips. He hums happily against her in response, and when they break apart his smile seems wider than she’s used to.

She wants nothing more than to continue things with him —with both of them— but she’s got more questions for Sam.

“Did you ever get jealous?” 

Sam gives her a thoughtful look. “I suppose I did, sometimes,” he admits. “But that's where the communication comes in. I didn't realize how hard it was on Roxy, at first.”

“How so?” she asks, intrigued. Mainly because it’s dawned on her that she’s now in Roxy’s position, but she’d be lying if she said she wasn’t also a little nosy.

Sam sighs, rubbing a hand behind his neck. “It’s a lot, keeping relationships with two people. Not just because of the huge time commitment, but you’re pulling double on the emotional side too. Roxy found it hard leaving time to herself, at first. She spent a couple of months running herself into the ground before I realized.”

She doesn’t know quite what to say to that. It hadn’t occurred to her, but now that he’s put the idea in her head, she’s a little worried. Sam and Daniel are her two closest friends at this point, and losing them both to a fiery, embittered breakup would be devastating. And then there's the workplace implications, though they're increasingly feeling like a distant second thought. She stares into the hot coals again, mulling it over.

Silence stretches over the beach. After a while, she realizes both Sam and Daniel are waiting for her response.

“I don’t know what I’d do in that situation,” she admits quietly, not looking at either of them. “I like to think we could work it out.” She wonders if that’s too naive, but she can’t think of a better solution. It’s not comfortable knowing that blind hope is the best plan she can come up with.

To her relief, Daniel takes the opportunity to cut in. “I think that’s all we can do.” His voice is reassuring, enough that she pulls her eyes away from the fire to meet his own. “We’re probably going to mess things up. But we’ve been through worse together. Hell, we’ve narrowly avoided two major incidents in as many days. As long as we want this to work, we can make it work.”

“Too right,” Sam joins in, squeezing her shoulder again. “Nothing that can’t be solved with a little trust, right? And communication. And scheduling. Snacks. A movie night or two wouldn’t go amiss either.”

She huffs out a laugh. “Okay.”

“Good meals,” Daniel chimes in. “Riding up the coast. Refined humour.”

“That last one’s debatable,” she corrects. “But chess would be nice. Mornings at the farmer’s market. Book club.”

“Book club’s the best,” Sam agrees. “I can’t believe Jack Rudd ended up dead. I mean, at the time it was just another case. But now it means we’ve got a finite supply.”

“You’ve got like, 200 hours to get through,” she reminds him. “That’s hardly an imminent problem.”

“Yeah, but I’m thinking long term,” Sam corrects. He says it offhandedly, but it still makes her squirm with an anticipatory sort of pleasure. 

They can make this work.

“Guess we’ll have to start the hunt for something new,” Daniel announces, not looking at all bothered about it. “We’re going to need a lot of material.”

She laughs again, feeling lighter than she has in days. “Okay, but I’ll have you know, I’ve got very high standards.”

“In books? Still debatable,” Sam grins, before pulling her into a gentle, happy kiss. “In partners? Absolutely.”

It’s cheesy and all too affectionate, she thinks. Far too soppy for a woman in her mid-thirties. 

She really can’t bring herself to mind. 

Chapter Text

When Kristin wakes the next morning, it takes a moment for her to remember where she is. Unfamiliar sheets are bundled under her chin, bright sunlight is streaming in through an enormous floor-to-ceiling window, and she can hear waves breaking somewhere beyond the glass.

Right. Sam’s bach. A flutter of excitement rises in her chest. 

She’s not alone in bed, either. Now that she’s more cognizant of her surroundings, she can hear Sam’s soft, deep breathing behind her. His familiar scent is all over the sheets.

She stares out at the ocean, sifting through memories of the night prior. The bonfire, kissing Daniel, kissing Sam. 

They’d spent another couple of hours on the sand after their big talk, enjoying the heat of the fire and the warmth of shared company. Only when the glow had faded from the last of the lukewarm coals did they decide to head back indoors, at which point Sam had produced a chessboard.

She’d fallen asleep on the couch after thoroughly trouncing both of them, tucked into the crook of Daniel’s shoulder and lulled into a doze by the low murmur of his and Sam’s voices.

It’s still new, this thing they have going. But she’s really starting to like it.

As if on cue, Sam stretches languidly with a long, drawn out yawn. “‘Morning,” he murmurs, still sounding half asleep. She rolls over to face him, noting the constellations of freckles spanning the bridge of his nose. She’s never had the opportunity to study them this closely before. They’re…kind of cute, actually.

“What are you looking at?” he murmurs, his lips curving in a soft, teasing smile.

“You’ve got so many freckles. I can’t believe I never noticed.”

“Mmm,” he stretches again, then cards his fingers through her hair, brushing it back from her face. “I contain infinite multitudes.”

“Right,” she says flatly, rolling her eyes. But she lets him pull her into a kiss anyway, and she can’t help giggling against his lips when the hand stroking her hair tickles the nape of her neck.

Fleetingly, she wonders again if they’re moving too fast. But the whole scenario is just so unique by this point —she’s dating both of her immediate coworkers, for Christ’s sake— and worrying about modesty seems a little redundant.

When they part, Sam’s giving her a knowing grin.

“Sleep well?” he asks, smoothing his palm between her shoulder blades.

“Mmm, yes,” she sighs, feeling the echo of contentment in her bones. 

She’d slept like the dead, if she’s honest. She barely remembers Daniel nudging her awake on the sofa late last night, his smile bright in the living room’s low ambient lighting as he extracted himself from beneath her. He might have made another of his terrible jokes as he kissed her goodnight; she’s not really sure. She was already slipping back into sleep when she felt the weight of a blanket draped over her.

Some time later it was Breen waking her up, unceremoniously announcing that it was past two and she needed actual sleep in a real bed. “You don’t have to go home,” he’d joked, trying and failing to look stern, “but you can’t sleep here on the couch. You’re going to drool on it and I’ll lose my deposit. And I genuinely cannot afford that.”

“Excuse you, I never drool,” she’d argued, still half asleep.

“I highly doubt that, given the state of Daniel’s jumper when he left,” Sam had retorted.

She’d murmured some token protest about imposing, and then Breen had tossed her one of his horrible indie band t-shirts and shown her to the bedrooms. 

She’d had options there, too. The opulence of his rented bach had continued to amaze her as she wandered past several unoccupied bedrooms, each immaculately furnished. 

“I uh, haven’t quite managed to pick up all the essentials yet,” Sam had confessed sheepishly, while she’d stared at him uncomprehendingly. “So I’ve only got one set of sheets. You can have my bed, no worries. And I’ll take the couch.”

Even half-asleep that had sounded stupid. So she’d wordlessly taken his hand, blinking groggily as she hauled him into his own bedroom. She’d ignored his squawk of surprise as she stripped off her clothes, pulled on his awful shirt, and crawled into his bed, making sure to steal a good 70% of the duvet before promptly passing out.

She’s not quite sure why she’d done that, but by the way Breen’s beaming at her, she reckons he doesn’t mind too much.

She kisses him again, just because she can.

“What time is it?” she asks, once she’s had her fill. 

Breen rolls onto his back, floundering with one arm as he tries to locate his phone on the bedside table. Eventually he succeeds, squinting at the screen before turning back to face her. 

“Just past seven,” he confirms, laughing as she realizes they’re going to be late for work. 

“We’d better get up,” she warns, beginning to pull out of his embrace. “We’ll be due at the station any minute.”

“I think Mike will survive if we work normal hours for a day,” Sam chuckles, trying to coax her back beneath the duvet. One warm hand caresses her shoulder, then starts stroking gently down her side. “Didn’t he leave early yesterday?”

She considers it. On one hand, she prides herself on her work ethic and enjoys her job. Sure, the hours have been longer than usual lately, but working a 10 or 12-hour day hasn’t been a hardship… although maybe that says something about her social life. On the other hand, she doesn't usually have a counter-offer, and Sam’s fingers are meandering distractingly lower.

She’d kind of like to see where that leads. 

Just a little. Quickly. And then they can get to the station.

“Okay,” she challenges, stroking the downy ginger hairs on Sam’s chest. They’re softer than she would have thought, and she can see even more freckles beneath them, alongside the pinkish remnants of his sunburn. It’s alarmingly attractive, in a very Sam way. 

“Convince me.”

Sam grins wider, and now there’s an ounce of competitive playfulness in it. “I make incredible chocolate chip pancakes,” he tells her, as his fingers trace contemplative circles down her hip. He hasn’t quite dipped below her shirt yet, but she’s a little interested to see if he’ll dare to.

“Good start,” she says, pretending to mull it over as she matches his explorations. She trails her palm down to his navel, admiring the lean muscle. “What else have you got?”

Sam huffs out a laugh, his eyes flicking downward to watch her progress for a moment. But he’s still smiling impishly, and after a moment he dutifully keeps going. “I make good coffee. I can graciously give you the first turn in the shower. If you give me enough time, I can play a really bad version of our national anthem on the recorder.”

“I’m not sure that last one’s much of an enticement,” she snickers. “Might get me to the station faster, I reckon.”

“Pretty rude, slagging off your host’s musical talents,” Sam chuckles, but it doesn’t stop him from pressing a quick peck to her lips. “I should turn you out for that. You can go home to your sad porridge and I’ll have the pancakes all to myself.”

“Not much of an enticement, that,” she retorts. “And my porridge isn’t sad.”

“It’s so sad, Kris,” Sam tells her, deadpan. “It’s like lumpy soup.” His fingers fiddle contemplatively with the hem of her shirt for a moment, then dip beneath the fabric to stroke along the curve of her ass. She doesn’t know for certain, but when she catches his eyes, she thinks he might be just as giddy as she is. 

Still though, she feels compelled to protest. “That’s how you’re supposed to make it.”

Sam gapes at her for a moment, looking genuinely surprised, and then he’s laughing. It’s loud and bright in the early morning stillness, and it's enough to spur her to kiss him again, a little more deeply this time. His giggles against her, then gives a pleased hum against her lips. And that’s really all it takes to open the floodgates and release the mountain of pent-up sexual frustration she didn’t know she was holding back.

She breaks the kiss just long enough to roll atop him, then catches his mouth again with a delighted laugh. Sam’s shoulders shake as he chuckles into her mouth, and then mmm, yes. He kisses her properly, and suddenly she’s very glad they’re not headed into the station quite yet.

She hadn’t realized how much she’d missed this. And Sam is…well. He’s actually quite a good kisser. And now he’s got both hands on her, and she can feel the heat of his palms warming her skin as he resumes his languid caresses. It’s accompanied by a considerably less innocent warmth building between her legs.

All because of Sam Breen. Who would have thought?

The same man who’d come into work covered in possum fat and mud and –well, everything really– more times than she can count. Who’d tried to set her up dinner invites with half the town when she’d been moping over a breakup and living off of soup. Who’d managed to roast a holiday chicken in the station’s toaster oven when she’d been alone for Christmas one year.

He shifts a little against her, enough that one knee is wedged between her thighs, and the rest of her is pressed tight against him, and yup. He’s also into this. More than a little, by the feel of things.

And then, in an ill-advised choice that she’ll regret for the rest of the morning, she makes the mistake of rocking sharply against him. The movement sends a surge of heat through her, followed almost instantly by a spike of agonizing pain in her ribs as they shift exactly the wrong way. She gasps reflexively, flinching painfully away from Sam, which of course makes it worse.

“Whoa there, are you alright?” Sam asks, and she realizes his hands have stilled and he’s looking at her with more than a little alarm.

“Ribs,” she manages to gasp, “I’m okay. Bugger all.”

Sam nods understandingly, stroking his palms soothingly down her sides as she tries to find a position that’s halfway comfortable. She ends up splayed across his chest, breathing raggedly. At least she’s managed to keep the hurt whimpering to a minimum. 

They lie there for a moment. She can hear his heart beating quickly against her cheek.

“So it’s sounding like pancakes might be a good call,” Sam says at last, still working his hands gently across her ribs and back. 

“Yeah,” she huffs, a little ruefully. She’d been quite hoping to see where things went. Oh well.

Sam chuckles, his breath warm against the top of her head, and maybe she hasn’t been as subtle as she’d thought. But he seems to be on the same page. “Something to look forward to, I reckon.”

She raises her head enough to meet his eyes. “And what exactly would that something be?”

To her great pleasure, he blushes. “Whatever you’d like it to be. Whether it’s breakfast or something a little more…off menu.”

“Off menu, eh?” She can’t help but grin. “I like the sounds of that.”

Very carefully, she extracts herself from atop him and climbs out of bed. “In the meantime, I’ll take you up on that shower.”

He rolls off the mattress to join her, gesturing a little embarrassedly toward a spacious ensuite. “Be my guest. The towel situation is, uh, the same as the sheets for now. But I’m planning on getting a second. And I just washed it yesterday.”

She laughs, then tugs him closer for another kiss. “I’m the one staying over unexpectedly. Any towel consequences are my own.”

“Hopefully you don’t regret saying that,” he grins. “I’ve got all the soaps in there and stuff. Should be everything you need.”

“All the soaps?” she questions, a little lost. She’s got exactly one bar of soap in her shower, alongside her shampoo and conditioner. 

“Well, yeah,” Sam shrugs. “Some body wash, exfoliant, shampoo, conditioner, face wash…” he stops when he catches the look on her face. “What?” he says defensively, “Roxy got me into it. And to be honest, it’s working. My skin’s amazing.”

“When it’s not lobster red,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes as she strides past him toward the ensuite. First thing after work, she’s going to Pack ‘n Save to pick some face wash and whatever else Sam has. She won’t be outdone, not if there’s the prospect of having him over to her place sometime. 

She feels a little shiver of excitement at the thought.

Sam pauses in the doorway, a knowing look in his eye. “I’ve got a pretty nice loofah too,” he grins. “Wash cloth, bath robe. The works, really.”

“And yet you can’t manage a spare towel,” she retorts, beginning to pull off Sam’s hideous shirt. She resolutely ignores the sharp pang of protest in her ribs.

“Oh, uh, don’t mind me,” she hears him remark, as she tugs it free of her head and tosses the offending garment to the ornate floor. She watches as Sam’s wide hazel eyes trail slowly down her body.

There’s a long pause. She’d feel a bit embarrassed were it not for how transparently he’s enjoying the view. His ears are going pink, contrasting sharply with his bright ginger hair. She lets herself admire his naked chest and thighs in return, if only for a moment. 

“Well?” she asks expectantly.

Sam’s eyes snap back to her own. “What?”

“I heard there were pancakes on the menu.” She cocks an eyebrow, biting her lip against a giggle as Sam’s eyes start to slip downward, then jerk up to meet her gaze again.

“Right, yeah,” he nods, flashing her a smile. “I can get those started.”

He turns to leave, then catches his long, spindly fingers on the doorframe. He meets her gaze again, adding, “you uh, you look beautiful this morning. By the way.”

Suddenly, the fluttery feeling is back in her chest. Maybe it never really left.

“You too,” she manages, sensing a blush working its way across her cheeks. Is this what dating is going to be like? Admittedly, she’s out of practice. But even now, whatever’s going on with Sam feels different from past relationships in a way she can’t place.

The fact that she’s apparently also dating Daniel might be a factor. She’s not really sure.

“Aw, don’t get too sappy on me,” Sam teases. In the time it’s taken her to spiral, he seems to have found his footing. He waggles his eyebrows, throwing her an absolutely licentious grin. “Next time, if you wanted, maybe I could join you.”

She pretends to think. “Maybe. We’ll see how good these pancakes are. And whether you can rummage up a second towel.”

Sam laughs, his eyes warm and affectionate in the morning sunlight. “I’ll leave you to it, then.”

He leaves, and suddenly she’s alone. She pads into the enormous posh ensuite, her feet cool against the luxurious slate tiles. Like the bedroom, one wall consists almost entirely of glass, providing an excellent view over the ocean. She muses that it offers an equally prime view into the bathroom for any passing boaties, but the coast seems clear today. It’s a good thing too; the enormous rainfall shower is set right against the glass. She’ll have to take her chances.

The remaining walls are a stark modern white, contrasting with brass-accented fixtures and lighting. She sets the shower on, then catches a glance of her reflection in a wall-length mirror and grimaces. The greenish bruising down her side is interspersed with patches of purplish-black, and the whole area looks swollen. It’s not a pretty sight.

Unbidden, Sam’s comment floats through her head. You look beautiful, by the way. 

Huh. 

Smiling, she steps into the shower’s steamy warmth. Maybe she’ll have to make Sam dinner sometime, if the pancakes are any good. And maybe they could revisit his shower idea too, if there’s nobody on the water who could spot them.

She could get used to this.

-

When they arrive at the station just before nine, Daniel doesn’t look remotely surprised. “Have a nice morning?” he asks, sounding as though he already knows the answer. By the way he and Sam are exchanging pleased grins, she reckons they’ve been texting. 

“As a matter of fact, I did,” she says, too happy to put up a token protest. She’s had an objectively excellent morning, ribs excluded, and she’s finding herself buoyed by a strange sort of anticipatory excitement for what comes next. It’s even enough to outweigh the fact that she’s wearing yesterday’s clothes and smells quite violently of Sam’s body wash.

“Sam makes amazing pancakes, as it turns out,” she adds. “You have no idea.”

Beside her, Sam laughs. “That’s coming from someone who can’t make porridge, so, you know. High praise.”

“Hey,” she protests, because she’s still got her pride. “I’ve told you, there’s nothing wrong with my porridge.”

Daniel gives her a look. “This is the stuff you make in the kitchenette some mornings?” 

She scowls at him. “Yes, and it’s never drawn any comment from you.”

Daniel stares some more, then gives a small chuckle. “I thought that was cereal.”

“Excuse me?”

“Well,” Daniel hedges, “it’s just, it’s a little wet. And kind of grainy?”

Beside her, Sam snorts. Unbelievable. 

“That’s how it’s supposed to be,” she retorts. “Anyway, it doesn’t matter. I assume you’ve managed some progress this morning before we came in?”

“You mean,” Daniel grins knowingly, “was I working hard while the two of you were curled up in Sam’s love nest?” 

She can’t see her reflection, but she knows with absolute certainty that her cheeks have gone a deep red. Frantically, she glances toward Mike’s office as Sam protests beside her.

“It’s not a love nest, mate,” he’s arguing. “Something cooler, maybe. The bat cave? The Power Chamber? Minas Tirith?”

“Flirting Flat?” Daniel pitches. “Seduction sanctuary? Amorous abode?” He turns to her casually, apparently wholly unconcerned that their little improv game is carrying at full volume through the empty station.

“Mike’s not in, and the shift change happened about 10 minutes ago,” he notes. “Seems we’ve got the place to ourselves for the morning.”

“Ah.” Immediately, she feels the tension leave her shoulders. “Right then.”

Daniel shoots her a questioning look. “Worried people will find out?”

“Well, not worried,” she hedges, “but it’s not exactly conventional, is it? And we’re Mike’s direct reports.”

“I don’t know that he’d mind too much,” Sam muses thoughtfully. “He might be into it. It’s kind of like a country song, right?”

“Oh, right. Silly me,” she retorts. “The classic country ballad about three officers of the law and their torrid workplace romance.”

“That’s a song I might actually listen to,” Daniel chuckles. “Maybe Mike would see the poetic appeal.”

She sighs, crossing her arms reflexively. “Or maybe he’d have Hughes on the line in seconds, and I’d never have a hope of promotion again.”

Sam and Daniel trade glances. “We don’t have to say anything for now,” Daniel says, his tone a little softer, more serious. “But if this goes the way we hope, he’ll need to know.”

She sighs again, meeting his eyes. “I know that.” She scuffs her boots on the station’s decades-old dingy linoleum. “It’s just so much to think about.”

It’s what she wants, though. 

And she’s worked with Mike for over a decade. They’re friends, real genuine ones, and they’ve built up enough trust over the years that she knows this new turn of events won’t ruin things. He’ll understand —or opt to stay out of it entirely, knowing him— but the prospect of telling him still makes her nervous.

Sam bumps her good shoulder gently. “We’ve got time,” he says, “And Mike’s not exactly Mrs. Marlowe, he won’t go running back to his sewing circle to gossip.”

That’s enough to get a small chuckle out of her. “You’re right,” she says. “He’s too much of a lone wolf.”

Daniel grins, flashing her a warm smile before he turns back to his computer. “I believe you asked what I've been up to this morning?”

She takes in his sudden focus, feeling her own curiosity perk up. “Oh, found something good, have we?”

He hums, opening a forensics report and pushing the screen so that she and Sam can see. “I reckon so. Looks like you were right; that was blood in the zodiac. They found traces in a few other spots too. It’s a match for Greg Craig Walker.”

Sam leans closer to the screen, brow furrowed in thought. “Alright. So Craig took the boat, which lines up with what we already knew. It says here they found traces of alcohol, which could explain the glass shards and the fact that Craig was absolutely plastered at the time of death.”

She nods, putting the pieces together. “Wes said the zodiac was missing fuel, which might account for a trip down the coast to Whangārei, if that’s where he went. And the trip back.”

“If he made it back,” Daniel muses. “Somehow he ended up in Brokenwood harbour. He might not have been the only one in the boat.”

“Or he could have met someone,” Sam adds, drumming his fingers against the desk. “Maybe something to do with the abandoned boat. He could have picked someone up, they fight over the drugs, maybe he was betrayed?”

“Good question,” she says, thoughts racing. “That might connect Greg Banks. Have we had any luck reaching him?”

Daniel shakes his head. “Not yet. But I put a call in to the Whangārei office this morning, hopefully they’re able to help shed some light on his whereabouts. We could visit the marina office and check out his boat in the meantime.”

“Roger that,” she nods. Another day on the road. She spares a thought for the fuel logs she’ll have to fill out later. They’re starting to pile up.

“Glad that’s settled,” Sam grins. “Now we can get to the real hot question. What are we doing for dessert club?”

She rolls her eyes. “You know, it’s possible to leave town without purchasing dessert. Whangārei is only an hour away.”

“Well sure,” Sam shrugs. “But where’s the fun in that?”

“I thought you were broke,” she states, peering at him thoughtfully. “I seem to recall something about you basically not having a salary.”

“It’s never far from mind,” Sam replies cheerfully. “But if I’m not mistaken, I fed fed you some exceptionally well-made artisanal pancakes this morning. And Daniel did all the cooking last night.”

“And I bought the desserts yesterday,” Daniel adds. “Not that I’m keeping score.”

“See?” Sam gestures triumphantly. “Daniel might be too infatuated to care, but I reckon it’s my turn to be wined and dined.”

She raises an eyebrow, though truthfully, she’s not opposed to showing Sam a good time. Quite the opposite, really. Especially if it means she might get a chance to continue where their morning explorations had been abruptly curtailed.

“Alright,” she smiles, a little challengingly. “My treat this time. You want a date? It’s a date. You won’t know what hit you.”

Sam barks out a laugh, looking more than a little pleased. “Alright then.”

“To be clear, I’m down for a good time too,” Daniel interjects, looking amused. “I could be wined and dined, if that’s on offer.

“Of course,” she grins. “You’re dessert club’s founding member. It wouldn’t be the same without you.”

His eyes crinkle at the edges as he smiles at her, and suddenly the butterflies are back.

She looks around quickly, just to make sure there’s nobody in the station with them, and then ducks to press a quick kiss to Daniel’s lips. He tastes like coffee and mint, and his mouth is soft against her own.

She wonders if it’s actually possible to become dizzy with excitement, or if it’s all in her head.

When she pulls back, his smile is stretched wide across his face. “Sweet as,” he murmurs. “Forget the treats, I could get used to starting a morning like this.”

She doesn’t add that they’ll have the evening together as well, provided Daniel still wants to keep her company while she’s on call. He’d said he wanted to cook, but maybe she could bake a dessert? She probably still has most of the ingredients leftover from Sam’s farewell cake three years ago. 

She wonders absently at the lifespan of flour.

Before she can dwell on it further, the creaking of antique hinges cuts through the quiet station.

Quickly, she steps back from Daniel, turning to greet Mike as he bustles in through the front entryway. He’s got a large binder under one arm and a coffee in the other, but he still manages an approximation of a wave as he approaches. 

“Kia ora,” he announces, striding past them at a good clip as he heads for his office. “Let me just put this down.”

She hears a thunk as the heavy binder hits his desk, and then he’s coming back out to greet them. “Sorry about that,” he says. “Busy morning.”

“Busy doing what, exactly?” she questions, hoping to catch a hint from his expression.

“Oh, this and that,” Mike replies easily. Beside her, Daniel stifles a laugh. Traitor. “So, what have we got on the harbour case?”

They run him through their developments, ending with Jason’s ill-advised endeavours with the shotgun. Mike doesn’t look pleased at their retelling of that particular incident, but he sighs and nods when Daniel indicates the firearm’s been taken in. 

“I’d ask if you wanted a day off,” he says wryly, “but clearly you’ve all come in.” He shifts his weight between his feet, looking a little uncomfortable. “I’ve said it before, but remember to take care of yourselves,” he amends. “You’ve more than earned the time away.” 

“Thanks,” she says shortly, a little uncomfortable with the unexpected check-in. “I’ll be all the better when we have this wrapped up.”

She casts an eye to Sam and Daniel, who are watching her with twin looks of resigned amusement. Suddenly, she feels a little guilty. Maybe they wanted the time off. Sam especially, now that she recalls how shaken he’d been the day prior.

It’s enough to compel her to hesitantly add, “But I’m not the only one who dealt with Jason. And yesterday was definitely…unpleasant. I would understand if some time off was in order.”

Mike looks a little taken aback, as though he hasn’t been expecting anything beyond her initial stubborn refusal. She can practically feel him studying her. But Sam seems to realize what she’s getting at, and she wonders if she can see a thread of thanks in his eyes. She almost thinks he’ll take Mike up on the offer, but he just shrugs. “She’ll be right,” he says simply. “It definitely wasn’t the most fun I’ve ever had. But hey, today’s a new day.”

“We’re finally seeing some progress,” Daniel adds. “I reckon it’s best to keep the momentum while we have it.”

Mike pauses, taking in each of their expressions. She hopes he can’t read too much into hers. 

“Alright,” he says at last. “But let me know if anything changes.”

“Sure,” she replies, eager to have the conversation over with. “How did you make out with Comms?”

“Wilmott is on it,” he says shortly, looking unenthused. “She’ll put a damper on the local rumour mill quite quickly, if I had to bet.”

“Glad to hear it, though I doubt anyone can stop Cushla for long,” she warns.

“Oh, Wilmott will,” Mike sighs. At her expectant stare, he continues. “She’s due to leave on holiday to Brazil with her new husband this Friday. She’s quite keen to have this wrapped up before she goes.”

“Ah.” There isn’t much more to say. Mike’s expression suggests he won’t be taking any further questions, either.

The rest of his briefing is perfunctory; a call with Hughes had confirmed an increase in illegal contraband coming in from overseas. “There are two issues there,” Mike explains. “How these substances are entering the ports undetected, and how they’re being distributed. I suspect our issue with Craig Walker may pertain to the latter, based upon the size of his craft.”

They end the morning briefing shortly thereafter, and spend the next hour finishing their examination of the Coastguard documents. Well, Daniel and Sam do. She finds herself searching for desserts in Whangārei instead, and glancing up sheepishly every time Daniel or Sam comes by her desk to take more from her pile. They don’t seem to mind though; they just flash her the occasional knowing look as they chat brightly about the All Blacks.

It’s nice that things haven’t changed much. Beneath the breathless excitement of new romance, they’re still Sam and Daniel. Still annoyingly keen to take the piss out of her every now and again, still the best detectives she could hope to work with. It’s comforting in its own way. 

“I was thinking,” Sam suggests after a while, pointedly raising his voice to draw her into the conversation. “The Cheetahs have a game this Saturday. They’re playing Riverstone and it’s supposed to be a good match. Do you want to come along?”

“I’d love to,” Daniel grins. “I’ve been meaning to catch a game for a long time.”

“Great,” Sam exclaims, looking visibly pleased. “I’ll let the lads know.”

He turns to her, his expression blatantly hopeful. “What do you think?”

It’s not her thing, really. But Sam looks so eager, and she supposes one game really isn’t that bad if it means she can keep that silly little grin on his face a while longer. It might even be fun. “Sure,” she says, “since Daniel’s bringing snacks.”

Predictably, Sam’s expression lights up even more. He’s practically bouncing in his chair as he relays the game details to both of them. “You’re going to love it,” he assures her. “I know you’re not really a sports person, but really, rugby’s kind of like chess when you think about it.”

Daniel struggles to contain a laugh as she looks at Sam in outright disbelief. It’s hard to think of two more opposite activities. “You’ve absolutely lost it.”

“Some of the plays are pretty complex,” he defends. “There’s loads of strategy. Don’t knock it ‘till you’ve tried it.”

She’s about to argue the point when Daniel’s phone rings. He glances at the screen, then holds up a finger as he answers. Whangārei, he mouths.

He listens for a moment, and then his eyebrows shoot right up his face and he jolts in surprise. “Okay, thank you for letting us know,” he says to the unknown caller. “We’ll be down there soon.”

There’s a tense silence when he drops the call, and then he explains.

“Greg Banks has been reported missing,” Daniel sighs. “His boat’s been stripped.”

Chapter Text

There’s already a heavy police presence at the docks by the time they reach Whangārei. A uniformed officer waves them into the car park, gesturing toward three squad cars stationed by the jetty.

Kristin’s scarcely made it out of the car before they’re approached by a harried-looking Māori officer, who strides quickly toward them from the dock entrance. It’s abundantly clear from her posture that she’s in charge.

“Kia ora,” she calls, pulling a badge from her breast pocket as she draws near. “Sargeant Sherry Coleman. I take it you’re the detectives from Brokenwood?”

“Yes,” Kristin nods, gesturing quickly toward Sam and Daniel. “Detective Kristin Sims, pleased to meet you. And this is DC Breen and DC Chalmers.”

“Glad you could come by,” Sherry smiles wryly. “We’ve a bit of a situation on our hands. It’s got all the makings of foul play, I’m afraid.”

“I’m sorry to hear it,” Kristin replies, following the sergeant as she strides purposefully toward the waterfront. “We have reason to believe Mr. Banks may be a person of interest in the murder of Craig Walker.”

“You can appreciate why we rang you down, then,” Sherry calls, nodding at a young uniformed officer stationed at the gangway. “We’re operating on the expectation that Mr. Banks has likely been coerced or otherwise taken against his will.”

“Any timeline on the last confirmed sighting?” Kristin asks, already glancing toward the small cluster of harbourside buildings in the hope of CCTV. Breen nudges her good arm gently, nodding toward a series of lamp posts at the water’s edge. Sure enough, she can spot a couple of cameras silhouetted against the sky. She flashes him a grateful smile, turning her attention back to the sergeant as she strides quickly down the main dock.

“An acquaintance called it in this morning,” Sherry replies, leading them down a narrow, secondary dock flanked by rows of moored sailboats. “Carl Hansma. He keeps a boat a few slips over, down by the main dock. Apparently they were supposed to go for an evening sail yesterday, but Greg Banks never showed. The boat was gone, apparently.”

“Why didn’t Mr. Hansma report it last night?” Kristin asks, putting together a timeline.

“Apparently, he just assumed Mr. Banks had decided not to join him,” the sergeant replies. “It wasn’t until this morning that he realized something was amiss.”

“Mr. Hansma boarded the boat?” Daniel interjects, drawing level with them as Sherry stops in front of an older cream-coloured sailboat. Kristin’s not much of a sailor, but even she can spot the vessel’s abundant signs of age. The teak trim is old and weathered, worn pale in more than a few places. The cabin windows are frosted with age and sun damage, and the folded mainsail tied to the boom is yellowed and deeply creased. But the lines are neatly coiled, shrouds taut with tension. The boat is evidently well-used, if not well-maintained. 

Beside her, Sherry is eyeing two forensics specialists as they pack up the last of their equipment. “He says he only went as far as the cockpit,” she nods, looking resigned. “Supposedly the interior remains untouched, though we’ll see what forensics are able to come up with.”

“Any early leads?” Sam asks, sounding hopeful. “The cockpit shows signs of struggle,” Sherry supplies, gesturing to the narrow space toward the stern. We’ve found traces of blood, though it seems someone did their best to wash it away. And of course, the cabin’s been torn apart.” 

“Any idea what they were looking for?” Sam presses. 

“Sadly not,” Sherry frowns. “That’s where we were hoping you three would be of assistance. I understand from DC Chalmers that Mr. Banks may have been a person of interest in a potential drug trafficking operation.”

“His involvement is unconfirmed, as of yet,” Kristin nods. “But there certainly looks to be a link. It would be helpful if we knew who else has been accessing these docks; have you been able to pull any surveillance footage?”

“We’re working on gaining access to the harbour footage in the carpark,” Sherry replies, nodding back in the direction of the shore. “The marina building has cameras as well, though we’ve yet to make contact with the manager. Hopefully we’ll have a complete understanding of the grounds within a few hours.”

One of the white-suited forensic investigators approaches, nodding at Sherry. “Scene’s cleared,” he reports, eyeing the Brokenwood group curiously. “Should be all good to board the boat.”

“Thanks Martin,” Sherry nods, before meeting Kristin’s expectant gaze. “It’s all yours, detective. I’ll be down by the shoreline when you’ve finished. I’ve got a briefing with our Coastguard contact to see if we can do a search of the water; there’s a possibility Mr. Banks could be out there.”

“You’re not engaging the Auckland Maritime Unit?” she asks, a little surprised.

“Already done,” Sherry grins. “But their patrol boat was down in Thames responding to a swamping; it’ll be a while before they reach us. Maritime New Zealand is coordinating the search effort in the interim, but I find it never hurts to speak with the local Coastguard staff. They have a really broad knowledge of the coastal area.”

She can feel her cheeks heating at the mention of the Whangārei Coastguard office. Unbidden, the mental image of Brian’s muscular arms and wind-tossed hair flits through her head. From the way Daniel’s smirking at her, he’s picked up on it  too. “I’ll leave you to it, then,” Kristin manages, hoping Sherry hasn’t noticed the sudden embarrassment in her demeanor. “Thanks again for having us down.”

“Anytime,” Sherry winks. “Let’s hope you find something.”

She turns away and strides back down the dock, trailed by the two forensics specialists.

Beside her, Daniel’s eyeing the boat doubtfully. “No sense putting it off, I suppose. Shall we?”

“Sure,” she nods. “Let’s see if we can find out what our friend Mr. Banks had to hide.”

Truth be told, she’s not confident they’ll be able to uncover anything beyond what forensics has already picked up. Nonetheless, she grabs hold of the grubby lifelines encircling the aging deck and hauls herself onboard. She nearly loses her footing on the algae-slick fibreglass for a moment, stumbling as the boat rocks with her weight. She barely manages to right herself, hissing as her ribs scream in protest at the sharp movement.

“You right?” Daniel asks. A quick glance confirms he’s watching her carefully, as though he’s not entirely sure she won’t slip back over the lifelines and into the harbour.

“Of course,” she declares, resolutely ignoring the growing ache down her side. “I’m not Sam; I don’t intend on going for an impromptu swim.”

“Hey!” Sam protests, “that was one time.”

“It’s just a bit slippery on the decking,” she says to Daniel, fighting a smile as Sam mutters something about workplace harassment. “I’d watch that if I were you.”

“Right,” Daniel sighs, and she doesn’t miss the exasperation in his tone. Still, there’s a small grin pulling at his cheek as he boards the yacht, his weight causing it to sway gently as he comes to join her by the cockpit. “Guess you just haven’t found your sea legs.”

“That’s not a real thing,” she protests, as Sam clambers aboard to join them. He’s noticeably less careful, practically swinging himself up over the lifelines, and the boat pitches accordingly. “And besides, you’re no boatie either.”

“True,” Daniel shrugs, before his features brighten. He waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “But I’ve got time to learn. It’s never too late to seas the day.”

“Oh god,” she groans, rolling her eyes. “That’s the worst one yet.”

“Aw, kelp the guy out,” Sam interjects, looking far too excited to join in. “His puns could be a hull lot worse.”

“Don’t you encourage him,” she scolds, though she can feel the smile pulling at her cheeks. “He’s bad enough as-is.”

“Well then,” Daniel chuckles, ducking his head to peer into the boat’s gloomy interior. “If we’re done with the jokes, shell we get on with it?”

She doesn’t gratify him with a response. Pulling out her flashlight, she shines the beam through the narrow companionway, illuminating the scene within.

The cabin is an absolute mess. 

Miscellaneous items are strewn about haphazardly, covering every available surface. Lifejackets, rusting tins of varnish, old bottles, sail bags, ropes —the list goes on and on. Where the bunks would have been, cushions are strewn about and hull compartments gape open. A cabinet recessed into the wall creaks mournfully with the rocking of the boat, its door swaying with the subtle motions. 

It looks as though someone’s torn the place apart.

Sam whistles lowly from behind her. “Quite a mess,” he hazards. “You reckon it’s real?”

“Is it staged, you mean?” Kristin clarifies, letting her gaze linger on the disarray. She almost doesn’t know where to look.

“Yeah.”

“Could be,” she hedges. “Whoever went through this place, they weren’t worried about leaving things intact.”

“Or maybe they wanted to make a scene,” Daniel murmurs, after a pause. “Maybe Mr. Banks wanted to disappear?”

“Covering his own tracks,” she muses. “It certainly wouldn’t be the first time.”

“True that,” Sam sighs. “Do you remember the Declan O’Grady incident?” At Daniel’s blank look, he adds, “He was a poet who faked his own death and staged an escape to sea.”

She snorts at the memory. Between the Cluedo roleplaying and Declan’s falsified identity, it's hardly a case she could forget.

“He staged the escape?” Daniel asks curiously. “How?”

“He set a boat out to sea,” she explains, frowning as the details start coming back to her. “Lashed the tiller and put the engine on so it would look as though he was doing a runner. Turns out he was in the marina parking lot the whole time, canoodling with our murderer.”

“Wow,” Daniel grins, looking far too amused. “Canoodling? That’s some strong language.”

“Oi, shut it you,” she scowls, slapping at his bicep. “Getting amorous, then.”

“Oh, amorous,” Sam teases. “Of course. So scandalous. And out of wedlock too.” 

“Whatever you want to call it,” she shrugs, trying for aloof indifference. Unfortunately, Daniel has other plans.

“You know, if you’re struggling for some terminology, I could share a few suggestions,” he purrs, dropping his voice seductively. “But I don’t canoodle on the first date.”

She can feel the pink flush rising to her cheeks, much as she tries to tamp down the sudden heat warming her chest. “There won’t be a date unless we get through this search,” she reminds them both. “So, shall we crack on with it?” She lets her voice trail off expectantly, watching as Daniel huffs out a laugh. 

“Alright,” he smiles, his gaze flicking between herself and Sam. “Let’s do this.”

It’s easier said than done. The small inset windows are clouded with sun damage, bathing the gloomy interior in faint grey light. She’s trying not to disturb the scene as she gingerly picks her way through the cabin, but it’s difficult with the sheer quantity of stuff all over the floor. Absently, she wonders how the forensics team managed it. 

Behind her, Daniel whispers a muffled curse as he trods in a pool of something sticky and runny…possibly epoxy from a turned-over can. By the look of it, the substance won’t be coming off easily.

“You know what?” Sam calls, from where he’s standing partway down the narrow steps leading down from the cockpit. “I’m going to stick up here and take a look at the deck. I don’t think there’s room for the three of us in there.”

“I think you’re right,” Daniel affirms, sighing as his boot squelches against the worn flooring. “I envy you.”

“Try not to fall in the harbour,” she calls, laughing at Sam’s squawk of protest. She hears his footsteps retreat and feels the boat sway as he starts making his way along the starboard edge.

The search takes longer than she would have thought. They wade through all kinds of mess, opening cabinets and peering into darkened compartments. They don’t find anything significant, but increasingly, she wonders if perhaps that’s the point.

“I never would have thought a boat would have so many cabinets,” she marvels, shifting a lopsided cushion aside to reveal yet another recessed opening.

“Me neither,” Daniel sighs. “Every time I think we’re done, there’s more.” The bottom cuff of one trouser leg is soaked in a foul-smelling mixture of oil and stagnant water from when he’d accidentally slipped into the open bilge compartment.

“But maybe that’s the point,” she suggests, feeling more certain of it the longer they’re in the cramped, musty cabin. “Someone knew about all these little compartments. They were familiar with yachts, and they knew where to look for something hidden.”

“You reckon they knew about the cocaine?” Daniel asks, coming to join her in the dismal-looking bow quarters. 

“It would seem to add up,” she hums. “Or they thought there was cocaine, anyway. We still don’t have any evidence Greg Banks was involved in the drug trafficking. There’s a possibility he wasn’t; or he’s like Jason and his past caught up with him.”

“Guess that makes it all the more important to find him,” Daniel says, prodding at a mildewed lifejacket with one gloved finger. He pauses, meeting her eyes, and she can see they’re of the same mind when he continues, “if he’s still alive.”

From outside the hull, Sam calls out. “Oi, you might want to see this?” He sounds a little uncertain, as though he’s trying to make up his mind. The boat rocks as they hear his footsteps cross the deck, then a pause. Then more thumping as he moves forward, until he’s practically on top of them and his silhouetted legs blot out the light from the small hatch above them. “Thought so,” he murmurs, barely audible.

“What have you found?” she calls, gesturing for Daniel to follow as she starts making her way back toward the cockpit.

“There’s something up with these knots,” Sam replies, his footsteps thumping against the fibreglass as he makes his way back to his original position.

“What do you mean?” Daniel asks, sighing in obvious relief as they finally emerge back into the sunlight.

“See this rope here?” Sam elaborates, crouching to point out a neat coil of red line leading from a cleat on the stern to the dock. “Look at how it’s tied up.”

She stares obediently at the rope. It’s curled in a neat figure-eight around the cleat and bound by a locking hitch. It looks for all the world like it could be on any boat in the marina.

“Uh, what are we looking for?” Daniel asks, voicing her confusion as he follows the line of Sam’s keen gaze.

“You’ll see,” Sam says, striding across the boat to the side furthest from the dock. He gestures toward another stern cleat. “Check this one. It’s the stern line Mr. Banks would have used if he’d moored on the other side of the dock. You can tell he didn’t mix things up much; it’s stiff-as.”

Immediately, she spots the difference. “They’re tied differently,” she supplies. 

“Exactly,” Sam grins. “Look at the mast.”

There are more cleats there, all lashed in the same manner as the unused stern lines. The more she looks around the boat, the more she realizes most cleated ropes are tied the same way; the in-use moorings are the only exception.

“You reckon the moorings were tied by someone else?” she hazards, eyes falling on the navigational buoys marking the marina entrance. Beyond the green and red floating marks, sunlight is dancing across gentle wave tips. She pictures the sea beyond the sheltered lee of the coast, true open water rolling with heavy surf. Unbidden, Michael Taylor’s interview floats through her mind. The ocean is a lonely place.

“Could be,” Sam shrugs. “We know the boat left its slip. Maybe he wasn’t the one to bring it back.”

Daniel runs a hand through his hair, brow furrowed in thought. “One issue, though,” he cautions. “Supposing Greg Banks really did set sail yesterday, and that he was intercepted by an unknown assailant. The suspect would still need a way to get on the ocean, not to mention return Mr. Banks’ boat back to the dock. That wouldn’t be an easy undertaking.”

“So we’re looking for two individuals,” she suggests, weighing the possibility. “You’d need that to intercept him on the water.”

“Or we’re looking for one,” Sam remarks, fingers playing restlessly against the tarnished metal of one of the stanchions. “If they came up the dock, that is. Got to him before the boat left the marina.”

“Well, we won’t find the answer here,” Daniel declares, clambering over the lifelines and hopping back down to the dock. “Let’s hope the security footage sheds some light.”

“Right.” Truthfully, she isn’t very hopeful. 

Carefully, she swings a leg over the lifeline, stifling a gasp as a flash of pain arcs down her side. 

“You right?” Sam asks, as Daniel reaches for her hand. 

“Never better,” she bites out, feeling her ribs throb as she gingerly lowers herself toward the dock. Getting down from the sailboat seems harder than getting up had been; it’s a slow, awkward process even with Daniel’s help, and it leaves her winded.

“How are the ribs?” Daniel murmurs, as Sam leaps lightly down from the boat to join them. She knows he doesn’t mean to show off, and that normally Sam’s the first one to trip into something unpleasant, but she still can’t quite fight the flash of sudden envy.

“They’ve been better,” she confesses, meeting Daniel’s gaze again. Really, they’ve been aching ever since her attempted tryst with Sam, and the long car ride and cramped, awkward search of the sailboat haven’t helped.

“Want to take a breather?” he suggests.

She does. She really, really does. But — “We’ve already come this far,” she sighs, feeling her muscles spasm in protest. “Best finish the job.”

Sam gives a low snort. She turns to him questioningly, already on the defensive and bracing for a lecture, but he doesn’t look annoyed with her —if anything, his freckled face is set with concern. 

“Look, I know it’s not my place,” he begins, one foot scuffing against the dock absently, “but Kris, you’ve been in a collision and shot at, and the week’s barely halfway through.”

“It’s Thursday,” she corrects reflexively, then bites down the rest of her protest when Sam gives her an exasperated look. “It’s already a rough one for me,” he continues, his tone a bit softer. “And I can’t imagine what it must be like for you, with two broken ribs on top of everything else.”

“Unpleasant,” she concedes. She’s acutely aware of Daniel watching them both, and she can feel an embarrassed heat warming her face.

Thankfully, Sam seems to sense that she’s rapidly approaching her limit. “Sounds a little nicer to have your two handsome, clever amours take care of you, eh?”

She sees the obvious out, and she takes it gratefully. “Thinking pretty highly of ourselves, are we?”

“Just stating the truth,” Sam preens, already back to his usual cocky self. She can’t help but notice the way the sunlight plays off his hair, turning the tips a fiery orange in the late morning light.

Beside her, Daniel chuckles knowingly. “Can’t say I argue with that.” He throws her a self-satisfied smile, and she finds her focus shifting to admire his dimpled cheeks. “Besides, you didn’t seem to mind last night.”

Well, he’s got her there. She bites her lip against a smile as she meets his warm brown eyes, remembering the heat of his shoulder against her own as they watched moonlit waves break on the darkened beach. “No, I can’t say I did.”

A broad smile takes over his features. “Well,” he muses, “it’s nearly noon. Why don’t we grab a bite once we’re through here?”

“Dessert club?” Sam chimes in hopefully.

“I was thinking maybe a real lunch this time,” Daniel chuckles. “I don’t know about you, but I’m starved.”

“Sweet-as,” Sam nods agreeably. “We could find a spot by the water. I reckon there’s bound to be a chip truck or something.”

They turn to her expectantly, as though they’re expecting her to protest. Truthfully, part of her does –the rigorous, competitive part that’s always on the case, that’s proven time and time again that herculean effort yields results. 

But her ribs are smarting fiercely, sending cracking tendrils of pain through her chest with every movement. And more than that, she’d be a fool not to see the obvious affection in Daniel and Sam’s handsome faces. They’re only a day into this fledgling relationship, and she’d quite like to see where it leads. 

She finds herself nodding along. “Alright, once we’re through here. We still need to review the surveillance footage.” She watches surprise flick through Daniel’s eyes for just a moment, and then both he and Sam are smiling easily. “Let’s hope Shelly’s had some luck retrieving it,” Daniel replies, as they start heading back down the dock. Just for a moment, she feels his hand brush past her own, sending sparks up her fingertips. 

That’s definitely new.

-

Unfortunately, reviewing the footage isn’t as straightforward as she’d been hoping for. 

The marina cameras capture the parking lot clearly, but there’s very limited coverage of the docks themselves —even the main entryway is partially obscured by a large tree. A steady stream of visitors and passers-by meander across the site, entering and exiting the docks with painful similarity. 

Kristin, Daniel, and Sam are crammed in the tiny harbourmasters office, alongside Shelly and a very begrudging marina staffer who looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else. The fan on the aging laptop whines as Daniel clicks through the selection of clips, checking the image quality and angle. 

They’ve only been watching for a few minutes, but it’s painfully apparent that they’re not going to be able to review the full suite of footage in the dingy harbour office. Not unless they want to spend the next few hours taking shifts in the lone desk chair.

Beside her, Daniel gives a long sigh. “We’re going to need copies of the footage,” he tells Shelly, catching Sam’s equally resigned frown. “We can review it when we’re back at the station. This is going to take a while.”

Selly nods, looking unsurprised. “We’ll have copies sent over shortly, as well as witness statements and contact information,” she promises. “Keep us in the loop; we’ll do the same if we manage any success in the search effort.”

They leave, ushered out with Shelly’s assurances. Kristin tries to stay hopeful in the face of the Whangārei officer’s resolute determination, but deep down, she knows it’s looking increasingly doubtful they’ll find Greg Banks alive.

Whatever’s happening out on the ocean seems far too well-organized to leave a loose end. And it’s even less likely to show up on a low-budget car park camera.

It’s something big, and she’s determined to figure out what.

-

She says as much when they’re seated by the water on Marsden Point Beach, wolfing down lukewarm fish and chips purchased from a nearby pub. It’s not the best lunch she’s ever had, but sitting in the sand watching gulls glide above the surf, she can’t say she’s complaining. The view is incredible, not to mention effective —their chosen spot on the shoreline offers a perfect vantage point for the cargo traffic coming in and out of Northport.

“You reckon that one’s logs?” Sam asks around a mouthful of chips, as a large bulk carrier slowly makes its way out of the harbour mouth. It’s an older vessel, marked with corroded navy paint and a small, off-white bridge. She can see tiny windows dotting the structure, and she wonders how many seafarers are aboard.

“Probably,” Daniel nods, brown eyes watching keenly as the ship picks up speed and surf begins to foam at the bulbous bow. “Looks pretty low to the water. Can you see a name?”

“Yeah, nah,” Sam replies, rummaging around for another handful. Kristin scowls at him when he makes a bid for her ketchup, but she doesn’t fight him off. “Too far to see.”

The three of them are sitting in the sun-warmed sand beneath low, scrub-topped dunes, a few boxes of take-away amassed between their legs. They’re the only ones sitting along the shoreline, though that isn’t particularly surprising. The beach’s main car park is situated at the end of a long, gravel industrial road, and the shoreline itself is set behind Northport’s chemical storage facility. Faint whistles and industrial noises echo over the dunes, dampened somewhat by the shifting sand.

Needless to say, it’s not the best beach she’s been to. But sitting between Sam and Daniel, bolstered by the greasy take-away and the warmth of their company, she can’t bring herself to mind.

“Hard to believe any of these ships could be the key to our case,” she muses, watching as waves slip against the bulk carrier’s rust-streaked hull. A cloud of smoke billows from the funnel, leaving a hazy grey stripe against the otherwise clear blue sky.

“Or not,” Daniel chimes in. “Right now, every ship is an unknown —a moving unknown— and Northport handles far less cargo than Auckland. For all we know, shipping traffic up here is unrelated.”

“Maybe,” she hums. “It’s not as though we’ve got the means to search them regardless. Like it or not, we’re going to have to find the connection on land.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard, eh?” Sam teases, nimbly stealing one of Daniel’s chips before the other detective can complain. To his credit, Daniel doesn’t even bat an eye; unlike Kristin, he seems more than happy to let Sam graze to his heart’s content.

“And what makes you say that?” Kristin asks, turning her attention away from the ocean as the ship makes its way away from the shore, growing more distant. 

Sam gives her a grin, his hazel eyes sparking in the sun. “Well, it’s simple, right? I mean, the ocean’s a big place. Huge, really.” He leans back in the sand, crossing his arms behind his head as he looks smugly at them both. “Compared to all that, searching New Zealand doesn’t seem too bad.”

She scoffs, though there isn’t any heat in it. Sam knows it too; she can see it in the teasing curve of his smile. “Well, thank god we have you on the case, then. I assume you’ll be pulling weekend shifts?”

“You bet,” Sam challenges, flashing her a cocky smile. “Besides, I could use the overtime. That second towel isn’t going to pay for itself.”

“You only have one towel?” Daniel cuts in. He looks both horrified and impressed. She doesn’t blame him; she’d been planning to make a run to Pak n’ Save later to surprise Sam with some basic provisions. It’s not exactly the romantic gift of the century, but after last night, it feels like the least she can do.

“He sure does.” She smiles conspiratorially as Daniel leans closer, and she can’t help but add, “One set of sheets, too.”

“Oi,” Sam protests, sitting back up in the sand and looking between them indignantly. “This is economic oppression, I’ll have you know. Picking on a bloke because he’s got to save up for linens.”

“You wouldn’t need to save up if you weren’t renting a beachfront palace,” she reminds him, snagging his bottle of Lemon & Paeroa before he can protest. “Besides, you’re not that oppressed. I bought you lunch.”

“She’s got you there, mate.” Daniel looks between them both, chuckling. “I’ve got a few spare sets of sheets at my flat. D’you want to borrow some?”

“Depends,” Sam hazards, looking doubtful. “Are they king sized? Because all the beds at the bach are.”

Come to think of it, she hadn’t felt crowded sleeping with Sam the previous night, despite her usual tendency to sleep alone. In fact, she’d slept amazingly well. It’s all the more impressive given the state of her ribs. 

The perks of a king bed, it would seem. That or, equally likely, the hormonally-charged aftereffects of new romance.

“Whoa. That’s…something else.” Daniel replies, bringing her back to the conversation at hand. He’s staring at Sam with open shock, looking impressed and a little disbelieving. “Guess you’re out of luck, then. I’ve just got a queen.”

“Just a queen?” she teases, pointing a lukewarm chip in his direction. “You’re not going to be setting up a posh love nest with that.”

“Mmm, maybe,” Daniel hums, a playful spark in his eyes. “But I reckon a smaller bed can be pretty cozy.”

Oh. An anticipatory excitement flutters low in her belly as the implications sink in. Daniel’s already spending the evening with her —maybe he could spend the night as well. In her queen bed, which has always felt comfortably spacious, but would be decidedly more intimate when shared. Especially when shared with someone as tall and broad as Daniel. 

Suddenly, she’s quite keen to be done for the day. But still, she can’t give in too easily. “Maybe,” she concedes, popping the chip in her mouth. “I hear there’s dinner first.”

“There is,” Daniel affirms, his smile widening. “A little surprise I’m cooking up.”

“Well, as long as it’s not borscht, I’ll look forward to it.” She can’t help but grimace at the memory of Gina’s brief but decidedly memorable stay. Every night, the eccentric pathologist had insisted on preparing increasingly fetid culinary concoctions, to the point where Kristin had resorted to keeping the windows open despite winter’s chill.

She still can’t bring herself to eat beets.

“Sounds like there’s a story there,” Sam remarks, watching her with interest. 

Right. He wouldn’t have known about that brief but trying period of cohabitation. 

“I’ll tell you when I’m not eating,” she promises. “For now, let’s just say Gina and I had some not-entirely-voluntary flatmate bonding.”

Sam’s eyes widen comically; whatever he was expecting, it wasn’t that. “Excuse me,” he clarifies, speaking slowly, as though he’s misheard. “Gina? Who works for the CIB? Who’s only got eyes for Mike? Who sings weird Russian birthday songs and definitely doesn’t like us? That Gina?”

“The one and only,” Daniel confirms, looking far too smug. “They’re gal pals now.”

“We are absolutely not gal pals,” she growls, vengefully tearing into the last of her fish. “It was entirely against my will and it won’t happen again.”

“You might not survive it,” Daniel adds mildly, seemingly amused as he stretches his legs out in the warm sand. “You barely seemed to make it through the first time.”

“And a fat lot of help you were,” she grouses, stealing another sip of Sam’s drink. “Forsaking me in my time of peril.”

“You two managed to figure things out.”

Across the bay, a light blue tugboat is escorting a new container ship into Northport. It pulls her thoughts back to the case, flashing to Greg Banks’ weatherbeaten sailboat and the absolute disarray they’d found inside.

“Speaking of figuring things out, good catch on the mooring ropes, Sam.”

“Cheers,” he beams, the sea breeze ruffling his ginger hair on end. “Pretty easy to spot the difference if you know where to look. We’ll see if it means anything, though.”

“You sail?” Daniel asks, voicing the same question that had been on the tip of her tongue.

Sam shakes his head, his cheeks going pink. “No chance.” He coughs, running a hand through his hair. “I, uh, know a thing or two about knots though.”

What.

Immediately, her mind leaps to a very different setting, Sam’s nimble fingers working through an intricate series of loops, his hazel eyes a deep amber in the low light of a bedroom lamp. It really isn’t much of a stretch, she supposes. Roxy had been adventurous, after all. 

She watches the pink flush deepen across the bridge of Sam’s nose, contrasting sharply with the smattering of freckles. Beside her, Daniel shifts closer in the sand. “I feel like there’s a story here.”

“Not really,” Sam shrugs, to her surprise. He clears his throat, and she can’t help but lean forward in anticipation of the big reveal. “My uh, my dad used to take me to scout camps on the weekends sometimes. When he was around.”

Oh.

That’s…not where she’d thought this was headed. “I didn’t know you were a scout,” she says instead, trying to keep her tone level. She can't seem to stop picturing Sam’s bare chest from earlier that morning, or the trail of downy cinnamon hair below his navel.

“Yeah,” Sam nods. “Not since I was a kid though. I wasn’t any good at orienteering.” 

There’s a long silence as she struggles to find a normal pivot away to safer conversational waters. To her annoyance, Daniel seems content to let her flounder. When they make eye contact, he’s watching her with a teasing —and far, far too knowing— smile. 

“Something the matter?” Sam asks, finally seeming to pick up on her inner struggle.

“Uh,” she begins, still off-kilter.

“I reckon Kristin thought you were referring to a different kind of rope skills,” Daniel chimes in, looking far too pleased with himself. She shoots him a dirty look. Traitor.

Sam looks surprised for a moment, his hazel eyes widening comically. And then he barks out a laugh, watching them both with amusement. “Yeah, nah, those are different knots. I can’t say they covered them in Scouts.”

“Mmm,” she can’t help but tease, relieved that he’s taking the misunderstanding in stride. “No good at orienteering, and you never got your bondage badge?”

“Alas, it’s a disappointment that will haunt me for a long time,” Sam proclaims, pressing a palm to his heart. “My greatest shame, even.”

“I can see why.”

Daniel coughs, a self-satisfied smile stretched across his handsome features. “Well, if you ever want to learn, I reckon I could show you the ropes.”

Wait, what?

Reflexively, because —surprise revelation aside— it’s still an objectively terrible pun, she groans. “Oh my god.”

Sam seems just as shocked as she is, his mouth open in astonishment. “You’ve—”

Daniel shrugs nonchalantly, still looking pleased at his abysmal joke. “A bit. You could say it’s knot my first time, anyway.” She groans again, and his grin deepens. “Not sure if that’s enough to earn the badge, though.”

“I reckon you’re a far lot closer than we are, at any rate,” Sam retorts. He raises an eyebrow challengingly. “Not to get too tied up in the details.”

“Nice,” Daniel chuckles, as Kristin glares at them both. 

“You’re a terrible influence on him,” she says to Daniel, which only makes him laugh harder. 

“He hasn’t roped me into it, if that’s what you’re suggesting,” Sam cheerfully retorts. “I just like seeing you get all tangled up.”

She looks between them, at their bright smiles and wind-ruffled hair, long limbs splayed out in the sand beside her as their laughter carries on the breeze. The bloom of warm affection that’s been steadily heating her chest burns brighter, sending a little flutter of …something else…through her belly.

The pair of them are absolutely terrible, but still —they’re hers.

“Have I been knotty?” Daniel jokes, breaking her moment of reflection, and she can’t help but grin back as she smacks him lightly in the chest. He barks out another laugh, the vibrations rumbling against her palm. But instead of pulling away, she keeps her hand there, tracing slow circles in the firm muscle as she meets his warm brown eyes.

“We’ll just have to find out tonight, won’t we?” she purrs, throwing every ounce of pent-up sexual frustration behind the words. She’s never been especially good at flirting, usually preferring a direct, forthright approach. But somehow, she doesn’t think Daniel minds her clumsy attempt too much.

His eyes have gone wide with surprise, a slight pink flush dusting his cheeks. “Looking forward to it,” he manages, wetting his lips, and she preens at the sudden reversal of their roles. After his and Sam’s increasingly outlandish attempts at seduction, it’s fun to finally turn the tables. 

Speaking of Sam— “you’re not off the hook either,” she directs, trying and failing to keep her composure at his caught-out expression. “It’s bad enough tolerating Daniel’s terrible humour on its own; we don’t need more of it.”

“I reckon you like it,” Daniel contends, shuffling closer in the sand until their thighs are touching. “Your cheeks go all pink. You can’t fool me.”

“That’s secondhand embarrassment,” she retorts, feeling more traitorous heat rush to her face. To her horror, she realizes she increasingly does like it, if only for the playfulness of his smile and the resulting banter between them.

“Yeah, nah,” Sam muses, drawing nearer as well, until their shoulders bump gently. “Face it, Kris. You’re not subtle.” He winks at her, then looks out toward the open ocean. “Not that I mind.”

“Me neither,” Daniel hums, his breath warm on her cheek. “Luckily, you’ve got two companions with excellent humour. There’s plenty more where that came from.”

Something warm and anticipatory flutters in her chest again.

They’re probably moving way too fast.

They should take a sober moment to really think through the HR implications.

And they’re certainly not making any progress on the case right now.

But when Daniel throws an arm around her shoulders, and Sam’s fingers twine with hers in the warm sand, she lets the worry and doubt slip away with the tide.

Right now, she’s having too much fun to care.

Chapter Text

It really is going well, Kristin thinks to herself, as she makes her way home from the station. The sun is setting low over Brokenwood’s rural landscape, painting the rolling pastures a verdant green. Golden-orange light licks along the eight-gauge livestock fencing as she drives past, reflecting the last traces of the day’s light.

It’s enough to make her smile, in spite of the long hours and steadfast ache in her ribs.

She, Daniel, and Sam had spent the better part of the afternoon interviewing witnesses at the marina, trying to piece together the fragmented accounts of passers-by: boat owners, staff, and even the occasional jogger. Coupled with the lengthy review of surveillance footage once they’d returned to Brokenwood, the long day has left her tired and aching. Neither the interviews nor the footage had shown anything conclusive, but somehow she’s feeling optimistic anyway.

Probably for reasons entirely separate from the case, if she’s being honest with herself.

A little curl of desire settles in her belly as she recalls the trip home from Whangārei. They’d stopped at a well-reviewed bakery, where she’d kicked off another meeting of their newly-minted dessert club with a trio of pavlovas. Daniel and Sam had spent the better part of the experience debating the Brokenwood Cheetahs’ upcoming prospects, though they’d made sure to set aside enough time to invent increasingly far-fetched reasons to try and seduce her via dessert. 

Her cheeks still burn with the memory. Sam’s eyes bright with mischief as he slowly flicked his tongue over the pads of his fingers, but looking for all the world as though he’d rather be devouring her. Daniel’s confident, easy smile as he slowly, deliberately, worked his tongue into the centre to lap at the whipped cream filling.

She knows what they’re doing. But it doesn’t stop a fresh wave of heat from blooming across her cheeks at the memory. She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, suddenly acutely aware of the warmth spreading lower. 

Absently, she wonders if any of her vibrators are charged. Yeah, nah. She probably won’t have the chance before Daniel arrives. 

Speaking of –she’s barely pulled into the laneway when she spots Daniel’s car coming up the street. Bugger; she’d thought she’d have more time to get her place sorted. But she’d made the mistake of stopping by Pak n’ Save on her way from the station, hoping to pick up another bottle of wine, a towel for Sam, and a few ingredients for a dessert.

Oh well, nothing for it now. 

She rummages in the boot for her groceries, then leans against the car and waits as Daniel pulls into the laneway. Gravel crunches under the tires as he eases the bonnet a few feet shy of her vantage point, his grin plainly visible through the windscreen. Something warm and excited flutters in her chest as she watches him produce a bouquet of daisies from the passenger seat. 

“You made it,” she smiles, feeling far too eager as he exits the car. Christ, they’ve already spent all day together; were it anyone else, she’d be ready for a quiet night alone. 

“Wouldn’t miss it for the world,” Daniel replies. He stoops to retrieve a Woolworths bag from the backseat. It looks heavy, as though he’s brought half his kitchen along with him. Unlike her, he’s also found the time to change out of his work clothes; he’s now sporting a leather jacket overtop a comfortable looking tee-shirt and jeans. She can’t help but follow the black leather as it curves around his well-muscled chest, clinging to his broad shoulders and defined biceps.

And then there are the flowers. She’s never had someone bring her a bouquet, and after the disastrous spoofing case, she never thought she’d want them to. One ill-fated rose from Quentin Black had left her deeply distrustful of the gesture, but Daniel’s looking at her with an eager hopefulness as he extends the daisies in her direction.

“I know you’re probably not a flowers person,” he offers, and maybe she hasn’t been as good at hiding her feelings as she’d thought. “But I thought you might be tempted into a one-time exception. For new beginnings.”

Oh. She looks at the daisies again, then at Daniel. His cheeks are still tinged with pink, but he holds her gaze a little too knowingly, waiting. 

She takes the bouquet, feeling suddenly shy. “Thanks.”

The previous night on the beach had felt so organic, so easy. It had been all too simple to fall into the excitement and energy of the moment, lying beneath the endless expanse of stars, their little hideaway in the sand painted gold with firelight and kept warm despite the cool ocean breeze. But here, standing in her ordinary laneway with her arms full of last-minute purchases, she feels caught out. Exposed.

She hasn’t exactly done this before.

Daniel hasn’t either, by his own admission, and she isn’t sure how they’ll navigate it. It feels unfair somehow, that she should get the both of them whereas they have to share.

“You never struck me as the kind of guy who brings people flowers,” she teases, mainly to cover her skittishness.

“I’m full of surprises,” Daniel smiles, looking pleased as she risks another curious glance at the bouquet. “Don’t worry, I’ve got a great meal planned for us.”

A part of her manages to relax, just a bit. “I wouldn’t say no to that.” She hadn’t even realized she was hungry. 

She leads the way to her front door, fumbling with the bouquet, Sam’s towel, and her groceries as she rummages in her bag for her key. She feels on edge, giddy with excitement and jittery with nerves. It’s a new experience. She and Daniel have been friends for years, and she’s never been particularly intimidated by him, despite his size and his occasionally stoic disposition. But dating, or whatever they’re calling this new arrangement, feels different.

“Here, let me help,” Daniel gestures, gently taking the grocery bag from her hand so she can better search for her keys. His warm fingers brush her own, lingering a little longer than strictly necessary.

“Thanks,” she smiles, feeling another blush heating her cheeks. She wonders if it’ll always be like this.

She finds her keys and manages to usher Daniel inside, ignoring the familiar throb in her ribs as she shrugs off her jacket. Daniel toes off his shoes, leaving them neatly on her mat, and follows her if she leads the way into her kitchen. It’s always been spacious enough for her needs, even with Daniel frequently visiting. But tonight the space feels decidedly cozy. 

“So, are you going to tell me what you’re planning on making?” 

“It’s a surprise,” Daniel smiles, setting his groceries on the counter. He reaches for a cutting board, looking for all the world as though he’s cooked a thousand meals in her kitchen. It’s not his first time, admittedly. For whatever reason, he doesn’t seem keen to try her cooking. 

Even still, tonight feels different.

“You just sit tight,” he suggests. “You’re going to love what I’ve got planned.”

“You expect me to just sit and watch?” she asks, a little affronted. It’s her kitchen, after all. And it’s not as though she can’t cook. She just prefers simpler meals, generally. They’re fine. Utilitarian, maybe. But healthy, and certainly edible. 

“You could pour us some wine,” Daniel suggests, flashing her a grin as he pulls a fresh bundle of carrots from the bag. “You’ve been on your feet all day. Could be nice to take a break, eh?”

She watches his gaze dip lower for a fleeting second, undoubtedly to her ribs, and a flash of stubborn pride surges through her. “You already did the cooking at Sam’s last night,” she points out, rising from her barstool to stand beside him. “And besides, I bought some ingredients for dessert. I reckon it’s my turn to help out.”

She’s expecting him to protest, but Daniel just chuckles, meeting her gaze with a warm smile. “Alright,” he says easily, sounding far too pleased. “Sounds sweet-as. We’ll cook together.”

So they do.

Daniel tasks her with peeling mangoes and carrots, handing them over so he can julienne them into neat matchsticks. His movements with the knife are practiced, precise. But he looks relaxed, sneaking little glances her way whenever their eyes lock across the kitchen island. 

It’s nice, easy. Fun too; she steals bits of mango from Daniel’s cutting board, dodging out of the way when he swats at her, laughing when he wets his hands under the tap and flicks water at her instead.

She can’t help but escalate, stealing more and more fruit until Daniel’s wrapping his arms around her waist, drawing her tight against him until they’re chest to chest and she has to crane her neck to see his smile.

“It’s not mango salad if you eat all the mango beforehand,” he admonishes, eyes bright. “And I don’t reckon the coconut curry is going to make itself, either.”

“Best crack on with it, then,” she teases, playing at innocence. Daniel huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. The gesture is entirely belied by the fond, affectionate smile lighting up his face. A tendril of fluttery warmth curls low in her stomach, amplified by the solid heat of his chest pressing against her own. 

Daniel shakes his head, looking amused. “What am I going to do with you?” His fingers are smoothing gentle circles in the small of her back. She can't tell if they’re moving incrementally lower or if that’s just her wishful thinking.

Nonetheless, it’s enough to inspire her to challenge him. “What do you want to do with me?”

She feels him suck in a breath, eyes widening. His fingers still for a moment, pressing into the muscles along her spine. Fleetingly, she wonders if she’s being too forward, but her worries are put to rest when Daniel murmurs low in her ear, “whatever you’d like me to.”

When he pulls back, she sees a familiar competitive glint in his warm brown eyes. “So it’s going to be like that, eh?” she retorts, raising an eyebrow. It feels like they’re playing chicken, dancing around the question.

“I wouldn’t want to presume,” Daniel teases, tilting his head downward until his breath ghosts across her face. His deft fingers have resumed their gentle stroking, tracing meandering patterns down her lower back. She realizes he’s being careful to avoid moving them too high, presumably to keep the pressure off her ribs. The gesture is more touching than it has any right to be.

“Oh, of course,” she breathes, rising to meet him, until their faces are mere centimetres apart. “You can’t be too careful. Presuming, that is.”

Daniel wets his lips, tilting his head just a fraction. “Got to be a gentleman on the first date.”

She feels the last threads of her patience snap. “Thankfully, that doesn’t apply to me.” And then she’s rising up on her tiptoes to kiss him, humming happily against his lips, feeling Daniel’s laughter reverberate against her chest and into her mouth. It’s eager and gentle and intoxicating, and when they part she already wants to kiss him again.

So she does, right there at the kitchen island, giggling all the while. And then it’s Daniel’s turn to kiss her back, until she’s fluttery and breathless and it feels like her heart is racing in her ears.

“I really liked that,” she says, a little stunned, when Daniel finally eases his hold on her.

Daniel chuckles, his eyes shining. There’s a pink flush across the bridge of his nose, and she can feel the rise and fall of his chest against her own. “Me too.”

“Enough to do it again?” she grins, leaning closer.

“Definitely,” he laughs, already stooping to kiss her, but she holds him off with a palm to his chest. “I don’t think we’re getting any closer to dinner like this,” she grins. “And I believe you promised  me a gourmet experience.”

Daniel pauses for a moment, then barks out a laugh, releasing her completely as he turns his attention back to the amassed ingredients at the kitchen island. “So demanding. Well, maybe we’d be closer to eating if my sous-chef didn’t keep stealing all the ingredients.”

“Only the mango,” she corrects, swiping another piece as Daniel huffs exasperatedly. 

He makes a show of picking through the remaining fragments, sighing theatrically while she giggles beside him. She can tell by the set of his shoulders and the dimpling of his cheeks that he’s not really upset. And when he steals another glance her way, his eyes are alight with the same warm, tender affection she’d seen earlier.

It’s enough to make her head buzz, her chest feeling altogether too full. It’s only been a day, but so far, this thing they’ve started is really working for her. She doesn’t remember the last time she felt this way; it’s probably been at least five years, when she and Kahu had broken up. Maybe not even then.

It’s exciting.

But still, when she watches Daniel steadily preparing ingredients for their dinner, she can’t help but wonder if it’s enough. 

-

Later, when they’ve finished eating and are curled up on her little loveseat to watch the rugby, she can’t help but ask him. “Are you sure you’re okay with this?”

They’re sitting side by side, Daniel’s arm around her shoulder, his other palm resting lightly on her knee. She’s got a bag of frozen peas wrapped in a tea towel and pressed to her ribs. It’s helping somewhat, although the dull ache remains. 

“What do you mean?” Daniel asks, shifting his attention from the television to watch her curiously.

“You know,” she shrugs, trying not to lose her nerve. “The three of us. The, uh, polyamory.” She swallows heavily at the word.

Daniel strokes his thumb along her knee, flashing her a smile. “I am,” he says, as though he’s talking about the weather and not their questionably-appropriate workplace triad. “Although I’ll admit it’s not something I’m used to.”

“It’s not exactly my area of expertise either,” she points out. There’s a pause, and then she adds quietly, “I’m afraid I’ll make a mess of it.”

Daniel hums thoughtfully, muting the television and turning to face her properly. “Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know,” she sighs. “What if it feels unfair to one of you? What if it’s not enough?”

What if she’s not enough?

Daniel’s watching her contemplatively, brow furrowed in thought. “That’s not really on you, though,” he muses.

She really can’t see how it wouldn’t be. “How do you reckon?”

“Well,” Daniel hums, his fingers drumming against her kneecap, “it’s like Sam said. We need to tell you if something isn’t working.”

“And if we can’t fix it?” she presses. “We all work together, and we don’t exactly live in a big city; this is going to become town gossip whether we want it or not. What then?”

“She’ll be right,” Daniel shrugs, and she could almost slap him for how casual he seems. She settles for scowling at him instead, until he seems to get the message and elaborates. “We’ll be good to each other,” he continues, holding up a hand as she opens her mouth to protest. “I know it sounds cheesy-as, but I’ve known you for years. Sam has too. I can’t see this ending in a shouting match outside the station, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

He’s right; it’s cliche-as. But still, the knot of anxiety in her chest loosens. “I know it wouldn’t,” she murmurs. “I wouldn’t expect that from either of you.”

Daniel watches her appraisingly for a moment, and for a second he looks almost —nervous?— before he seems to find his resolve again. “I want this to work, Kristin. A lot.”

He looks earnest enough that she can’t help but believe him. “Me too,” she admits, more than a little touched. “It’s weird –really weird. But I don’t mind it.”

“Me too,” Daniel smiles, and to her delight, he leans over to give her a gentle kiss. Immediately, the last remnants of vestigial stress tightening her chest are pushed aside by a flood of butterflies. 

Suddenly, she can’t seem to stop smiling. “I never thought I’d be in a poly situation.”

Daniel chuckles again, his smile returning. “Me neither. I thought I’d finished all my wild experimentation in uni.”

Now that’s a tidbit too enticing to resist. 

“Ooh, spill,” she wheedles, shifting so she’s nearly facing him directly. “What kind of wild experimentation are we talking about?”

To her delight, Daniel blushes. “Uh,” he starts, looking a little bashful. “Nothing too crazy, I reckon. A bit of a sexual awakening is all.”

Oh. She hadn’t seen that coming either. Was it the rope thing? She doesn’t know if she’s into bondage, but she thinks she’d be willing to give it a try if Daniel was involved. Come to think of it, there isn’t much she’d say no to, if it meant she could finally have Daniel’s hands on her. 

“What kind of sexual awakening?” she asks, trying to keep the burning curiosity out of her voice. From the patiently resigned look on Daniel’s face, she’s not entirely succeeding.

“The usual kind,” he replies steadily. 

Okay, so probably not the rope thing.

Suddenly, it clicks for her.

“Are you—” she starts, then hesitates, not quite sure how to frame the question. Annoyingly, Daniel seems content to watch her flounder despite his obvious nerves. “Am I…?”

She huffs in annoyance, largely with herself. “You know. Attracted to men?”

Daniel shrugs again, the pink flush darkening his cheeks further. “Yeah. I mean, not exclusively, obviously.”

“Right. Obviously.” 

She bites her lip, trying not to laugh at the audacity of the situation. They’re in their late thirties, for god’s sake. And yet this whole conversation is taking her straight back to uni, to her own awkward self-discovery at the tender age of 20.

Daniel’s watching her expectantly, as though he’s waiting for more of a reaction. Well, fair enough. “You’re not alone in that,” she adds.

“I would hope so,” Daniel remarks, looking a little bemused. “Otherwise this relationship might be a bit of a challenge.”

“No,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes. “I mean the bisexual thing.” 

“Oh,” Daniel says, and now it’s his turn to look surprised.

They stare at each other for a moment, perched comically on either end of her loveseat and contemplating each others’ sexual proclivities. And then the sheer surreality of the moment hits her, and she can’t keep the laughter from bubbling out of her. 

“We’ve worked together for years,” she wheezes, feeling her ribs spasm against the frozen peas. It’s painful, but it’s worth it for the look on Daniel’s face. “How did we not talk about this?”

“I guess it never seemed like the right time,” Daniel chuckles, his eyes crinkling at the corners. “Not exactly the kind of conversation you’d want to have in the middle of the station.”

“Or in the morgue,” Kristin retorts, picturing Gina’s unsolicited and doubtlessly unhelpful commentary. Another laugh escapes her. “Or at a crime scene.”

“I reckon that’s probably not standard procedure,” Daniel grins. “Besides, we didn’t have much reason to get into it. It’s not as though either of us has had much luck romantically.”

“True,” she nods, raising an eyebrow teasingly. “Until now.”

To her delight, Daniel practically beams at her. “Until now.”

This time, she’s the one who leans across the loveseat to press their lips together. She can feel Daniel’s smile against her own as he cards a hand through her hair, combing it back from her face. 

He pulls his other arm around her shoulders, bringing her closer, and–

A spasm of pain twinges down her side. She ignores it, intent on deepening the kiss, but to her disappointment, Daniel pulls back.

“You right?” he asks, his voice soft. She watches his eyes trail to her ribs. She can feel moisture from the rapidly-thawing peas seeping through the tea towel and into her shirt.

“Never better,” she lies, threading her fingers in the short hairs at his nape. She tugs gently, urging him closer, trying to get him to kiss her again. Frustratingly, he seems far too distracted by her stupid bones.

“Are you sure? You’re, uh, panting quite a bit.”

“Have you considered I was having a good time?

Daniel looks torn; clearly exasperated but equally pleased. “Me too.”

“Then best get back to it, eh?”

Thankfully, he does. He presses their lips together again, humming contentedly against her mouth, and this time she’s not going to make the mistake of taking it slow. She runs the tip of her tongue along the seam of his lips, delighting in the low, soft moan he gives before opening his mouth to her. And oh, yes. Who would have thought Daniel Chalmers, the steadfast by-the-book detective, would be this good a kisser?

She lets herself indulge for a while, until she’s truly breathless and Daniel looks as though he’s been run ragged. His chest is heaving where they’re pressed together, his plush lips darkened and kiss-swollen. Probably because she couldn’t help but nip at him a little, just to see what he’d do.

(As it turned out, he’d seemed to really like it, groaning into her mouth with an eager desperation that seemed to shoot straight to her core.)

But she can’t find it in herself to worry about going a little overboard, because Daniel’s positively beaming at her. “Wow,” he grins, stroking one walm palm down her thigh.

She can’t help but laugh again, despite the way it pulls at her ribs. “Wow is right.” Her lips are still tingling, or maybe it’s all in her head. “Chalmers, you sly dog. Who would have known you could kiss like that?”

This time it’s Daniel’s turn to laugh. “I think you’ll find I’m full of surprises.”

She scoffs, slapping teasingly at his chest. “Getting a little cocky, are we?”

“Just telling the truth,” Daniel retorts, levelling her with a look that’s far, far too heated for an evening on call. She tries to steal a casual, tasteful glance toward his groin, just to see if he’s as affected as she is, but the way they’re seated makes it tragically difficult to discern.

When she brings her focus back to his face, Daniel looks far too knowing.

Maybe, if they were quick about it–

“How committed are you to this ‘gentleman on a first date’ thing?” she asks, stroking her fingers along one well-muscled thigh. She wonders what his legs would feel like without the coarse denim of his jeans in the way of her explorations, how they’d flex and shift beneath her if she climbed into his lap.

Daniel chuckles, cupping her cheek in one large palm and cutting off her train of thought. “Much as I want to –and believe me, I really, really do– I reckon we should give the ribs a break, eh?”

She scowls at him, although a part of her knows he’s right. The ill-fated morning tryst with Sam is still fresh in her mind and she’s not keen to repeat the experience. But still, she feels cheated. She’d really liked where things were headed.

“Fine, you’re right.” Sighing resignedly, and trying not to be too petulant about it, she settles back against the loveseat. “But you owe me one. It shouldn’t be legal, kissing like that with no follow through.”

“Gladly,” Daniel chuckles, draping an arm across her shoulders. “Although I reckon you didn’t mind too much.”

“Mm.” She flashes him a grin. “So, in the absence of any steamy evening activities, are you going to tell me more about this whole sexual awakening of yours?”

Daniel raises an eyebrow teasingly. “Asking for the torrid details already, eh?”

“No!” She feels a flush heating her cheeks. “Although, if you felt like sharing...” She lets the invitation trail off.

To her relief, Daniel laughs again. “So nosy. No wonder you went into detective work.” He holds up a palm defensively at her resulting scowl. “Alright, alright. You want the scandalous details?”

“Yes please,” she grins cheerfully, entirely unrepentant. She curls closer to him on the couch, until they’re tucked side to side and the sack of cold peas is pressing into his ribcage too. Daniel grunts at the chill, shifting minutely against her, but he doesn’t complain outright. 

She counts it as a win; she’s no expert at relationships, but anyone willing to tolerate wet frozen vegetables just for the privilege of reliving their awkward sexual encounters must be having at least an okay time.

“I had a roommate in uni on the rugby team,” Daniel begins, his cheeks suspiciously pink. “We started out as mates, but sometimes I’d catch him looking at me oddly. I don’t know how I knew, but it just felt,” he coughs, “different.”

“What happened?”

“One night after drinks he told me. It threw me for a loop at first, but not in a bad way. I got curious.”

“And?”

“And we started fooling around,” Daniel shrugs. “It was fun, but pretty soon I realized we wanted different things from it.”

“How so?” She wasn’t expecting this. Daniel has always been a private sort of person, disinclined to gossip or overshare. It’s been a point of contention between them; he’s never quite approved of her thirst for a full story, well-detailed and precise.

Suffice to say, his current unprompted reflection is throwing her a bit. But she’s not complaining. 

“I started to fall for him,” Daniel admits, rubbing the back of his neck. “And maybe he felt the same way, but he was on the rugby team, and you know how things were back then.”

She hums consolingly, thinking of all the rugby lads she’d done her best to avoid during her undergrad. “Yeah.”

“It wasn’t the right time for either of us. He wanted to keep playing, and I wanted to go into social work. And, well, neither of those really encouraged being open.”

She twines the fingers of her free hand into Daniel’s palm. “So you cut things off?”

Daniel nods. “Yeah. I had a couple of other flings, and one serious relationship in fourth year. But we decided to go our separate ways when we graduated.”

She does the quick mental math; that would have been well over a decade ago. “And you haven’t seen anyone seriously since? Any men, I mean?”

“I have,” Daniel shrugs, “but not since police college. Working on the beat in Auckland wasn’t bad, but…” he trails off, giving her a pointed look. 

She gets it. “But it didn’t feel like something to advertise,” she fills in. 

“By the end of my time there, maybe,” Daniel muses. “Probably not at the start of my career, though.”

“So you stuck to women in the meantime,” she fills in.

“Not exactly,” Daniel replies, and now he really looks bashful. “At the start, yeah. But later on I, uh, might have carried a torch for one of the blokes in our unit.”

She thinks about teasing him, maybe making a joke about having finally succeeded in picking up a fellow officer of the law. But Daniel’s watching her with far more emotion in his face than she’s used to, and for once, teasing him doesn’t feel right. She squeezes his palm instead.

She’s rewarded when Daniel gives her a relieved smile. “I never acted on it, obviously,” he continues. “But I couldn’t bring myself to try dating anyone else either. And then I moved back to Brokenwood, and, well.”

He stops again, his cheeks steaming well past pink and headed rapidly toward maroon.

“Well?” she presses. 

He huffs, rolls his eyes. But he’s still got a small smile tugging at one cheek. “Eventually, it just didn’t seem as important to me,” he says, with a tone of patient finality. 

She frowns. “If Mike or I made you feel—“

“You didn’t,” Daniel reassures her.

“Then why—”

“I think I’ve been pretty fair answering all your questions,” Daniel interjects, shifting the arm across her shoulders to give her bicep a gentle squeeze. “I reckon it’s your turn.”

She contemplates arguing for a fleeting moment, then gives in. “Sure, but it probably won’t be as interesting.”

“I somehow doubt that,” Daniel chuckles. “Come on, spill.”

“Ooh, Chalmers, suddenly you’re a gossip,” she can’t help but tease, nudging him conspiratorially. “Why so keen? Going to have some fun alone later?”

Forget maroon. Daniel looks as though he might actually be in some kind of medical distress, eyes wide, cheeks tinged a deep red. He wets his lips, then manages a retort. “Would you like that?” 

Oh. That’s far too enticing. She can feel the self-satisfied smile stretching her cheeks. “Don’t tempt me.”

Daniel takes the opportunity to fumble for one of the glasses of water perched atop her coffee table. She watches him drink, the tendons in his throat flexing. She can’t remember the last time she felt this smug.

When he’s finished, she takes pity on him.

“I reckon I also found out in uni,” she begins, watching Daniel’s features perk up with obvious interest –and more than a little relief. “Although I suppose my brief education with the nuns should have given me some early clues. In hindsight, I was far too interested in working with Claire Matheson from geography class.”

He laughs, bringing his arm back around her shoulders. “Why does that not surprise me?”

“Shut it, you,” she admonishes. “Anyway, uni was the real awakening. I met a girl in one of my psych classes, we hit it off, and one day she asked me over for drinks. I didn’t really have a clue until she started putting the moves on, but by that point I was into it.”

Beside her, Daniel looks as though he’s barely containing his laughter. “You had no idea she’d invited you for a booty call, and you just decided to go with it?”

“I was having a good time,” she retorts. “So yeah, why not?”

Daniel really does laugh this time, squeezing her shoulder. “You’re one of a kind.”

“You’re one to talk. Congrats on finally managing to date a workplace crush.”

She feels a little bad when the words leave her, but Daniel just laughs again. “Thanks for making it all possible. I’ll be sure to credit you in my speech.”

“Yeah, well, the rest of the story’s pretty similar to yours,” she waves dismissively. “Had a few flings, a couple of relationships, and then graduated. It didn’t feel right pursuing anything in police college, and then I ended up in Brokenwood, which is hardly a cosmopolitan metropolis.”

Daniel nods. “New detective in town, I get it. People are watching.”

“Yeah.” She sighs. “Back then, the town seemed different too. Less accepting.”

“That was under Gary McLeod, right?”

“Well, yeah,” she shrugs. “But this wasn’t his fault. It was everywhere; Neil Bloom hadn’t been elected yet. I don’t even think he was out publicly.”

“The Gary thing probably didn’t help though, if I had to guess,” Daniel muses. “Losing your mentor, not to mention finding out he was, uh, not always on the ball.” He flicks a nervous look her way, as though he’s worried he’s crossed a line. 

She squeezes his palm reassuringly. “It wasn’t the best time of my life.” 

Really, as she thinks back, it’s a bit of an understatement. The added stress of becoming Brokenwood’s first openly gay detective probably would have done her in. Especially since she hadn’t trusted Mike back then, either.

“Hard to believe how much things have changed,” she remarks. She’s never really thought of it before. One day, quietly and entirely without her notice, it had just…stopped. The sense of caution, of maintaining a conventionally palatable public image. It didn’t feel so big anymore.

Why has it taken her this long to notice?

“Oh, definitely,” Daniel nods. “You should have seen what it was like growing up Māori here. If you thought the McLeod days were bad, well. There’s a reason our family moved to Auckland.”

“I’m sorry.” She hadn’t thought of that. She doesn’t quite know what to say.

“You still haven’t told me about your unrequited workplace crush,” Daniel teases, bringing her back to the present.

“That’s because I don’t have one,” she retorts, huffing out a laugh. “Or have you forgotten, I’m already dating both of my immediate coworkers. I’m out of options.”

“You could expand the search into the uniform division,” Daniel suggests, waggling his eyebrows teasingly.

“As if.” She rolls her eyes, but she can’t help but grin back at him. “Guess you’ll just have to keep me busy.”

He looks far too pleased by the suggestion, ducking his head to press a quick kiss to her cheek. “Gladly.”

She squeezes his hand again, then shuffles the bag of frozen peas. A dribble of cold water trickles down her side, making her hiss. “I think these are due for another stint in the freezer.”

Gingerly, Daniel unwraps his arm from around her shoulders, raising himself off the loveseat and extending a hand. “I’ll grab you a new bag,” he offers. She wordlessly passes him the peas, watching as a small amount of water trickles onto his sock. “Sorry.”

“She’ll be right,” Daniel shrugs. He eyes the sodden bag and its accompanying tea towel critically. “How are your peas this wet, anyway?”

“They had a little freezer burn. Nothing major.”

Daniel prods at the bag again, a little more doubtfully. “Hm.”

“There should be a bag of frozen frozen corn you could swap it out with,” she suggests. “Careful though, I couldn’t find any rubber bands so I taped it shut.”

“Of course you did.”

She watches from the loveseat as Daniel digs through her freezer for the promised corn. There’s a muffled curse when he finds it, followed shortly by the rattle of several kernels escaping their flimsy packaging. She wonders if perhaps she should have made more of an effort to straighten her place up, then decides it’s not worth thinking about. Daniel’s been over plenty of times already; if a bag of frozen corn was going to destroy their friendship, it would have happened by now.

More pressingly, her whole side is aching fiercely again, and she’s getting chilly from the large damp patch down one side of her shirt.

It’s a relief when Daniel returns, carrying a tightly-wrapped clean tea towel. He eyes the wet spot on her shirt appraisingly. “You going to be alright in that?”

“Trying to get my shirt off?” she teases, delighting in the new blush that begins working its way across his features.

“Just trying to help,” he corrects, although she doesn’t miss the way his eyes stray to her chest. She isn’t wearing a bra; the band had hurt her ribs too much when she’d tried.  

Well, in for a penny, in for a pound.

Slowly, careful not to pull at her side too much, she strips off the sodden blouse. Tossing it to the floor, she shivers. The cool air of her living room isn’t much of an improvement.

But before she can second-guess her decision, Daniel’s trotting down the hall to her bedroom. He returns a few moments later carrying a large throw blanket, which he drapes across her shoulders. “Better?”

“Much,” she sighs, trying to draw the plush fabric tighter around herself. “But I’d be even better if someone would come join me.”

“My pleasure,” Daniel smiles. He passes her the frozen corn, then settles down next to her on the couch. 

“Come here,” she instructs, lifting a corner of the blanket invitingly. I want to steal your body heat.”

“Trying to get at my body, eh?” Daniel teases. “Not a very original come-on.”

She bites her lip against a smile. “I don’t see you complaining.”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel replies, shifting until he’s pressed next to her on the couch, the blanket draped across both of their chests. “You’d never let me hear the end of it.”

She scowls, prodding him in the side until he shuffles obligingly in a more comfortable position so she can lean against him properly. Her back is pressed to his chest, and almost immediately, his body heat begins seeping through her skin. It’s nice. Soothing in a way she rarely enjoys.

“I thought A&E gave you painkillers,” Daniel murmurs, wrapping an arm around her.

“They did. I don’t like taking them.” She’d tried one pill the morning after the accident, once she was reasonably confident the prior night’s alcohol was out of her system. It had made her woozy, so that she couldn't quite focus. Not great when your job is detective work.

Daniel hums thoughtfully, but he doesn’t press her.

“So, are you going to finish telling me about your uni exploits?” he asks, after a comfortable silence.

“Sure,” she grins. “What do you want to know?”

-

They keep talking for the rest of the evening, trading stories until the exhaustion of the past few days hits her and she starts nodding off. 

Really, she’d like nothing more than to sleep right where she is, tucked comfortably against Daniel’s warm, solid body. But around nine, Daniel’s gently nudging her upright with a tender smile. “I reckon I should probably hit the road,” he explains, gesturing to their cozy position on the loveseat. “You should try and get some rest.”

“You could join me,” she offers, more than a little keen to steal his body heat for the remainder of the evening.

Daniel shakes his head. “Yeah, nah. Much as I’d love to, I don’t have a spare set of clothes. Or a razor. Or anything, really.” He gives a small chuckle. “I’d love to next time, though.”

It’s not the answer she wanted, but it’s enough to mollify her for now. They pack up Daniel’s assortment of kitchen implements, tuck the frozen corn back into the freezer, and before she knows it, they’re out on her porch.

It’s dark; the moon is shrouded in clouds and she hasn’t bothered to turn the outdoor light on. There’s just enough light spilling from her front window to illuminate Daniel’s face as he stands in front of her, grocery bag in hand.

“This was fun,” he says, fumbling in his jacket for his car keys. “Thanks for having me over.”

“Thanks for keeping me company,” she replies. “Definitely a much better evening than I’d planned.” 

Daniel shuffles from foot to foot, and she wonders if he’s going to kiss her. It’s a bit cliche, but she wouldn’t mind it. 

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” Daniel adds.

“Of course.” 

They stare at each other some more. And then she decides there’s no sense waiting around, and before Daniel can react, she’s cupping his face in both palms and pulling him down to meet her in a sweet, simple kiss.

It’s too dark to tell, but she’s pretty sure he’s blushing when she pulls away. 

She licks her lips, wondering if she can taste him or if she's just too worked up. “That should hold me, I reckon.”

Daniel chuckles. “Wish I could say the same.” He looks at her hopefully. “One more for the road?”

She doesn’t waste time with an answer, just pulls him back for another go. She can feel his smile against her lips this time, and when she releases him, his teeth are glinting in the low light.

“That enough for you?” she challenges, already hoping he’ll say no.

“Mm, I don’t think I’ll ever get enough,” Daniel muses. “Guess we’ll just have to keep trying.” 

It’s a terrible come-on, but she can’t help the thrill of giddy excitement that curls in her stomach. “That was horrible.”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel grins. “Somehow, I don’t think you mind.”

Cheeky bugger.

She waves him down the laneway, scoffing at his barrage of increasingly cheesy pickup lines, and watches as his lights disappear into the night.

He’s not wrong though. She doesn’t mind at all.

-

As she’s getting ready for bed, she sees a message pop up from Sam on her phone. Curiously, she opens it. It’s nothing overly romantic, just a quick check-in to see how she’s feeling. Still, it’s sweet. She’s a little touched, even if the mother-henning bruises her ego.

She texts a quick reply and sets her phone back down, just in time for another message to pop up: ‘Hope your date’s going well!’

She doesn’t know whether she should feel touched or guilty. It’s a nice sentiment, but she wonders if he’d much rather be joining her.

She types a reply. Deletes it. Tries again. Finally, she settles on a short response: ‘Thanks, it was fun. See you tomorrow.’

The screen lights up again. ‘Sweet as! Get some sleep so you’re not a total gargoyle in the morning xx.’

She scoffs. Typical Sam. Still though, it’s put her at ease far more than any tender reassurance could.

As she’s getting into bed, she thinks about how strange her life has become. About Sam coming home, about Daniel coming out, about both of them kissing her dizzy on the beach.

It’s still a lot to take in; things have really changed since she first came to Brokenwood.

But still, as she feels herself drifting off to sleep, she’s glad.

Chapter Text

When Kristin wakes the next morning, it’s to the gentle twitter of birdsong and dappled sunlight streaming in through her bedroom window. Outside, the sky is a clear, deep blue.

It’s a perfect morning.

It’s also very, very wrong. 

She bolts upright in bed, then hisses as the motion pulls at her ribs terribly. She takes a few shallow, stilted breaths, then tries again. This time she manages to retrieve her phone from the bedside table.

9:44 a.m. She’s dead. She’s, so late for work.

She glances at the device again. Her alarm isn’t set, which would explain the slow awakening. And there are a slew of texts waiting. 

She debates deleting them all without reading them, then decides better of it.

Sam, 7:18am:  I don’t know how you manage to come in at this ungodly hour. I have no memory of getting here, but I brought you coffee.

Sam, 7:37am: I think I’m hallucinating. Or the station is haunted.

Sam, 7:45am: Drinking your coffee for survival.

Sam, 7:55am: I think the coffee made it worse. I feel hungover.

Daniel, 7:58am: Picked up your usual. No need to make coffee this AM. See you soon.

Sam, 8:14am: Daniel’s actually here now, with more coffee. Whatever he tells you, I wasn’t asleep. I was reviewing files very diligently.

Daniel, 8:26am: Sleeping in? You missed Sam napping at his desk.

Sam, 8:40: Your latte was getting cold so I drank it. I don’t know what you see in oat milk.

Sam, 9:13: Actually though, where are you? Should we be putting a 10-1 out?

Missed call at 9:25am, from Mike.

Mike, 9:26am: Everything alright?

Daniel, 9:32am: I’m going to drop by.

“Bugger all,” she mutters to herself. She sends a quick text to the three of them confirming she’s not actually in peril, then tries to roll out of bed using as few muscle groups as possible.

On cue, her doorbell rings. 

She groans. It could only be Daniel.

She throws on a floral robe, then makes her way downstairs to let him in. To his credit, he looks about as embarrassed as she feels.

“Hey,” he waves. “Glad to see you’re, uh, awake. I just got your text.”

She rolls her eyes. “I forgot to set my alarm.”

Daniel still looks a little unsure, so she gestures down the hall toward her kitchen. “Come on in.”

He trails after her as she sets about getting ready, amassing her coat and bag on the island and rummaging in her bedroom for a reasonably appropriate outfit. “I’ll be ready in two shakes,” she calls from the depths of her closet, trying to pull together a coherent outfit that will work with her last clean blouse. With all the excitement of the past week, she hasn’t been able to do laundry.

“Take your time,” Daniel replies, hovering uncertainly in the doorway to her bedroom. He looks as though he’s unsure whether he should come in and help her or tastefully retreat to the kitchen. The attempted gallantry would be funny in any other circumstance, but right now she just needs to get dressed, get in the car, and go.  

“Any new developments on the case?” she asks, because she’s technically on the clock and she may as well act like it. Even if she’s scurrying around in a robe.

Daniel hums affirmatively. “Maritime New Zealand has scaled back the search for Greg Banks. It’s still a missing person's case for now, but only the Auckland maritime unit is conducting open-water searches. Their boat made it up to Whangārei late yesterday. No progress as of yet.”

“That’s a shame,” she remarks, tugging on a pair of reasonably attractive underwear, because she hasn’t completely forgotten that Daniel’s watching. “Not really a surprise, though. I wouldn’t think anyone would last very long in the water at this time of year, even if foul play wasn’t suspected.”

“That’s true,” Daniel concedes. “That’s not all, though. Apparently there’s an additional witness who’s come forward: Mary Jenkins. She’s got a boat a few docks over –and she keeps a camera.”

“Really?” She grabs hold of her well-worn blue plaid blouse, shucking off the floral robe and tossing it haphazardly on her bed. The cool bedroom air is chilly on her skin; she can feel goosebumps rising across her forearms.

“Yeah,” Daniel says, sounding a little strangled. She chalks it up to surprise; it’s not often that they stumble into new evidence so easily. “Apparently the angle just picks up Greg heading to his boat the morning of his disappearance.”

“I wonder who else made an appearance,” she muses, trying to work the buttons on her blouse. She still feels groggy and her fingers are clumsy against the fabric. “Do we have the footage?”

Daniel coughs, but he doesn’t reply. She glances up, meeting his gaze. “You, uh,” he begins, looking as though he’s fighting down a laugh. “You’ve got the buttons wrong.”

She looks down. He’s right; one half of the shirt rides decidedly lower than the other. Fuck.

She starts re-buttoning the shirt, feeling a blush heating her cheeks. “Do we, though?”

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel shrugs. “Apparently the file’s too big for email. She wants to give us a USB key.”

“Good grief,” she sighs, bending awkwardly to try and pull on a pair of socks. Her ribs twinge warningly and she pauses, struggling to invent a new way to lever them on without moving her torso. “It’s not 2006. We have transfer links.”

“I know,” Daniel chuckles, stooping to help her. Something in her core flutters at the sight of him kneeling on her bedroom carpet, smiling up at her. “Didn’t think you’d have me on my knees this quickly,” he teases, and she can’t help but laugh. 

His hands are warm on her ankle when she raises a foot for him, bracing herself on his well-muscled shoulder. “Excellent service this morning. I just might have to keep you around.”

Daniel’s thumb strokes gently along her tendon. “Well, I accept tips.”

“Don’t let Gina move in with you.”

Daniel barks out a laugh. “Noted.” He finishes pulling on her socks, rising from the floor to press a quick kiss to her lips. “On the upside, picking up the USB key is an opportunity to speak with Ms. Jenkins in person.”

“True,” concedes. “So we’re on the road again?”

“She says she can meet us at the marina at noon,” Daniel confirms. Kristin does the math quickly; assuming she and Daniel make it to the station by 10:15 to snag Sam, the three of them can make it to Whangārei with time to spare.

“Great.” She finishes with the blouse and begins pulling on her jeans, stumbling around a bit as she tries to yank them over her calves. She wonders briefly if Daniel will offer to help again, but there isn’t really much he can do, short of hoisting her by her belt loops and shaking her until she slides into them. Not exactly high on her list of romantic fantasies.

“Anything else I should know?” she asks instead.

“We’ve made it through the last of the Coastguard documents,” Daniel confirms. “Nothing unusual there. Swampings, false alarms, refueling receipts. Nothing that seems linked.”

“Hm,” she sighs, finally managing to button the jeans. “Alright, well. I guess that was a dead end.”

“Yeah,” Daniel nods. “Hopefully we’ll have more luck with our new witness and her footage.”

”Well, best hit the road, then.” She makes a quick stop at the bathroom to brush her teeth and pull her hair into a utilitarian ponytail, then bundles Daniel out the door with her coat and bag. 

Not the best start to the day, all things considered. But they’ve got a lead, and that’s something to be grateful for. 

She glances up at the clear blue sky as they hurry down her walkway, watching as a fantail swoops low over her front yard, chittering excitedly. The town seems especially scenic in the bright morning light, verdant and colourful despite winter’s effects. Her gaze lingers on Daniel as he unlocks the car; the sun is hitting his cheekbones in a way that highlights the dimples at the corners of his mouth.

It takes her a moment to realize she’s smiling. She’s hopelessly late for work, the case is dragging out longer than she’d wanted, and her ribs ache enough that she’d needed the help of her coworker-turned-boyfriend to pull on her socks.

But really, if she’s being honest with herself, things are looking up.

-

The good mood stays with her all the way down to the station, bolstered by the undeniable beauty of Brokenwood’s sun-laden streets and Daniel’s easy conversation as they drive. It’s even enough to quell the guilt-ridden embarrassment when she walks into the bullpen, taking in the scene as Mike and Sam look over at her from their work at the whiteboard. The two are wearing unmistakable twin looks of relief, which she tries not to read too much into. She focuses her attention to the whiteboard instead, where a slew of new notes are visible among the mess of headshots and timelines.

“Kia ora. Any progress this morning?” she asks, valiantly trying to play off her late arrival.

“Good morning to you, sleeping beauty,” Sam grins, waggling his eyebrows teasingly as she and Daniel make their way across the room to join them. “Had a bit of a lie in, eh? Must be nice.”

“Funny.” She scowls at him, but there isn’t any heat in it. “Didn’t you fall asleep at your desk this morning?”

“Oi,” Sam balks, his cheeks flushing a telltale pink as he turns his attention toward Daniel. “You told her?”

“Sorry mate,” Daniel chuckles, not looking apologetic in the slightest.

“It’s the first I’ve heard of it,” Mike comments, giving Sam a scrutinizing look. “Maybe we should be upping your case load, if you’ve got the time to lie around.” It’s enough to have Sam looking a little sheepish, although Kristin can see the edge of a smile tugging at Mike’s cheek. 

But she’s not spared either. On cue, Mike turns his attention her way, taking in her doubtlessly dishevelled appearance. She knows she’s not in peak form and she’s already bracing for a gentle reminder about professionalism. She’s surprised when he gives her a kind smile instead. “Glad you’re alright.”

“Oh,” she says, a little stunned at the hard pivot. Clearly Sam is too, because he whines plaintively “how come it’s okay when she does it?” 

Mike ignores him.

 “Yeah, uh. I’m fine,” she elaborates awkwardly. “Just forgot to set my alarm, is all.”

“Good,” Mike nods, still watching her far too closely. “It’s understandable given everything that’s happened these past few days.” He sighs, then gestures toward his office. “Could I have a word for a moment?”

“Sure.” It’s not as though she can say no. But she’s got a feeling she knows where the conversation is headed. Her suspicions are confirmed when Mike closes the door and offers her a seat, looking uncomfortable.

She stares at his desk while he makes his way over to the chair across from her. The time-worn wood  is covered in case files –some  recent, some decidedly not. There’s a gap where Frankie the Ferret used to sit before Sam took him off to the Solomon Islands. She’s surprised to find she genuinely misses the taxidermied rodent. She wonders where he is now; if he’s still with Roxy in the islands, or if Sam had managed to bring him home in one of the hastily-packed boxes pushed against the walls of his posh bach.

Across the desk, Mike shifts uncertainly. “I wanted to ask how you’re doing, really.”

“Fine,” she replies, almost without thinking. Mike raises an eyebrow, so she adds, “the ribs are a bit stiff. But A&E said that’s to be expected.”

“I’m glad to hear it,” Mike nods. He watches her for a moment, then leans forward with a sigh. “It’s not just the collision I’m asking about. This job, it asks a lot of you –sometimes more than you can give. Every now and then you may need to take a pause. And that’s alright, Kristin.”

Mike’s her boss, but he’s also her friend. She’s having a hard time parsing out which part of him is doing the talking right now. She nods slowly, feeling dread curl in her stomach. “Okay.”

“That goes double for an injury sustained in the line of duty.”

“Okay.” They sit in silence for a moment, watching each other in a strange parody of their usual interview tactics. It’s not often they’re on opposite sides of the table.

She decides there’s no sense drawing things out. “Are you standing me down?”

Mike shakes his head, looking a little exasperated. “No. This is your choice.”

She opens her mouth, ready to assure him that she’s fine, but he beats her to the punch. “I know you’ve already made up your mind,” he smiles wryly. “But you’re welcome to take some leave if you’d like it. You’ve more than earned the rest.”

It’s a nice sentiment, but rest is the last thing she wants right now.

“That’s alright,” she forces a grin, shaking her head. “We’ve got a new lead. Can’t go passing that up.”

“Alright,” Mike nods, and his answering smile feels a little less strained now. “But for the record, I won’t think any less of you if you change your mind. You’re a good detective. No amount of time off would change that.”

“Thanks, Mike.” She feels some of the tension leave her shoulders and manages a genuine smile back at him. He really is a good friend, for all he’s stink at workplace check-ins. And admin. And procedure. “Anything else?”

“That about covers it,” he replies. She rises from her chair, intent on heading out for Whangārei, but Mike speaks again before she can make it to the door. “Oh, one more thing,” he adds, a familiar line that she’s long since learned to brace for. “Daniel and Sam seem to be getting on better. Did you have a word with them?”

Immediately, a fresh spike of anxiety bolts through her. “No,” she manages, hoping she sounds normal. A million HR scenarios flash through her head. She struggles to find one that ends even halfway well. “Probably just settling in.”

“Mm,” Mike hums ambiguously, watching her thoughtfully. For once, she hopes she looks entirely clueless. “I suppose you could be right. Regardless, it’s good to see the three of you taking the reins on this. Keep up the good work.”

“Thanks,” she nods, then beats a hasty retreat. She’s already out the door before she realizes she’s turned down a golden opportunity to inquire about Mike's mysterious absences. Oh well; nothing’s worth subjecting herself to more casual interrogation. Not when everything’s so fresh, and all she really wants to do is solve the case so she can spend the weekend with Daniel and Sam and further explore their secret workplace polyam triad.

Christ.

The knot in her stomach eases when she sees her boys –and isn’t that a strange thought too?-- by the whiteboard, too busy hashing out case details to notice her approach. Three steaming travel mugs are waiting on a nearby table, ostensibly filled with fresh station brew. 

“What have you two managed to come up with?” she asks, catching their attention as she snatches up a mug. She breathes deeply, letting the coffee-scented steam fill her lungs. It’s nothing special; she could probably make it better herself. But right now it’s exactly what she needs.

“More of the usual,” Daniel smiles, eyes flicking over her shoulder to watch Mike toward Mike’s office. “Everything go okay in there?”

“Yeah. He just wanted a check-in.” She sips at the coffee, feeling its warmth slowly make its way through her chest. 

“Make sense,” Sam nods. “He seemed pretty off this morning. I reckon he was probably more worried than he let on.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that, so she makes a show of taking another long, slow sip of her coffee. Daniel watches her knowingly for a moment, a small smile tugging at his cheek, then makes a show of fishing his keys from his pocket. “On to Whangārei, then?”

She glances at her watch. It’s only half past 10; they’ve got plenty of time before they’re due at the marina. “Bit early for it,” she hazards. “We could probably get through a bit more background here first.”

“I figured we could grab breakfast on the way,” he grins. “I think it’s safe to guess you haven’t eaten yet, given your luxurious 10am awakening.”

“Shut it, you, or you’ll be buying the breakfast.” She slaps a hand against his chest, though secretly she’s rather touched. “And besides, it was 9:30.”

“Count me in too,” Sam pipes up. “I think all the coffees are catching up with me. The station’s…moving in ways it probably shouldn’t.”

She can’t help but laugh, rolling her eyes as they make their way out of the station. “And yet you still managed to fall asleep on duty.”

“Only because I tried to match your ungodly work hours,” Sam protests. “Seriously Kris, how do you even function that early?”

“I was up for a run by then,” Daniel says mildly, holding the door as they exit the station. “I didn’t have any issues.”

“Yeah but you’re just as mad as she is,” Sam grouses, though she can tell there isn’t any heat in it. “You went jogging after our night at the Snake and Tiger. That can’t be normal.”

Daniel just chuckles, flashing Sam a smile as the three of them make their way to his waiting car. “You’re welcome to join next time.”

“Hard pass.”

She lets the soothing sound of their bickering wash over her as they get in the car, content to enjoy their company while she drinks her coffee in peace. In any other circumstance she’d probably find herself fighting the urge to nod off against the window, but for all the embarrassment it had caused her, the prior night had been the first opportunity to finally sleep –uninterrupted and deeply– in longer than she’d care to admit. It has her feeling surprisingly alert this morning, and more well-rested than she’s been in weeks. 

Beyond the windscreen, the sun shines bright in the clear blue sky.

She’s got a good feeling about today.

-

An hour and a half later, they’re pulling into the marina carpark. The good mood has continued to build, buoyed by takeaway pastries and yet another installment of Jack Rudd’s audiobook. By now, she’s convinced Daniel and Sam are more into the series than she is –they’ve been debating the motivations of the cheating tennis instructor for the better part of 20 minutes– but she really can’t find it in herself to complain. Especially not when Sam takes it upon himself to recreate particular sections of dialogue, pitching his voice in a slow, sensual tenor that seems to go straight to her core. More than ever, she’s keen to get this case wrapped up.

The harbour looks exactly as she remembers it. A forest of masts sway against the sky, halyards clanging in the breeze, supported by a small fleet of sailboats and the occasional power cruiser. Much lower to the ground, a squat grey marina building is perched on the edge of the main wharf. A few gulls wheel overhead on the breeze, calling shrilly across the water. 

But that’s not what draws her eye. Even from the carpark, she can see the well-bundled figure of a grey-haired woman sitting on a bench beneath the roof’s overhang.

The woman gives them a curt nod as they approach. “You’re here from Brokenwood, then?” she asks gruffly, keeping her voice low.

Kristin finds herself nodding as Daniel makes the introductions, extending his hand to shake. “Mary Jenkins, I presume?”

“I’ll need your ID,” the woman replies noncommittally, ignoring his outstretched arm and peering furtively about. She looks to be clearly on edge, though Kristin can’t imagine why. It all seems very out of place amid the bright morning sunshine, only a few meters from the small building’s main entrance. The dissonant effect is compounded by the woman’s enormous fluorescent red floater coat, which stands out sharply against the building’s utilitarian grey exterior. 

Nonetheless, she, Daniel and Sam dutifully show the woman their badges, waiting patiently as each is carefully and thoroughly examined. Eventually, they’re given a single approving nod.

To his credit, Daniel rallies quickly. “So to confirm, you’re Mary Jenkins?”

“You’re lucky I am,” she retorts. “Othwreise you just gave my name out to a complete stranger. Not very smart; you should have used a code.”

Oh god, she’s one of those witnesses. The ones who think every interaction is straight out of a crime thriller. Or a conspiracy theorist maybe; it’s still too early to tell. Either way, Kristin can barely keep from rolling her eyes.

Daniel forges on dutifully, apparently having realized it’s too late to turn back. “You mentioned you have some footage from your security camera?”

“I might.”

She watches Daniel take a slow, measured breath. Poor guy.

“As I recall, that’s why you asked to meet us here.”

Mary looks as though she’s going to be difficult, but to Kristin’s surprise, the older woman nods, still eyeing the three of them warily. She rummages in her coat’s large weather-sealed pockets for a moment, then produces a well-worn USB key. It’s shaped like a cartoon lighthouse.

She passes it to Daniel wordlessly, in a cautious exchange more suggestive of a covert intel drop than a routine records retrieval. It all feels a bit clandestine, like a 1980s spy thriller. Sam seems to pick up on it too; he’s very obviously biting back a grin.

“Anything else?” Mary asks gruffly, after a suitably long pause.

“We were hoping to ask you a few questions, to help paint a better picture of the past few days,” Daniel explains, staunchly persevering as Mary’s expression darkens. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary in the time leading up to his disappearance?”

“No.”

There’s a lengthy pause. Eventually, it becomes clear that no further detail is forthcoming. “And did you notice anything following the event?” Daniel tries again. 

“Nope,” Mary says briskly, eyes flicking around the landscape unsettlingly. 

It’s a credit to Daniel’s disposition that he manages to keep his frustration at bay. Kristin’s worked with him long enough to gauge the mounting tension across his shoulders, but Mary doesn’t seem to notice. “Anything unusual on the docks,” he suggests, sounding somewhat strained. “Strange passers-by?”

Mary grunts dismissively, her gaze still roving across the harbour. 

“Sorry,” Kristijn interjects sharply, because she’s had about enough of this charade. “Are you looking for someone?”

At once, Mary’s eyes snap to her own. They’re a clear, icy blue, crinkled at the edges by age and the sun. “What makes you say that?”

Kristin doesn’t like the look Mary is giving her; it’s far sharper than she’d expected. Like Mary knows something but isn’t willing to let them in on the secret. “You look as though you’re expecting someone.”

“Always pays to know your surroundings,” the older woman says ambiguously. “You’re young; you’ll learn that soon enough.”

Frustration wells inside her, but by some miracle, Kristin refrains from pointing out that knowing her surroundings is essentially 50 per cent of the job. “Right. Well, someone’s gone missing, so let’s try and focus on the task at hand,” she says instead, trying for professional detachment. She thinks she’s mostly successful, but she’s still relieved when Sam cuts in with a new line of questioning.

“How long have you kept a boat at this marina?” he interjects, steering the conversation back to safer waters.

Mary doesn’t say anything at first, just watches Sam consideringly. She must come to some kind of internal decision, because she eventually shrugs. “About two decades now.”

“Thank you,” Sam sighs, with a touch of exasperated relief. “And do you know many of the other individuals who moor boats here?”

“A few. I keep myself to myself.”

It’s not much, but at least they’re getting full sentences now. Sam must feel the same, because he keeps up the questioning as if they’re on borrowed time. “Did you know Greg Banks?”

“Only in passing,” Mary grunts. “He was a few docks over. We weren't exactly neighbours."

“What can you tell us about him?” Kristin chimes in. “At this stage, any information you have could be helpful.”

“Can’t help you there,” Mary scowls, waving a hand dismissively. “Like I said, I barely knew him. You’d have better luck with others around here. He had a few visitors.”

“Could you point us in the right direction?” Sam suggests. “Anyone we should be reaching out to?”

“Can’t say I can,” Mary retorts stubbornly. “Like I said, I keep to myself.”

“If that’s the case, why did you have a security camera on your boat?” Daniel asks curiously. He’s evidently recovered from the disastrous first few attempts at questioning, managing a professionally inquisitive demeanor that feels several steps removed from Kristin’s current disposition.

Unfortunately it doesn’t seem to help. 

Mary glares at him. “That’s my own business.”

“Seems a bit excessive for a place like this,” Daniel continues placidly, gesturing at the neatly manicured lawn and orderly docks. “The marina looks well maintained, plenty of people around. What could you be worried about out here?”

Mary scans the horizon again, her steely blue eyes roving over the docks. Kristin doesn’t like the look in them; it’s hunted and distrustful and…oddly pitying. “I reckon you best watch that footage,” is all she says.

They don’t get much more out of her after that. Mary dodges a few more questions, then pointedly bids them a curt farewell. They watch her amble back down the docks, growing smaller in the distance until she boards an old sloop and disappears belowdecks. 

“Well she was pleasant,” Sam remarks, breaking the silence.

“Agreed,” Daniel frowns, glancing around the bright, well-maintained harbourfront. “You think that was real paranoia or just her personality?”

Sam shrugs, running a hand through his short ginger hair. They’ve barely been out for 15 minutes and his ears are already looking a bit sunburnt. “Could be either, really. Probably both.”

Daniel sighs, slowly turning over the USB key in his hand. “You reckon the folks down at the Whangārei station would let us use their set-up? Seems a shame to drive all the way back to Brokenwood just to access a USB.”

“That’s not a bad idea, actually,” Kristin nods, thinking it over. “They’ll probably want to see what’s on here too.”

“And we could get lunch,” Sam suggests hopefully.

Typical Sam. “We just had breakfast on the way over,” she points out.

“Well what about second breakfast?” He grins in a way that suggests this is definitely a reference to something. One of his nerd hobbies, probably. “Elevensies?”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t quite keep the smile from tugging at her lips. She’s not hungry in the slightest, but Sam’s grin is lighting up his whole face and his humour is surprisingly contagious. “Don’t even start.”

Daniel hums thoughtfully, his gaze tracking across the carpark and beyond the boat launch to the familiar little Costguard office. “Do you think it’s worth another chat with the Coastguard in the meantime?”

“That’s a thought,” she muses. “It seems a little suspicious that Greg’s boat was reported adrift a week ago and now he’s gone missing. Shelly was going to speak with them yesterday; I don’t suppose she mentioned anything to you?”

“Nah,” Daniel shakes his head. “Must not have come up with anything. But the timing seems like more than a coincidence. Maybe there’s something we’re missing.”

She feels the thrill of another potential lead running through her. She knows there’s something they’re missing; something big. They just need to keep at it, work the angles, pull together enough pieces that they start to resemble something. 

She claps her hands, feeling renewed optimism surging through her. “Well, it seems we’re due for a visit.”

Sam grins. “Sounds good to me. I want to meet hot Brian.”

What.

She can feel her cheeks flushing as she whirls on him, indignation and embarrassment warring for prominence as she contemplates tipping the both of them into the ocean. “Excuse me?”

To her mortification, Sam laughs brightly. “Daniel mentioned the office coordinator shares a few qualities with Jools’ former husband. Big fingers, for one thing. And apparently he looks like a Greek god.”

Really. Well, that certainly hadn't been her observation. Not one she’d voiced, anyway.

“Oh really? A Greek god?” She arches an eyebrow at Daniel, her embarrassment gone as quickly as it had appeared, and watches with some satisfaction as a faint dusting of pink spreads across the bridge of his nose. 

“Some might see the resemblance,” he defends. “From a purely artistic standpoint.”

“Oh, sure. Artistic expression.”

“Excuse me—” They’re interrupted by an older, white-haired gentleman in a sunfaded bucket hat. He’s peering curiously at them from the door to the marina office. “My apologies, I didn’t mean to eavesdrop. Did I hear you’re in need of a computer?”

She feels the embarrassed flush spreading further across her face. Good god, if this man heard their discussion about the footage, he would have to have been listening just now.  Not exactly their most professional moment on duty. 

She sneaks a glance at Daniel; he also looks mortified. Even Sam’s looking sheepish by association.

She clears her throat. “Sorry, who are you?”

“Thomas McGovern, pleased to meet you. I’m the office attendant today,” he smiles. “We’ve got a computer here you could use, although I’m afraid it’s a little old.”

There's a pause while they all make eye contact, silently weighing the straightforward efficiency against the relative headache involved with using the marina office to review criminal evidence. It's absolutely something Mike would do, although it's far from the gold standard for data privacy. And then Daniel shrugs, turning his focus back to the office attendant. “It would save us some time, I suppose.” 

Apparently that’s all Thomas needs to open the office door wide, smiling broadly. “Excellent. I’ll get things set up for you. It can take a moment to boot up.” He disappears into the office, whistling jovially.

Daniel sighs. She gets it; spending a half hour squinting at an ageing screen in a tiny office isn’t exactly fun. They’ll have to find a way to shoo off the well-meaning attendant as well. They've not yet adopted Mike's laissez-faire approach to public viewings of potential evidence in a murder investigation.

“You two might as well head over to Coastguard while he gets things set up,” Daniel suggests. “Kill two birds with one stone.”

“Are you sure?” she asks, a little surprised. “We might be onto something important here.”

As if on cue, Thomas pokes his head out the office door again. “Should be a few minutes, I’m afraid. Looks like we have to get through a couple of system updates.” Whistling again, he disappears back inside.

Daniel looks at her resignedly. “I think you’ll probably have time for both.”

From the office, Thomas' muffled voice rings out. “Actually, I’ve got a bit of a nautical story for you while you’re waiting. Biggest snapper I ever saw, caught right out in the bay here." She watches Daniel wince, no doubt bracing for the impending tall fish tale. "I’ve got a photo in here somewhere," Thomas continues, blissfully unaware of Daniel's increasingly bleak expression. "Let me just find it...”

Kristin nudges Daniel's forearm, grinning. “Sure you don’t need backup?”

“Somehow I reckon I’ll survive.” Daniel rolls his eyes, a smile tugging at his cheek. 

"And what about you, got a preference?" She looks at Sam, who’s been watching the exchange with thinly-veiled amusement.

“Oh, Coastguard any day,” Sam chuckles, clapping Daniel on the shoulder. “Good luck with the big fish stories, mate.”

-

Still fighting back giggles at Daniel’s wretched parting expression, they head across the carpark toward the small white Coastguard office. Behind them, the sound of Thomas’ distant storytelling floats on the breeze.

She’s feeling a little better about this visit. For starters, she’s not soaked to the bone and shivering like a small, yappy dog. The same youthful clerk as last time –Kauri, she thinks– greets them at the reception desk.

“Detective Sims,” he smiles, his young face brimming with the same air of hopeful optimism that she remembers. “You’re looking much drier today.”

Beside her, Sam stifles a laugh.

“Yeah, thanks,” she replies, trying to derail that line of observation before Kauri can really get into the details. “Listen, is Brian around?”

Kauri’s brow furrows in thought for a moment. “I think he’s out by the rescue boat,” he hedges. “But if there’s anything you need in the meantime, I’d be happy to help.” 

“Sorry,” she shakes her head. “We were hoping to get a little more background about one of the incidents he responded to. We’d need it from him, I’m afraid.”

Kauri nods understandingly, still standing at eager attention behind the desk. “The rescue boat’s just tied off the far dock behind our office,” he supplies. “It needed refuelling. If you go now you might be able to catch him.”

“Great, thanks.” They follow Kauri to the back door, smiling as he waves them off. “I hope you get what you need,” he calls, before disappearing back inside.

“He’s keen,” Sam remarks as they head down to the water’s edge. “Think you’ve got an admirer?”

“No,” she scoffs. “He’s just young and optimistic.”

Sam grins at her, his hazel eyes nearly blue in the sunlight. “Ah, the excitement of youth. We were like that once.”

She laughs, shoving at him playfully as they step onto the long wooden pier. “As-if. I was never that eager, and you certainly weren’t nearly as helpful.”

“No rose glasses for you, eh?” Sam remarks, feigning wistfulness. “I guess we’ve been usurped by the youth, then.”

“You’re being dramatic,” she retorts. They’re nearly upon the large, bright orange rescue boat now. She can see it rocking on its moorings; presumably Brian’s somewhere on board.

“Well, at least I can see if the rumours are true about Brian,” Sam proclaims teasingly, laughing when she tries to shove at him again. 

“Shut it, you.”

“Alright, alright.” Sam throws his hands up in defeat. “Jury’s out until this investigation is over.”

“It had better be,” she whispers back. “It was bad enough with the office attendant.”

The rescue boat seems even more impressive now that they’re closer. It’s a large twin-engine inflatable, easily thirty feet long, with a rigid enclosed cockpit and a broad rear deck laden with rescue equipment. It looks well-used; the sleek hull is free of algae and the mooring lines are spliced into neat loops, ready to be thrown off at a moment’s notice.

Brian’s sandy blonde head pops out from the cockpit as they approach. “Detective Sims,” he calls, wiping his brow with the back of his hand. “Fancy seeing you again.”

“Brian,” she greets him, leaning over the dock to shake his hand. She feels the flush starting in her cheeks again and tries not to focus on the size or strength of his grip.“Sorry to interrupt your work. This is my colleague DC Breen.”

Brian gives Sam a broad smile, clapping him heartily on the arm. “Pleasure to meet you. To what do I owe the visit?”

“We had a few follow up questions about that call you’d attended for the abandoned vessel belonging to Greg Banks,” she explains. “We were hoping you could go over the incident again with us.”

Brian nods, crossing his well-muscled arms across his broad chest. “I heard what happened. Terrible thing, that. Our team was involved with the search a bit yesterday, but there just doesn’t seem to be any trace of him. I reckon it’s with your lot now.”

“It’s still considered a missing person for the time being,” she explains, “but there’s a high likelihood of foul play. Our colleague is just in the process of reviewing some new surveillance footage.”

“Foul play, really?” Brian’s eyes widen. “You’d think we have enough to deal with on the water as-is.”

“We can’t rule anything out,” she explains, pulling out her notebook. “But it would be helpful if you could walk us through some of the details from the prior incident. You’d mentioned it was your first time meeting Mr. Banks?”

“Yeah,” Brian shrugs. “Like I said, he was pretty curt with us. I’m not sure there’s much more I can tell you.”

“Just checking all the angles,” she clarifies, trying to keep the conversation light. They’ve already had one confrontational interview this morning and she’s keen to avoid another. Not that Brian would be anything like Mary –he seems far less concerned about invisible watchers, for one thing. 

“You said he arrived in a zodiac,” she notes. “Do you remember what it looked like?”

“Not especially,” Brian sighs, rubbing at his neck ruefully. His sandy blonde hair ruffles in the breeze. “We were more concerned with the abandoned vessel, truth be told.”

“That’s understandable,” Sam nods. “You mentioned there were other volunteers who attended the call; it’s possible they might remember some additional information. Could you give us their contacts?”

“Sure,” Brian nods, his eyes leaving her face to watch a gull circling low over the harbour. “Todd and Elizabeth were out that day; Kauri will have their information in the system back at the office. He’ll pull it together for you when we’re done here.”

“Thanks a bunch.” She notes the names down, a little annoyed that they didn’t think to get them earlier. Charitably, she and Daniel had been soaked to the bone and fresh off a collision during their last visit to the Coastguard office, but still –not her best detective work. 

“What’s this new footage from?” Brian asks. He looks thoughtful, as though he’s trying to work something out.

“We can’t disclose the source,” Kristin replies, her mind’s eye flashing to Mary’s cautious gaze roaming the horizon. “But we’re optimistic it will give a better understanding of the hours leading up to Mr. Banks’ disappearance.”

“I see,” Brian nods. “Well, best of luck with it. Is there anything else I can help you with?”

She’s about to respond when her phone rings. A quick glance at the screen shows it’s Daniel, presumably calling with an update. “Sorry,” she apologizes. “I’ll just be a moment.” Sam nods at her in unspoken understanding; she hears him resume the questioning as she turns away and heads a few meters down the dock to accept the call, out of earshot.

“Got the updates installed already, eh?” she teases, smiling to herself.

She almost immediately regrets it.

“Kristin,” Daniel starts, his voice tense with unmistakable worry. “Are you at the Coastguard office?”

“No, we’re just on the dock by the rescue boat,” she replies, catching the stress in his tone. “Is everything okay?”

“Brian’s in the footage,” Daniel explains urgently, speaking quickly. “He visited Greg the morning of the disappearance. The timing works.”

Immediately, her stomach plummets. She turns around fearing the worst, and –no, Sam’s not on the dock anymore. He’s standing on the Coastguard boat, partially hidden in the shadow of the cockpit, smiling stiffly at her. 

Brian’s standing closely behind him, all humour gone from his face. One hand beckons at her wordlessly. The other doesn’t move, still obscured behind Sam’s back.

It doesn’t take a detective to guess what he’s holding.

Chapter Text

Kristin prides herself on her professional composure. After more than 10 years in Brokenwood, she’s managed to develop a cool detachment which, if anything, can occasionally seem robotic. It’s a skill in itself, and it’s what keeps her focused on difficult cases, what lets her persevere though emotional circumstances that would otherwise leave her in tears.

Suffice to say, she hasn’t felt this scared in a while.

The coldness in Brian’s eyes as he beckons her close isn’t like most of the armed offenders she’s met. They’re usually desperate, frightened, driven by poor decisions and limited options, and they can be reasonable. Bargained with. 

Not Brian. His eyes are cold as the winter ocean.

She can’t prove it, but certain he’s killed before.

“Change of plans,” she murmurs to Daniel, walking slowly toward the boat. Her palm is sweaty where she’s clutching at her phone and she can hear her heart hammering in her chest. “He’s got Sam.” She hears Daniel’s sharp intake of breath, but she doesn’t have time to let him speak. “Likely armed. He wants us to get on the Coastguard boat.”

“Shit,” Daniel curses, and she swears the tension in his voice doubles. “I’ve got dispatch on the other line. Can you try and stall him?”

“Not likely.” 

Brian gestures at her to hang up, shoving harder at Sam’s back. She pretends to do it, letting her arm drop to her side, phone loosely held in her grip. But Brian isn’t appeased; he motions for her to walk faster, shoving Sam again. She complies quickly, watching the redhead wince in obvious pain; not a good sign.

“Throw your phone in the water,” Brian instructs, when she’s close enough to the dock. Wordlessly, she tosses it into the harbour. It sinks into the greenish-blue depths immediately. Her spirits sink with it. She can only hope Daniel’s got enough information to work with.

“Get the mooring lines,” Brian instructs. She does, wordlessly tossing them back onto the dock when they come free of the boat. “Good,” Brian nods. “Get in.”

She makes eye contact with Sam. He looks as unsettled as she feels, and she can see the disagreement etched plainly in his features. But even if she turned and ran, there’s no cover on the main dock. Brian could shoot them both in the time it would take her to get halfway back to the Coastguard building.

She gets in the boat.

It’s all downhill from there.

Now that she’s closer, she can see the handgun in Brian’s grip. The barrel is pressed tightly to Sam’s spine, and Brian shows no hesitation to prod him with it to stress a point. He has them shuffle around, until she’s standing at the helm with Sam beside her and Brian’s behind them both. His looming presence feels even worse when she can’t see him, as does the rigid jabbing of the gun against her back.

“Which one of you knows how to steer a boat?” he asks gruffly. “Quick, now.”

“I do,” she confirms, trying to keep her voice level. From the corner of her eye, Sam shoots her a questioning look. Now’s not the time to get into her prior relationship experience, but she’d once dated a guy who worked on the family’s cod quota. They’d broken up shortly after the season opened, and Kristin had realized she didn’t want an absentee partner who always came ‘round months later reeking of fish.

Brian tosses a key onto the console in front of her. It’s attached to a jaunty orange Coastguard float, which feels nauseatingly out of place in their current situation. “Take us out of the harbour. Nice and easy; don’t even think of trying anything.”

She does the best she can, nosing the boat away from the dock and slowly making their way out to the channel entrance. As they pass the marina building, she imagines Daniel inside coordinating some kind of rescue. She tries not to think about the jurisdictional and logistical difficulty involved in mobilizing for a nautical hostage situation, because the outcome is recognizing that it’s exceedingly rare and unlikely to occur quickly.

She keeps the throttle down as much as she can while they’re in the channel, ostensibly because there are wake restrictions. But before long, Brian is knocking the gun against her back again, demanding that she come up to full horsepower.

“And don’t think about trying anything,” he warns, “or you won’t like what happens next.”

For a fleeting minute, she contemplates pushing the throttle open in one go; there’s a possibility the sudden jolt would give them an opportunity to overpower Brian. But just as she’s about to try it, Brian shoves her —hard— and the crook of the barrel grinds between her two fractured ribs. 

She can’t help the little cry of pain and the short gasping breath that follows. Brian does it again, presumably to see if it’s a fluke, and it hurts even more the second time. Her ears are ringing and she needs both hands to steady herself against the console, knees threatening to buckle.

“What’s wrong with her?” she hears Brian ask, his voice sounding tinny and far away through the haze of pain. The gun hasn’t moved from its position between her ribs, pressing painfully against the bones when they come up on a swell before easing momentarily. 

She tries to focus on Sam’s attempt at explanation. “She’s got two broken ribs,” he reasons, employing the calm, measured negotiation tone they’re all taught in police college. It’s only because she’s known him so long that she can hear the undercurrent of stress.

“Not my bloody problem,” Brian scoffs. He presses harder, just for a moment, and it takes everything in her not to black out. “Throttle up, or I’ll finish things right here.”

She does her best to follow his instructions, bringing the boat up to a gradual plane. It’s distressing, watching the shore grow smaller and smaller in the distance. The only saving grace is that Brian takes the opportunity to remove the gun from her back. He stands behind them, still hidden by the cockpit as they pass tugboats, pleasure craft, and the occasional container ship moving through Marsden Bay. 

It’s a bright, clear day. There are a lot of boats around. None of them will think anything’s amiss.

They pass Marsden Point, the towering piles of lumber visible even from their distance. Just down the shoreline, she can see the beach where the three of them had enjoyed lunch the day prior. It makes something sad and longing twist in the pit of her stomach, thinking about the contrast to her current predicament. 

And then they’re rounding Busby Head, finally faced with the open ocean. A bright expanse of blue stretches into the horizon, unbroken save for the faint, hazy shadows of the Hens and Chickens Islands in the distance. She can see darker water out there, rough beyond the lee of the shore.

“Take a good look,” Brian remarks cruelly, practically shouting to be heard over the roar of the twin engines. “There’s nobody who can help you here.”

He barks out a laugh, then presses the gun hard into her ribs, chuckling as another short, sharp cry escapes her and her knees threaten to buckle. “Head for the islands. No funny business.”

Fighting to get her breath back as Brian eases off, she keeps a straight course out to sea, watching from the corner of her eye as their captor disables the satellite transmitter and VHF radio. 

Normally —and she hates to think that any of this is normal— they’d try to keep Brian talking. Reason with him, find out what he wants, or at the very least buy time. But she can barely hear his instructions as-is, and she knows with absolute certainty that he’s not one to be bargained with right now. It hasn’t escaped her why they’re headed out to sea; it’s the best place to dump a body. She’s of no doubt that Greg Banks went the same way.

But they don’t need to be alive for Brian to make it past the islands. He could have shot them both the second they made it through the outer harbour. The sheer fact that he’s chosen to keep them both as hostages would indicate he’s hoping to get information from them, likely the results of their investigation. And he probably reasons they’ll be more willing to divulge the details if they’re both together, trying to protect each other….it’s a sickening thought.

She hopes she’s wrong.

Beside her, Sam shifts imperceptably closer, until their shoulders are brushing gently together.  It’s a small comfort, but it’s one she’ll grab hold of right now. She nudges against him, timing the movement with the rolling swells. His shoulder feels warm and solid against her own, and it's enough to ease a little of the dread pooling in her stomach. She’s still scared —more so than she’s ever been— but there’s something reassuring about the gentle reminder that they’re in it together.

They stay like that for the next little while, staring at the blue expanse ahead and bumping shoulders when they can. She tries to think of a plan —anything that might help them— but they’re completely alone out here. Their only option is to somehow overpower Brian, but so far he hasn’t given them the opportunity.

Michael Taylor’s words float through her head. The ocean is a lonely place.  

She gets it now.

It’s hard to keep track of time, but she thinks they’ve been going for about a half hour when Brian instructs her to come to a stop. Slowly, she brings the boat down from a plane, leaving the engine running in neutral gear and dreading what comes next.

“Turn around,” Brian commands, and they both revolve slowly to face him. He grunts in acknowledgement, then throws a neat coil of rope at Kristin. She catches it reflexively. “Tie his arms,” Brian instructs. “Ankles too. And don’t even think of leaving slack in the bindings. I’ll be checking, and if I find even a millimetre of give, I’ll shoot him right here.”

“Whatever you want from us—” she begins, hoping to bargain.

“I don’t want anything you can offer me,” Brian interrupts. “Now tie him up. Last warning.”

She locks eyes with Sam. He’s still green and definitely unhappy, stress etching tight lines around his eyes and jaw. But the look he gives her is surprisingly soft, and he nods in understanding when she grabs hold of his wrists, bringing them together.

“Behind his back,” Brian corrects sharply. Kristin nods, releasing Sam just long enough to step behind him. She hates how Sam’s fingers tremble minutely as she resumes her grip. She can feel his pulse racing in his wrists, and she’s struck by how unfair this is. 

He’s only just come home.

She strokes her thumb across one of his tendons as she winds the weatherbeaten cord around his wrists, watching as a little of the tension in his shoulders ebbs. Boldly, she twines their fingers together for a moment, giving him a squeeze. He squeezes back, the strength in his grip somehow reassuring. And then she releases him and tightens the rope, trying to ignore the little grunt Sam gives as the fibers dig into his skin.

He’ll have welts if they get out of this. She desperately hopes they will.

Brian steps behind her for a moment, tugging at the bindings and checking her knots. “Good,” he grunts. “Now his ankles.”

She gets to her knees, wincing at the shift in her ribs as she starts working the rope between Sam’s shoes. Helpfully, he shuffles his feet closer together. She has a strange flashback to Daniel on his knees in her bedroom, bathed in morning light as he’d helped pull on her socks. Their current situation feels eons away from the gentle domestic bliss a few hours’ prior.

She tugs the rope tight against Sam’s ankles, thankful that his dress pants provide at least a little cushioning. Not that ropeburn is top of their priority list, admittedly. But she’ll take the small comforts where she can.

She steps back, resuming her place beside Sam as she awaits Brian’s next instruction. He has them leave the cockpit for the open deck at the stern of the boat, then orders them to kneel against the rough plastic decking. Brian takes a seat on one of the rigid inflatable gunwales once they’ve complied, tapping the barrel of the firearm against one well-muscled thigh.

“Let’s have a little chat,” he muses, watching them thoughtfully. “Who else knows you’re here?”

It’s a tricky one to answer. She doubts anyone knows exactly where they are at the present moment, but certainly Daniel had known they were with Brian shortly before their unexpected seabound voyage. 

“We came with a third colleague,” Sam replies, interrupting her train of thought. “He’s back at the marina.”

“The big Māori fella, no doubt,” Brian nods, turning his attention to Kristin. “He’s the one who called you, eh?”

She nods. “Yes.”

“About the surveillance footage?”

“Yes.”

‘And what did he find?”

She could lie, but it would give Brian more of a reason to kill them both. There’s a hope —admittedly very faint— that he’ll not want to add to his body count if he knows the police are onto him. “The new footage confirms you visited Greg Banks’ boat at the time of his disappearance.”

Brian scowls, drumming his fingers agitatedly against the bright orange rubber. “Figures someone would have a camera. Who was it?”

She pictures Mary’s hunted features, feeling the pieces fall into place. If they don’t survive this —and just the thought makes her blood run cold— they can’t leave Mary to become Brian’s next victim. “I don’t know. Anonymous tip.”

Brian watches her for a moment, then sneers. “Liar.” He stands abruptly, stalking toward them and brandishing the gun. “Poor choice, girlie.” He crouches in front of her, cupping her chin roughly between two large fingers. “I want you to watch this very closely,” he instructs, tapping her cheek with the barrel. “You won’t want to make that mistake again.”

And then he stands, pinning his attention sharply on Sam as her stomach plummets, and swiftly kicks the redhead hard in the gut. She hears the wind rush out of Sam as he doubles over, but he doesn’t have a chance to recover before Brian’s gripping a fistful of his ginger hair and hauling him upright, only to kick him again. His boot makes a painful thudding sound as it connects, then connects again. Brian keeps the gun trained on her all the while, grunting with effort as he continues kicking at Sam —his chest, his stomach, his sides. All the while, Sam’s face is screwed up in pain, beet red as he fights for breath. 

“Stop,” she pleads as the beating continues, feeling like she’s being torn in two. She knows it’s her professional imperative to ensure Mary’s identity is secured, but she doesn’t think she can keep watching this. She’s just barely keeping calm, adrenaline and panic licking through her veins and clouding her thinking, until the world has narrowed to Sam’s tortured face. 

Brian pauses, regarding her scornfully as he taps the gun against Sam’s forehead. His other hand is still gripping Sam’s hair tightly; it looks to be the only thing keeping him upright. Sam’s eyes are shut, and he doesn’t even react to the cool touch of metal as he struggles to manage a single shaky, shallow breath.

“You’re not in a position to be giving orders,” Brian reminds her, placing a heel on Sam’s sternum and grinding slowly against the bone. Sam gives a small, muffled huff as what little air he had is forced back from his lungs, his face twisted in pain. She hates that she can only watch as Brian presses harder, hates that it’s her fault. Hates that Brian can toy with them both and that there’s nothing either of them can do about it.

“I’ll tell you whatever you’d like to know,” she says, making her decision. “Just stop, please. Please.”

Brian huffs, removing his heel from Sam’s chest and releasing him unceremoniously. Sam slumps to the deck with a faint gasp, eyes shut, clearly fighting to get his breath back. 

“See?” Brian shrugs, sounding alarmingly amiable. “Was that so hard?” He grunts with effort as he delivers a final swift kick to Sam’s prone body, putting enough force behind it that the detective slides backward on the deck. He doesn’t move after that.

She watches Brian saunter back to his seat on the pontoon, his eyes never leaving them. “Ready to continue where we left off?” he inquires placidly. 

“Yes, of course,” she nods, trying to keep some semblance of rapport with Brian. She hopes her voice sounds level; her ears are ringing too much to tell. Beside her, Sam’s still motionless on the deck. She’s never seen him this still before; it’s filling her insides with dread.

“Could I make sure he’s alright?” she asks cautiously, gesturing to Sam’s limp form.

Brian nods dispassionately. “You can talk while you do.”

But he doesn’t resume his questioning right away, instead opting to watch her as she shuffles along the rough anti-slip decking until she reaches Sam, placing a palm timidly between his shoulder blades. She can feel his back rising and falling in unnatural, stuttering movements. It makes her own chest ache for entirely different reasons, though she tries to push it down and focus on the task at hand.

She reasons that laying prone on his stomach with his arms bound awkwardly behind his back probably isn’t helping his airflow. There’s also a very good probability he’s going to throw up, judging by the strength of Brian’s blows. She twines her fingers with Sam’s, giving him a gentle squeeze. 

“I’m going to roll you on your side,” she says, making sure to raise her voice for Brian’s benefit. The last thing she wants is for their captor to think they’re conspiring. Sam doesn’t say anything —she doubts he really could, at this point— but he weakly squeezes her back, and that’s enough.

It’s a struggle moving him, but the effects are immediate. Some of the tension eases from his shoulders as he finally manages a true breath, his chest expanding beneath her evaluating touch. A few more and he manages to open his eyes, looking up at her with far too much emotion on his face.

It’s a lot to take in.

Brian doesn’t give her the chance. “Now, then,” he continues, crossing one leg over the other as he regards them thoughtfully. “Who gave you the footage?”

“Mary Jenkins,” she replies promptly, hating herself for doing so.

“I see,” Brian nods, with a calm certainty that confirms Kristin’s fears about tying up loose ends. “And what exactly did the footage show?”

“I don’t know,” she replies helplessly, hoping desperately that it won’t trigger another beating. “Our colleague is the one who reviewed it. He said you’re identifiable at the dock at the time of Mr. Banks disappearance, and that the timing of your appearance aligns with the critical window.”

Brian hums mildly. “That’s not enough for a conviction, though.” She’s not enjoying how quickly his disposition seems to change; calm and reasonable one minute and sadistic the next. The only consistency is in his eyes —they’ve remained a steadfast cold blue.

“No,” Kristin admits. “It’s not a guarantee.”

“Although the footage may show more,” Brian muses. “What else do you have on me?”

“We have your conflicting statements about Greg Banks,” she explains carefully, trying not to agitate him. “Possibly fingerprints on Greg’s boat if they come back for a match.” 

She doesn’t mention the current hostage situation, which would undoubtedly yield a conviction if they manage to survive long enough to provide testimony.

Brian grunts dismissively, his eyes roving out across the ocean. She takes the opportunity to check on Sam, who looks as though he’s managed to get some of his breath back. He’s watching Brian carefully, but his gaze snaps quickly to her own when she runs a palm over his abdomen. “How does it feel?” she asks, trying to split her attention between her injured colleague-turned-lover and their nautically murderous captor. 

“Like I’ve been kicked in the chest a bunch,” Sam retorts, managing a feeble grin. She would scoff if the circumstances were different, but for some reason she feels tears welling in her eyes instead. Sam seems to notice, because his grin softens into something a little more gentle. “I’m okay, Kris,” he reassures her. “Not the best full body massage I’ve had, but I’ll live. Definitely giving one star on Tripadvisor though.”

She nods, managing a watery sort of chuckle. Her throat feels too tight for anything more than that, but the banter is grounding; presumably Sam wouldn’t be cracking jokes if he thought he was bleeding out internally. Or maybe he would; she wouldn’t put it past him. He’d probably think it would make her feel better.

Her heart aches when she realizes he’d be right.

She turns her attention back to Brian, trying to compose herself while he’s occupied surveying the ocean swells. Eventually he seems satisfied by what he sees, and his gaze lands back on the pair of them. “How much do you folks know?” he asks conversationally, as though they’ve come out for tea. 

“About Greg Banks’ disappearance?” she clarifies, watching him carefully.

“Don’t test me, detective,” Brian remarks flippantly, tapping the gun meaningfully against his thigh. “I know you’ve figured out more than that.”

“About the drugs, then. And Craig Walker.”

“Yeah.” He gestures for her to get on with it.

“We’re still putting together the pieces,” she explains, then hurries to clarify as Brian’s expression turns stormy. “Our best hypothesis is that Craig Walker was killed while trying to intercept a drug shipment, possibly by Greg Banks.”

“What do you know about the drugs?” Brian asks, a calculating look in his eyes.

“We’ve found traces of cocaine in the zodiac Craig Walker used to access the drop point. Our best assumption at this stage is that they’re coming in via container ship, dropped offshore to avoid detection at the Port of Auckland.”

“And Greg’s involvement?” Brian asks, leaning forward congenitally and bracing an elbow on his knee. He’s smiling now, as if something she’s said has amused him.

She feels the hairs raise on the back of her neck.

“He’s ostensibly involved in the trafficking operation,” she gets out. “At least, that’s where the evidence points right now.”

Brian gives a short, humourless laugh, applauding slowly. “Well done,” he murmurs, rising from the pontoon and advancing on them. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve figured it out.” She feels her heart leap in her throat again, pulse racing in her ears.

He stands in front of her, so that she has to crane her neck to see his face, and adds, “I reckon you haven’t told me your whole hypothesis, though.”

He’s right, of course. There’s only one reason Brian would kill Greg Banks; to silence a loose end. “Your own involvement, you mean,” she hedges. 

“Someone had to make sure it was done right,” Brian sneers, his lip curling in obvious disgust. “Greg was impulsive, stupid. Leaving his boat like that, drawing attention, not covering his tracks. That body should have been sunk out to sea, not nearshore where the tides would carry it straight back in.”

He looks over her shoulder for a moment, ostensibly watching the waves rock gently against the hull of the Coastguard boat. “Someone had to do it right.”

It’s a very, very bad sign that Brian is openly confessing to Craig’s murder. It cements what she’d feared; that they’re next on his list of loose ends to be disposed of. She tries to keep the mounting panic from surfacing, focusing instead on drawing their conversation out.

“So Greg took the zodiac back to the Pullman mussel farm?” she asks.

Brian nods curtly. “Yeah. Bloody idiot. Probably made a right mess of it, too.”

She’s still not sure why Brian would opt to kill Craig, given the attention it would bring to the marina. But at the present moment, it seems a stupid line of questioning. She doesn’t want to make him angry, so she picks a safer topic.

“If Greg returned the zodiac and you were out on the Coastguard boat, how did the sailboat make it back to the marina?”

“He anchored it,” Brian replies, as if it’s obvious. “Brought the zodiac back after midnight, once the tide was low and the farm had closed up its operations. I told him to make his way below the tideline a few kilometers down the shore, then tramp back to the main road. I reckon he didn’t mess that up too bloody much, if you’re asking me.”

“And then you dropped him back at the anchored sailboat using this vessel,” she muses, a little annoyed that they hadn’t thought to take a wider search area back at the Pullman farm. Maybe they would have found the second bush trail or tyre marks in the shoulder. The tide would have taken any traces of his shoreline hike.

“Aye,” Brian nods. “Didn’t have a choice, or I never would have used the Coastguard boat.”

Ah. That may explain why they hadn’t simply left the sailboat adrift again to avoid suspicion, and how Craig and Greg came to meet at the same place.

“That’s why Greg and Craig crossed paths,” she reflects. “There was another drop planned offshore that night and they were both going for it. Greg because it was his role, and Craig because he had aspirations of getting the jump on you.”

“What a twat,” Brian scoffs. “He never would have made it offshore in that little skiff, much as he might have thought otherwise. But his stupidity caused all kinds of trouble for me.”

“How so?”

Brian sighs, crossing his arms as he looks out to sea. “Didn’t have time to bring another bloody boat, you see. And I didn’t have a way to contact the ship without giving ourselves away. So we kept to the plan. I dropped Greg off at his boat, he went to the drop point and collected the goods, and I handled the rest.”

There’s a fairly high probability that they’ll not survive to relay this information to anyone, but she still feels compelled to clarify. “Distribution, you mean?”

Brian nods absently, not bothering to give her verbal confirmation. He seems fixated on the horizon, walking back to the far side of the boat and seemingly intent on scanning the surf.

Conversation’s over, she supposes.

Which means time is running out.

She looks toward Sam, raising a questioning eyebrow. He shrugs minutely before flicking his gaze around the boat, looking for an opportunity. But the stern is clean; nothing they could use as a weapon. Brian’s watching the water, but he’s got a finger on the trigger and he keeps flicking looks back toward them. They won’t have the element of surprise.

They wait in silence for a few minutes, until his attention fixates on something back toward the shore. She can’t see much from her position kneeling on the decking, but evidently Brian doesn’t like whatever’s out there, because he whirls on her sharply.

“You said it was just the three of you this morning,” he snarls, advancing on them threateningly. She stays where she is, kneeling protectively in front of Sam, trying to quickly think through the possible causes for Brian’s change of temperament. There’s something menacing in his eyes now, angry and vindictive. She doesn’t like it.

“It was,” she affirms, trying to keep her voice calm and level. “Only the three of us.” 

“Liar!” He leans down, gripping her by the throat and levelling the gun at the side of her head. He’s not choking her, not yet, but his fingers are digging bruisingly into the column of her neck. 

“There was nobody else,” she tries again, wincing as he shakes her sharply. “Just our colleague. The one I told you about before.”

Brian swears loudly, squeezing tighter, and now it’s getting difficult to breathe. “He knows about me, yeah?”

“Yes,” she gasps, wheezing. Her eyes are starting to water, and it’s taking everything she has to keep her hands at her sides. She doesn’t want to antagonize Brian, not when he’s so clearly on edge.

Beside her, she’s aware of Sam struggling slowly to his knees. It’s undoubtedly difficult for him, beaten with his ankles and wrists bound, but she appreciates the gesture of solidarity. “She’s told you the truth,” she hears Sam assuring Brian, his voice sounding muffled through the panic ringing through her ears. “Every word.”

“Well, that’s just not good enough, is it?” Brian snarls, and for a moment he squeezes just tight enough that she truly can’t breathe. “Because now your bloody marine unit’s coming up on us.”

He releases her sharply, and she sucks in lungfuls of salty ocean air as Brian paces the deck. Her heart is pounding in her ears again, vision blurred with panic and tears. The longer they’re out here, the harder it’s getting to force down the sheer terror at their situation. Professionalism only goes so far, and they’re detectives in Brokenwood of all places —this isn’t exactly routine.

A familiar, gentle bump against her shoulder pulls her back to the present. She hadn’t even noticed Sam shuffling to kneel beside her, but right now it’s exactly what she needs. Sam nudges her again, the solid pressure lingering a little longer this time, and it’s enough to steady her thoughts somewhat. She tries to force herself into a series of deep breaths, although they’re shakier than she would have liked.

Now that she can focus on it, she can hear the drone of an engine in the distance, steadily growing louder.

The marine unit. Maybe, just maybe, they’ll make it off this godforsaken boat alive.

She makes eye contact with Sam, who nods considering toward Brian. He’s confessed now —to them, at least— and he probably doesn’t want that information getting out. But now there’s no way he could kill them and dump their bodies without a host of witnesses.

It should make her feel safer, but instead her adrenaline ratchets up further. Brian’s pacing the deck like a caged animal, a wild, harried look in his eyes. 

She wonders if he’ll try to make a break for it. Open up the throttle and head for coast, using the Coastguard skiff’s shallow draft to lose the marine unit amid the nearshore surf. He could put in to shore, abandon the boat, and disappear into the bush. But the marine unit would have ample time to radio a squadron on land —and they’ve likely already done so proactively. Brian’s odds of escape certainly wouldn’t be high.

Which leaves the sea. The zodiac has limited fuel reserves and a finite range; he wouldn’t be able to make it far. Up the coast or out to the islands, but certainly not beyond the jurisdiction of the New Zealand Police.

Not the shore and not the sea. She hopes this doesn’t end in a murder suicide.

Brian seems to reach some kind of conclusion, because he orders them to stand against one gunwale, facing the distant green shoreline and the oncoming police boat. Sam stumbles a bit to get there, having to hop painfully across the wet deck with his ankles bound while Brian snarls insults. He takes it in remarkably good stride, all things considered, although he’s still looking more than a little green and panting heavily.

They stand in silence, watching the dark steel prow of the Auckland maritime unit’s search vessel cleave through the rolling surf. The drone of its engines is louder now, carrying across the water as a backdrop to Brian’s angry muttering.

“Don’t bloody move,” he growls as the police boat draws closer, coming off its plane. He taps them each warningly with the gun, then presses it firmly between her shoulder blades. “You’ve made things very, very difficult.”

Soon enough, the police boat is curving sharply in the swells to draw level with them. It’s a big steel twin-hulled vessel, with a large two-tiered interior bridge that gives the impression of a catamaran without its mast. It looks sturdy, decked out with a forest of radar and VHF receivers, which tower over a large, open stern area. There’s nobody out on deck, but she can see a large group of people milling about in the partially-enclosed lower bridge, all wearing police jackets and vests. She wonders if Daniel’s among them; it’s too hard to tell.

It looks as though they’re going to draw closer, but Brian swiftly pulls the gun from her back to fire a warning shot over the approaching boat. The sharp crack echoes out over the water, ringing in her ears. Beside her, Sam squirms in obvious discomfort.

She watches the cluster of officers respond, withdrawing from the windows and largely out of sight as the boat slows to a halt about 30 meters to starboard, sitting parallel to their smaller craft. 

Behind her, Brian shouts out a warning. “You come any closer and I won’t miss,” he calls, bringing the gun pointedly under her ribs and pressing hard until she’s gasping in pain. “Would be a real shame, eh?”

A large figure in a bulletproof vest slowly makes its way out onto the stern deck, arms raised placatingly. She squints for a moment, trying to make out its features, and then a wave of relief hits her —it’s Daniel. 

Immediately, it’s like a weight she hasn’t known she was carrying has been lifted from her shoulders. It feels too good to see him, to have the three of them together again, even if two of them are still being held hostage by an unhinged murderer. A sudden sense of optimism hits her; they’ve been in similar situations, all three of them. This might end alright.

She meets Daniel’s eyes from across the water, trying to keep her face neutral for Brian’s sake. He looks tense, his posture rigid and stressed, and for the first time it dawns on her how worried he must have been. To watch both of them whisked from the harbour, held hostage by a known killer with motive to tie up loose ends. All the while, Daniel had been trapped on shore with nothing to do but wait and hope.

She doesn’t envy him for that. And now he has to lead the hostage negotiations on top of it all. He shouldn’t be, admittedly. But presumably the district negotiator is tied up in another incident… again. She’s worked in Northland for more than a decade and she’s never met him. 

Daniel seems ready for the job though, as he calls out across the waters for Brian’s surrender.

“No bloody chance,” Brian calls back, jabbing Kristin so hard in the ribs that one knee buckles, and she has to force herself upright again. “You’re going to let me go, unless you want two dead officers on your conscience.”

To his credit, Daniel looks entirely impassive about the prospect. It’s only because they’ve worked together so long that Kristin isn’t a bit offended.

“We can come to a resolution,” Daniel offers, his tone level. “Cooperation goes a long way.”

“I told you, I don’t want to cooperate,” Brian shouts. “Get that through your head.”

Their boats are drifting closer together, as the larger police boat catches the wind and drifts offshore. They’re probably only 20 meters apart now, a fact Brian has also clearly picked up on. 

“You cops, you don’t get it,” Brian sneers. “You think you’re the only ones after me. If I go to prison, I don’t come out alive.”

Interesting. Despite the tension of the situation, Kristin can’t help but think in that tidbit of information. She’d assumed Brian had been working with one of the established gangs running drugs through the Port of Auckland, but clearly there’s some kind of turf war happening. Or perhaps double-dealing.

“We can arrange protections,” Daniel calls back, clearly intent on maintaining a direct approach. “Plenty of others have been in your position.”

“Yeah, and how many are still around today?” Brian scoffs. He’s looking even more agitated now, and she can see why: the boats are barely 15 meters apart now. Brian’s going to have to make a choice.

“You don’t seem to realize the position you’re in,” Brian growls, and suddenly the gun isn’t pressing into her ribs anymore. It’s against her temple instead, Brian’s other hand clamped firmly on the back of her neck. He squeezes just a little, a clear warning not to move.

She probably couldn’t if she tried; it feels like all the strength has run out of her.

“Maybe you need a little lesson in priorities,” Brian threatens, and now Daniel’s looking rattled too. He’s thrown his arms up, clearly trying to talk Brian down, but she can’t hear their conversation through the ringing in her ears. Her mind’s eye flashes back to the last ‘lesson’ Brian had given them; he seems even more intent on proving a point this time around.

She flicks her eyes sideways to Sam, who’s watching with unmistakable horror. He meets her stare for a moment, eyes looking suspiciously wet, and something passes between them. She can’t put a name to it, but a strange calmness comes over her as Sam gives her a watery smile. 

And then he winks, and before she can react, he’s throwing himself forward over the side of the boat.

Chapter Text

There’s a splash as Sam hits the water head first, quickly disappearing beneath the surface. 

All at once, everyone’s caught off-guard.

It feels like it’s happening in slow motion. Her first instinct is to leap in after him. Sam’s wrists and ankles are still bound and nothing about his physique strikes her as particularly buoyant. He’s going to sink like a stone.

But Brian’s still behind her with the gun, doubtlessly trying to react to this new development, and she knows she can’t afford to waste the opportunity Sam’s given her.

She drops sharply, bringing both hands up to knock the barrel skyward as Brian squeezes the trigger reflexively. The crack of the gunshot is like thunder in her ears, but she can’t focus on it now.

Distantly, as though it’s a long way off, she hears the deep boom of something heavy cutting through the water.

She gets one hand around the barrel and uses the other to punch Brian square in the face. He takes a half-step back, spitting in rage, then swings back at her.

She twists to dodge, still keeping one hand on the gun, and punches him again. She knows it’s not a sustainable solution, and it’s certainly not an approach found in the police training manual, but she needs to keep at least some semblance of control over the firearm and she can’t think of any other options.

Brian tries to jerk the gun from her grip, intent on reclaiming control. She manages to resist until he strikes her directly in the ribs, forcing all the breath from her body as her knees buckle reflexively. Spots dance in front of her eyes as she dangles loosely, still clinging to the barrel, and then Brian’s twisting it from her grasp and kicking her to the deck.

It hurts, a lot.

She forces herself to her knees, just in time to see Brian level the gun at her, legs spread for the kickback, snarling.

For a moment, the world goes silent. She can’t hear the thrumming of the engines, or the splash of waves against the hull, or whatever Brian’s saying. Not even the pounding of her heart.

Just absolute, frozen silence.

She has a sudden and intense appreciation for all the invasive possums she’s killed while driving, trapped on the unfamiliar asphalt, staring down a pair of oncoming headlights in the dark.

And then there’s a large, sudden thump reverberating through the decking beneath her knees, and before she can react, a large body barrels into Brian. 

Distantly, as though it’s happening underwater, she realizes it’s one of the Auckland maritime officers. He grapples Brian to the ground, scrabbling to gain control of the gun. A series of additional thumps announce the arrival of three more officers, who quickly assist their colleague. 

Some deeply ingrained sense of professionalism compels her to her feet, overriding the ache in her ribs. It’s very apparent from the numbness in her limbs and the fog slowing her thoughts that she’s in shock, though she does her best to force it down. It’s harder than it had been during the collision on the road, which is a worrying thought.

She looks around, wondering dazedly what to do, and her eyes settle on the best sight she’s seen in years.

It’s Sam and Daniel.

They’re both soaked to the bone, looking immensely relieved as they clamber awkwardly over the gunwales of the police boat to join her in the smaller Coastguard zodiac.

Barely a moment later, they’re wrapping their wet, chilly arms around her, engulfing her in their sodden embrace and sandwiching her so tightly between them that there’s no room for the winter breeze to make its way in.

Relief washes over her, threatening to buckle her knees again as she realizes they’re alright, they’re all alright, and their ordeal with Brian is finally over. 

It’s not long before seawater begins seeping through her coat. Still, in that moment, it’s the best thing she’s ever felt.

Sam’s keen hazel eyes are full of emotion, and she can feel the shaky rise and fall of his chest as he draws his arms even tighter around herself and Daniel. She clings back, clutching at their soggy clothing as though they could be swept away from her at any moment.

Her chest feels too full, tight and aching in a way that’s overwhelming. She burrows her head into Sam’s chest, feeling his breathing stutter for a moment before he seems to regain his bearings.

They stay like that for a few moments, shivering together in the wind until eventually, she starts to feel a little more like herself. The fog of shock hasn’t fully dissipated, but it seems to be lifting, replaced by relief and fatigue.

“I’m glad that’s over,” Daniel murmurs, his breath tickling her ear.

Yeah,” Sam remarks, making no move to let go of either of them. She can feel him shivering against her, devoid of any body heat. “I’ve had a lot of shite days, and this is top of the list.”

“Agreed.” She raises her eyes to look between them. “Let’s not do that again.”

“Deal,” Daniel says with a tone of finality, as Sam nods in agreement. “Next case we investigate is at the library. Or an accountancy firm.”

“Office supply shop,” she suggests, trying to lean into the joke while she gets her bearings. “Or maybe an antique art collector.”

“You just want to look at all the paintings of naked women,” Daniel teases, waggling his eyebrows knowingly.

She arches an eyebrow. “Takes one to know one.”

“You two aren’t very creative, eh?” Sam interjects. His face is still pale, but he’s otherwise looking a little more lively –he’s smiling, at least. “Seems to me you’re missing an opportunity here. I want the next case at a bakery. Ideally a whole series of them.”

She scoffs, but she knows her smile is fond when she reminds him, “we can’t eat the evidence.”

“I know that,” Sam defends, grinning crookedly. “Don’t eat the bloodstained croissants. But there’s still the rest of the goodies ripe for the sampling.”

“Yuck.” She wrinkles her nose. “I’d just hope for a bakery next door.”

“Or a cafe,” Sam remarks dreamily, still shivering against her. “With lots and lots of hot choccie.”

“Speaking of,” Daniel interjects, sounding a little more sombre as he surveys them both. “We should probably get you checked out.”

Christ, she’d nearly forgotten. “Maybe the Auckland crew have a medical officer onboard,” she muses, running a palm gently down Sam’s side. He winces slightly as she skims over his abdomen, hissing in pain. “I reckon that might be for the best,” he manages. “I feel like I’ve been trampled.”

Guilt twists in the pit of her stomach as she withdraws her touch. “I’m sorry.”

“Kris,” Sam nudges her, his voice soft. “It’s not your fault.”

She nods mutely, so Sam bumps her again, until she’s forced to meet his eyes. “I would have done the same thing in your place. We’d be standing here and you’d be telling me not to beat myself up about it. Pun intended.”

She makes a show of scoffing at him, but the ache in her chest eases somewhat. It’s enviable how easily Sam seems to let things go —to roll with the punches, so to speak.

“I’m beginning to see why Mike’s so hard against boats,” Daniel chuckles, clearly aiming to rekindle their earlier soothing banter.

Good grief, she’d completely forgotten about Mike. “Does he—”

“Yeah,” Daniel confirms. “He’s on his way from Brokenwood. Might have reached the docks by now, actually.”

“Not in that antique he drives.” It feels surreal to be cracking jokes about Mike right now, when they’re still in the middle of a crime scene, soaked and freshly rescued. But she’ll cling to any vestige normalcy at the moment if it means she can keep the stronger emotions at bay.

“Speaking of which, good timing,” Sam continues, nodding at Daniel. “I don’t think you could have cut it much closer.”

She feels Daniel’s arms flex subtly around both of them, tightening by a fraction. “Thankfully we don’t have to find out,” he replies, sounding relieved. “It’s lucky the maritime unit was fueling up nearby.”

She shivers reflexively. “No kidding.”

Nobody says anything for a moment. She can hear the Auckland officers struggling with Brian behind them. It doesn’t sound like he’s thrilled to have been taken into custody.

It hasn’t escaped her that they’re under the watchful eyes of the maritime unit. Some vestige of professionalism floats into her consciousness, making her pull back from Daniel and Sam’s embrace. The cold winter wind immediately works its way into her damp jacket, but she doesn’t go far, just enough that she can see both their faces and take in their dishevelled appearance properly.

Seawater is dripping from their bodies, making their trousers cling and their movements squelch uncomfortably. They’re both shivering, although Sam looks especially pale, presumably from his unexpected plunge into the Pacific. She brings one hand up to pluck his wet shirt. “I have a few guesses,” she hedges, flashing Daniel a grateful smile, “but tell me anyway. How did you make it out of the water?” 

Sam chuckles ruefully, crossing his arms against the wind. “I didn’t really have a plan,” he admits. “I was kind of hoping I could float for a bit. Maybe buy some time? Turns out it’s not so easy when you can’t move your limbs.” He breaks into a grin, nudging Daniel. “Lucky for me, we employ a secret surf lifesaver.”

“Hardly,” Daniel retorts modestly. “Besides, with the way you were trussed up, it felt more like fishing.”

For all that she’d been terrified in the moment, Kristin finds herself biting back a smile at the mental image. “So you reeled him in,” she confirms.

“He nearly bloody dove on top of me,” Sam corrects, trying and failing to sound aggrieved. “It was like an explosion hitting the water. I have a new appreciation for all those baitfish picked off by gulls.”

“Do you consider yourself a baitfish?” she teases, delighting at the tinge of pink that dusts across Sam’s cheeks.

“Oi, don’t you start,” he warns, but she can see the humour in his eyes.

“Don’t worry, size isn’t everything,” Daniel whispers mischievously, low enough that only the three of them can hear. Sam gives a strangled, incoherent squawk of protest, and it’s enough to coax real, proper laughter from both herself and Daniel. Even Sam joins in after a few moments, chuckling wryly.

It feels good, routine. Enough that the stress of their experience really does start to ebb properly.

Not long after, they’re approached by a friendly-looking officer from the maritime unit. She doesn’t look much younger than Kristin; her cheeks are sporting the faintest traces of a sunburn, and her short red hair has been pulled back into a stub of a ponytail. It bounces as she nods toward them, catching their attention with a cheerful kia ora. “I reckon you’re pretty chilly,” she says, smiling easily. “We’ve got fresh clothes and supplies aboard the Deodar. Mind coming across and we can get you sorted? We can do statements as well.”

It’s not as though they have a choice, but Kristin appreciates the friendly approach. “Sure,” she nods, reluctantly pulling away from Daniel and Sam.

They clamber awkwardly across the gunwales and onto the larger police boat, where the chipper maritime officer —Rosy, she learns— chatters amiably as she doles out supplies like they’re party favours. Daniel and Sam are each given police-branded t-shirts and trackies, while Kristin’s offered a shock blanket and a hearty assurance that “body heat does wonders.” Surprisingly, it seems to be working.

“This is one of the stranger calls, let me tell you,” Rosy laughs, digging through a large plastic bin marked TREATMENT. “I never thought a Coastguard staffer would get involved in something like this.”

“You’re telling me,” Sam retorts, eyeing the box curiously as he sips his juice. He’s been quiet since they boarded the Deodar, an unusual departure from his typical lighthearted griping. The police shirt is several sizes too big for him, giving the impression that he’s preparing for a lazy evening at home. In sharp contrast, Daniel’s pants look as though they’re straight from the children’s section.

“Still though, you get a story out of it,” Rosy continues, huffing out a laugh as she finally pulls out a fistfull of prepackaged biscuits. “Here, eat these. Ginger molasses, good for the stomach. And the sugar will help, too.”

Kristin wordlessly takes a package. It feels strange being on the receiving end of victim support. She knows Rosy’s just trying to treat them for shock, which isn’t bad protocol, it’s just —weird. 

It seems to be working on Daniel, at least. He flashes her a smile as he tears open the thin plastic wrapping, looking far too eager about the prospect of months-old stale biscuits. “Free snacks, eh? Wish we had this in Brokenwood.”

“We’re only getting them because we were in mortal peril,” she feels compelled to point out, though she appreciates what he’s trying to do. “Besides, we already have the coffeemaker.”

“Yeah, nah. I reckon Mike owes us an upgrade after this case,” Daniel chuckles. “Something that does lattes.”

She nearly chokes on her pineapple juice; in their five years of friendship, Daniel’s only ever expressed a preference for black coffee. “Since when are you a latte guy?”

Daniel grins at her teasingly, plucking a second package of cookies from the pile Rosy’s begun to amass on the small, retractable table beside them. “Since I started buying them regularly for someone else. They smell good. Pricey-as, though. No clue how you bought a house.”

She scoffs, but she can feel a smile pulling at her cheek. “Best start negotiating with Mike for a raise, then.”

Snacks and clothing procured, they’re left to wait by the small cabin which functions as a sick bay while a medical officer checks them out individually. Sam goes first by unspoken agreement, and unsurprisingly he takes the longest. She finds herself pacing by the door while they wait, trying to keep the worst of her worries at bay. 

“What happened to him?” Daniel asks curiously. “I noticed he’s moving slower. Limping a bit, maybe.”

She’d noticed it too, but she hadn’t known how to bring it up. “That’s understandable, given how Brian nearly kicked him to death,” she says tensely. 

Daniel sucks in a breath, and for a moment his expression looks stormy. And then the anger’s gone —or buried, more likely— as he redirects his focus to the problem at hand.

“How bad?”

“Bad.” She shivers, wrapping the shock blanket more tightly around herself. “I don’t know if it’s enough to warrant internal bleeding.”

Daniel opens his mouth, presumably to ask a follow-up, then falters.

“Go on,” she sighs. “I’m not made of glass.”

“I know you’re not,” Daniel murmurs, a smile twitching his lips. “As would anyone who’s seen you in action. Or felt your flying tackle.”

She stops her pacing, a little flattered, then leans against the wall beside him. “Too right.”

“So what happened, then?” Daniel asks. “Interrogation?”

“Yeah.” She swallows heavily. “I tried to keep Mary’s identity secret. Not a great choice, in hindsight.”

Daniel nods understandingly. “Pretty reasonable, though.”

“I wish I hadn’t.”

Daniel exhales slowly, looking at her disbelievingly. “You don’t mean that.”

She sighs again, scuffing her boot against the deck. “I don’t know. I do, because of what happened to Sam. But I know it was the right call.”

Daniel bumps their shoulders together, flashing her a small smile when she turns to look at him questioningly. “That’s all you can do, eh? I’m sure Sam feels the same way.”

“I suppose.” She’s spared any further introspection by the creaking of the cabin door. Sam reappears from behind the frame, looking considerably less wan than the last time she’d seen him. His face breaks into a weary grin when he spots her and Daniel against the wall. 

“All good,” he confirms, giving them a thumbs up. “Just a few bruises.”

She isn’t quite certain if he’s trying to reassure himself or her and Daniel, but the relief is palpable nonetheless. He’s still moving slowly though, gingerly picking his way out of the cabin as if he’s trying to avoid any sudden motions. 

She’s filled with a sudden longing to curl up with him, tranquil and easy like their first morning together back at his bach. She’s never seen Sam this shaken before, and it’s spiking her own worry with every tentative, pained step he takes.

“You’re sure?” she asks, not wanting to leave anything to chance.

“Quite sure,” an older woman replies brusquely, emerging from the open doorway to stand behind Sam. “Angela Rutherford, medical officer. Pleased to meet you.”

“Likewise.” She feels her cheeks heat with embarrassment as she moves to shake the woman’s hand. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to imply—” 

“Don’t worry about it, I understand.” Angela waves a hand dismissively. “At the moment, your colleague shows no symptoms of internal trauma, although he can expect extensive bruising to develop in the coming days. My assessment is that this is substantial but ultimately topical, although I’ve given him a list of indicators to keep an eye for. You can head to A&E if anything changes.”

“Thanks,” Sam nods, cheeks tinged pink. “I, uh, appreciate that.”

“Particularly blood in your excretions.”

Sam turns a deeper shade of maroon, looking very much as though he’d like the conversation to end. “Right.”

“You’re welcome.” Angela turns her attention to Kristin, who finds herself shrinking back against the wall. “You’re next. Come on through.” The medical officer beckons expectantly, then disappears back into the cabin without waiting for an answer. 

Kristin looks pleadingly toward Sam, who mouths ‘good luck’ as Daniel snickers beside her.

She’s bracing for the worst, but as it turns out, it’s not so bad.

Angela’s clearly no stranger to this sort of check-up, and despite her forthright demeanor, the examination is surprisingly gentle. She takes her time examining Kristin’s throat for signs of trauma, calmly describing each movement as she runs through a series of tests. There’s a brief hiccup when Angela prods a little too firmly at her trachea, and Kristin needs a few steadying breaths to quell the phantom panic rising in her chest. But before long she’s deemed not to have sustained any lasting damage, and then Angela is moving on to a thorough pat-down of her ribs. 

She winces as the older woman prods at her, efficiently feeling around for any abnormalities before pronouncing her no more broken than she’d started out. “You can go to A&E for new imaging, if you’d like,” she sighs, stripping off her blue medical gloves. “I’m not able to feel anything out of place, but it’s possible the impact may have worsened the fractures. Monitor the pain and adjust as you see fit.”

“Thanks,” she manages, absolutely confident that she won’t be returning to A&E in a hurry. All she really wants is a warm bath and a quiet night in, ideally with Daniel and Sam. Or at least one of them.

She supposes that’s the upside of their strange little workplace triad: she’s feeling pretty confident that someone will be up to spending the night together.

She heads for the door, intent on rejoining Daniel and Sam. Before she can make it more than a few steps, Angela stops her with a hand on her wrist. “Not all injuries are physical,” she murmurs, watching Kristin far too shrewdly for her liking. “You’ve been through a lot. There are resources for this, you know. Counselling.”

“Thanks, I’m aware,” Kristin replies, intent on heading off a very uncomfortable conversation. It’s not as though she’s against counselling per se, but she’s already cold and exhausted, just barely staving off a fresh round of tears. Honestly, she’s reluctant to talk about her feelings at the best of times, and Angela’s certainly no intimate confidant. She’d almost prefer Gina at this point.

“Think on it,” Angela insists. “I told your colleague the same. These sorts of experiences can have a lasting impact if we don’t come to terms with them.”

“Right,” she sighs, feeling it settle in her bones. She knows it’s something she’ll have to reckon with eventually, much as she’s intent on putting it off. “I’ll look into it.”

“I hope you do,” Angela says mildly, nodding toward the door. “You’re welcome to rejoin your colleagues if you don’t have any questions. The medical report will be sent over to your supervisor for your file.”

“Thanks.” She can only imagine how Mike will try and stumble through that little talk. He’s one of her dearest friends, but good lord —when it comes to heartfelt conversations, he’s almost worse than she is.

When she’s ushered out of the small cabin, it’s to the sight of Rosy pressing several juice cartons into Daniel’s outstretched palms. Clearly she’s come by to offer them another round; Sam’s already laden down with ginger cookies.

Kristin leaps on the distraction, keen to head off any questions about her time with Angela. “First course didn’t cut it, eh?” she teases, gesturing toward the biscuits. “Had to come back for more?”

“Yeah, nah,” Sam grins. “We missed dessert club, remember? Got to make it up somehow.”

“Besides, they’re free snacks,” Daniel shrugs. “What’s not to like?”

She scoffs, rolling her eyes fondly. “You two are unbelievable.”

“Guess you don’t want any then,” Daniel teases, smiling smugly. 

She laughs, then pads over to pluck a juice carton from his palm. “I didn’t say that.”

Rosy offers them a few chairs in the shelter of the cockpit, but Sam suggests they take a spot on deck instead. It’s an odd choice given that he’s still clearly cold from the water, but Daniel seems enthused. They end up sitting on the unused foredeck, wrapped in shock blankets and soaking up sunlight as it dazzles off the vivid blue pacific waters.

It feels strangely tranquil for their circumstances, as though they’re on one of the posh wine cruises that crowd the Hauraki Gulf, laden with boozy tourists.

Admittedly pineapple juice isn’t quite the same, though it’s having a remarkably restorative effect nonetheless. The shock-driven fogginess she’d felt earlier has largely dissipated, and although she’s a little cold in the wind, it’s worth it for the moment of relative tranquility. Sam and Daniel don’t seem to mind either, although Daniel initially hadn’t been too keen on sitting down in the too-tight trackies. He’s thus far avoided a repeat of his high school prom incident, although the material is straining against his thighs in a manner that suggests this delicate equilibrium could change unexpectedly.

They watch for a while as the Auckland officers meticulously search and document the Coastguard zodiac. It’s oddly meditative, though the effort doesn’t appear to be yielding any results. Eventually Rosy reappears, presumably having calculated that the juice and snacks will have taken effect.

“Is now a good time?” she asks, nodding toward one of her colleagues waiting on the bridge with a notebook. “We can take your statement collectively and save some time. I imagine you’d like to get ashore soon.”

Kristin doesn’t really want to give a statement, but she knows this isn’t really a request either. It’s protocol. She contents herself with the prospect of curling up on Sam’s large, expensive rented couch once they’ve made it home. And then spending an inordinate amount of time luxuriating in his posh rainfall shower, ideally with some company.

They shuffle around on the deck until they’re sitting in a row in front of Rosy and her colleague, who settle in to join them. Sam’s shivering to her left, while Daniel’s sitting stoically to her right, as though he’s bracing for an unpleasant surprise. 

Rosy places her phone on the deck between them, waiting for their confirmation before she starts recording. It’s a surreal set-up, mimicking their interview rooms back at the station, but feeling more like a vacation —if not for the subject matter.

As it turns out, recounting their ordeal with Brian is harder than she’d expected. They take it slowly, in halting turns as different timelines converge. 

She learns that Brian had pulled the gun on Sam the second she’d turned her back, threatening to shoot her if he didn’t get in the boat. It’s a particularly nasty tactic; she has no doubt that Sam would have weighed his odds more if she hadn’t been a sitting duck.

“Did you attempt to de-escalate before complying?” Rosy probes, her tone carefully neutral.

“Not especially,” Sam admits, looking frustrated. “I mean, it was pretty clear he wasn’t bluffing.”

“Even though you were still in port? It seems he’d be motivated to avoid a shooting incident with so many potential witnesses.”

It’s an unfair question. Sam must think so too, because he twists his hands together irritably, looking out over the waves. “Look, if you think I—” he stops short, clearly trying to find the words. 

“Take your time,” Rosy coaxes. 

Kristin nearly interjects in protest, but Daniel seems to sense her annoyance and places a cautionary hand on her knee. He gives her a pointed look, nodding toward Sam, whose hazel eyes are still skimming across the water. 

“You’re right; there’s lots of ways it could have gone down,” he acknowledges, heaving a sigh. “But it would have been bloody stupid to take that risk.”

He meets Rosy’s eyes again, looking resolute. “I’m not about to gamble with someone’s life.”

Oh. 

It’s standard, of course. She wouldn’t expect anything less of him; she’d do the same. Safer communities together. But she can’t help but feel Sam’s comments have a more personal undercurrent to them —one that hopefully Rosy hasn’t picked up on.

To her credit, Rosy doesn’t press the issue further. She turns her attention to Kristin instead. “And you had your back turned, correct?”

“Yes,” she swallows, feeling caught in the whiplash of emotion. “I should have kept eyes on Brian. Although, at the time we had no reason to suspect him.”

Rosy nods encouragingly, and she finds herself recounting Brian’s hasty departure from the harbour, feeling progressively more nauseous as memories make their way to the forefront. She can feel sweat lacing her palms as she recounts his attempts to coerce information from them, how he’d kicked at Sam until she’d begun to genuinely fear for his life.

“And you divulged Ms. Jenkins’ identity?” Rosy asks, as her colleague furiously scribbles notes.

“Yeah,” she grimaces, feeling a fresh bout of guilt. “I did, in the end. We’ll need to coordinate protections for her.”

Rosy nods. “I’ll leave that to yourselves and the Whangārei contingent to organize.”

The prospect of arranging protections for Mary Jenkins, on top of everything else, fills her with exhausted dread. Still, she manages a vague affirmative to satisfy Rosy. Hopefully Mike’s able to pull some strings and have the Whangārei officers fill the gaps, because she doesn’t know how she’ll manage another conversation with the cantankerous boatie. Especially after having divulged her identity to a known murderer.

Rosy chooses that moment to change tactics, turning the conversation over to Daniel for his version of events. He doesn’t look thrilled at the prospect, but dutifully answers Rosy’s questions with a level of placid civility Kristin can only dream of achieving. 

She learns that Daniel had practically forced his way onto the maritime boat, quickly briefing the Auckland team on Brian’s likely motivations while Mike made the formal request to central for assistance. It had been an agonizing wait while the crew had finished fueling the vessel, and an even longer one as they’d made their way out of the harbour in pursuit of the smaller Coastguard craft, not knowing what had become of them.

She also learns more of Daniel’s unexpected plunge into the ocean; how he’d hauled Sam out, coughing and spluttering, and how the commotion between boats had delayed efforts to board the Coastguard zodiac. The Auckland unit had instead been trying to line up a shot, but she and Brian had been grappling too closely to fire —she’d been screening him accidentally for a good portion of their struggle.

Each detail winds tension tighter across her shoulder blades, until her chest starts to ache. It all feels so needless; how she and Sam had nearly died, how abundantly stressed Daniel sounds just recollecting the effort to find them. She can see the tension in his jaw as he recounts his efforts to cut the bindings from Sam’s wrists and ankles, unable to see the commotion as the Auckland officers finally managed to board the Coastguard vessel, not knowing whether she was okay.

They finish out their statements just as the marine unit finishes searching the Coastguard boat. Kristin watches as the officers begin making their way back aboard the Deodar, pausing to attach a tow rope to the skiff’s bright orange bow. The opposite end is promptly looped around a purpose-made cleat at the Deodar ’s stern. 

“We’ll send copies of your statements shortly,” Rosy informs her with a smile, bringing her attention back to the matter at hand. The chipper officer stretches as she rises from the deck, flashing them a grateful look. “In the meantime, rest up. It’ll be a slower trip back with the zodiac on the tow line.”

“Thanks,” she manages, relieved to have the conversation end. 

Rosy nods and heads back toward the enclosed cockpit, her companion trailing silently behind.

They’re left to their own devices on the foredeck again, watching the wind play across the water in dark, rippling gusts. It’s a strange little spot, their patch of decking out near the bow. She can hear the bustle of procedure playing out amongst the crew amassed by the Deodar ’s stern, but their little slice of sunlight feels oddly separate from the rigour and protocol which characterize the rest of the boat.

The eye of the storm, almost. It’s strangely peaceful.

“Always a bit strange being on the other side of things,” Sam remarks casually, waving a hand at the amassed Auckland officers. “They seem nice, at least.”

She can see the pink markings on his wrists from where the ropes had chafed against his skin, rubbing welts where he’d thrashed against them in the water. It sends another bout of guilt through her, though she does her best to tamp it down.

“Yeah. That’s about enough excitement for me,” Daniel sighs, stretching his legs out against the deck. “I can’t believe I’m actually starting to miss paperwork.”

“No kidding,” Sam agrees, running a hand through his hair. “Hell, I almost miss traffic duty. Almost.”

She chuckles, watching the pair of them sprawled on the deck. “Still glad you came back?”

Sam rolls his eyes. “Still glad I’ve been shot at, taken hostage, and nearly drowned at sea, you mean? All while earning essentially negative money?”

For a moment, she almost thinks he’s serious. But then he’s breaking into a fond smile, his hazel eyes lively in the afternoon sun as he surveys them both. “Yeah, nah. Wouldn’t trade it for the world.”

Something warm and tender blooms in her chest, replacing the stressful ache. She can’t help the smile stretching her cheeks, nor the rush of affection that surges through her. If they weren’t in full view of a specialized police unit, she reckons she might just kiss him senseless.

Even ever-stoic Daniel is sporting a silly little grin, looking just as pleased as she feels.

It’s a nice feeling. The three of them sprawled under the bright winter sun, surrounded by the sounds and sights of the ocean. 

“You know,” she suggests, buoyed by unexpected contentedness, “we could make use of that bach. Make sure you get your moneys’ worth.”

Sam barks out a laugh. “Subtle. I like it.”

She arches an eyebrow challengingly. “Is that a no?”

“Yeah, nah,” Sam smiles. “That’d be sweet-as.”

She turns to Daniel, who’s watching with curious amusement plain across his features, and hesitates. She wants to be together —all three of them— but it’s Sam’s bach. 

“Do you, uh,” she stammers, suddenly uncertain as she meets Sam’s eyes. “Do you see us all there?” 

“Oh, ‘course,” Sam smiles easily, as though she’s asking about routine coffee at Frodo’s. “After the day we’ve had I figured that was obvious.”

“Cheers, mate,” Daniel chuckles. “We could order takeaway.”

She scoffs, though secretly she’s a bit envious at how easily this new dynamic seems to come to Daniel and Sam. “Is food all you two think about?” 

“Yeah, nah,” Daniel shrugs. “But I reckon ginger cookies can only go so far.”

“You’re not wrong there,” she remarks, realizing belatedly that she’s quite ready for an actual meal. She’s a little concerned the whole experience is going to put her off ginger biscuits for life. 

“So what are we thinking?” Sam chimes in. “My vote’s for anything warm. Cheap too, actually. I, uh, still have to buy sheets.” He grins ruefully, pulling the shock blanket tighter around his shoulders. 

“Posh problems, eh?” she can’t help but tease. “Always having to pay extra for the oversized linens.”

“Hey,” he protests, bumping at her good shoulder. “Last I heard you weren’t complaining. I reckon you weren’t too upset about the shower either, and I know you tried a whole bunch of my soaps.”

She doesn’t dignify that with a response, though she can feel her cheeks heating. Turning instead to Daniel, she smiles conspiratorially. “Well, Sam did jump into the ocean to distract Brian. D’you reckon he’s done enough to earn his dinner?”

Daniel chuckles, eyeing Breen fondly. “I reckon he’s put the time in. We could probably make something happen.” 

Sam huffs indignantly but says nothing, though she can see a spark of amusement in his blue-grey eyes as he watches them.

“I suppose you’re right, if we’re being generous,” she grins, trying and failing to sound put-upon. “How do we feel about fish and chips?”

“A little on the nose, don’t you think?” Daniel chuckles, nodding toward Breen. “Given what came out of the ocean today?”

She sees the setup, and she barrels into it without overthinking. “Yeah, nah,” she smiles, meeting Sam’s eyes. “He’s the catch of the day.”

It’s almost comical how quickly his ears go pink. Absently, she considers that Sam might be eligible for some kind of record, or maybe he just has very wide capillaries and great circulation. But before she can dwell on it further, a bright grin is breaking across his features.

“Catch of the day, eh?,” he preens, eyes warm and bright. “I could get used to this.”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself,” she warns, watching as Sam’s grin turns downright mischievous. But she’s smiling too, and so is Daniel. 

Around them, afternoon sun dances across wave tips, shimmering on the deep blue expanse stretching between their little patch of tranquillity aboard the Deodar and the distant green shoreline. 

It’s been a long, stressful day. They’ve been alternately threatened, shot at, beaten, and near-drowned, and it’s not even four o’clock yet. And the case will keep them in its clutches even once they’re ashore, in the form of additional statements, media, evidence collection, and charges to press. An unending stream of follow-up activities that will force them to relive the experience from a hundred different angles over the weeks to come. 

She’s not naive enough to think she’s going to sleep well for the next little while.

Somehow though, she knows they’ll be alright.

Chapter Text

When the Deodar finally rounds the breakwater protecting the marina entrance, Kristin’s greeted by the sight of about 15 officers from the Whangārei unit. She can see them amassed on the main wharf, a sea of blue uniforms against a backdrop of squad cars and flashing lights, looking entirely out of place amid the sunny harbour. 

Among the crowd there’s a clear outlier, a shorter figure wearing a nondescript brown suit standing right on the edge of the dock, watching their ship come in. She squints for a moment, trying to make out its features, and then recognition dawns —it’s Mike.

He catches her gaze and gives her a wave, and although he’s still quite far away, she thinks there’s more than a little relief in his expression. Either way, right now he’s a sight for sore eyes. 

She can feel a little more of the latent tension work its way from her shoulders as the Deodar cruises smoothly up to the main dock, its mooring lines thrown expertly to the waiting contingent of uniforms. 

As soon as they’re off the boat, Mike is striding up to them. Now that they’re closer, she can see the stress lines around his eyes and the worried furrow between his brow.

“ Kia ora, boss,” Daniel smiles, as though it’s a typical workplace rendezvous. “Good to see you.”

“Yeah,” she nods empathetically, watching as Mike’s shoulders lose some of their rigid tension. “You won’t believe the time we’ve had.”

“I can imagine,” Mike says ruefully, flashing her a bitter smile. “And I’m sure you’ll tell me all about it.” 

He pauses, shuffling uncomfortably as he looks between the three of them. She watches him take a steadying breath, then plunge on. “I’m glad you’re alright.”

“Us too,” Breen replies. “Cut it pretty close, though. Talk about a long day.”

Mike grimaces, his brow furrowing regretfully. “You had me worried for a moment there.”

“It all turned out,” Daniel says reassuringly. “Brian’s in custody and we’ve got two witnesses who can attest to his confession.”

“He confessed, then?” Mike asks, looking relieved to be back on firmer ground. “Both deaths?”

“He orchestrated both,” Daniel nods. “But Greg Banks murdered Craig Walker, and Brian killed Greg to cover his tracks.”

“Or he tried to, anyway,” she interjects. “Craig seems to have been a surprise to both Brian and Greg. He tried to get in on a drug shipment. They didn’t have time to plan a good cover-up.”

Mike nods thoughtfully, tucking his palms into his suit pockets. “So Brian has admitted to his involvement in the drug smuggling. That makes sense, I suppose.”

“How so?” 

“Well,” Mike says, shrugging as though it’s obvious. “He was already by the water, right? He had access to long range radar, satellite tracking, and other resources through Coastguard. And the marina’s conveniently located next to Marsden Point. He would have been in the perfect position to monitor the shipments coming through.”

“And who would suspect him?” Sam adds. “He’s worked at Coastguard for 20 years. The guy’s practically a local hero.”

“Yeah well, we nearly fell into the same trap,” she admits, scuffing her boot against the dock’s weatherbeaten wooden decking. “We’re going to have to arrange protections for a key witness, by the way. Mary Jenkins. She provided the surveillance footage placing Brian at the docks.”

“I figured as much,” Mike smiles. “Hughes is on it.”

Now that’s a surprise. She’s almost too shocked to feel relieved that she won’t have to deal with the cantankerous woman again.

“Hughes?” Daniel asks, sounding just as incredulous as she feels. “Isn’t this a little, uh, small for his involvement?”

“Normally, yes,” Mike grins. “But you three seem to have stumbled onto a fairly major organized distribution racket.”

“No way,” Breen says flatly, his eyes wide. “All this time we were dealing with organized crime?”

“So it would seem,” Mike nods, looking amused. “As it turns out, this appears to be the opportunity the organized crime unit has been w aiting for. Apparently Brian has ties to one of the Auckland-based syndicates operating out of the port.”

“So where does that leave us, then?” she feels compelled to ask, since it doesn’t seem like they’re about to join in on a multi-jurisdictional crackdown.

Mike shakes his head disbelievingly, a small smile pulling at his cheek. “It leaves you on the outside for the time being, I’m afraid. But you should know that your work has made the takedown possible. That’s not insignificant.”

“Thanks boss,” Daniel nods, as Breen murmurs his agreement. “Sweet-as.”

Mike pauses, looking thoughtfully between them again. She watches as his brow furrows and his expression turns serious.

“Speaking of which, there’s something else I wanted to discuss with you.” He untucks his hands from his trousers, awkwardly gripping at the edges of his suit jacket instead. “You’ve all been through a lot,” he begins —and oh boy, here it comes. She feels uncertainty churn in her stomach as Mike transparently gears up for another heart to heart.

“This job of ours, it’s not easy. It wears on you, especially after events like today. It’s important to take some time to come to terms with everything that’s happened.”

He pauses, looking at them all expectantly. She doesn’t know if she’s imagining it or not, but it feels like Mike’s gaze lingers a little too long on her. She tries to keep her expression neutral.

Mike sighs, then forges on once it’s apparent nobody has anything to add. “I know the weekend starts tomorrow, but I’d like to give you all some additional paid time off. Take next week; you’ve more than earned it.”

“A whole week?” Sam asks incredulously, his eyebrows shooting up his forehead. “Whoa, alright. Thanks.”

Mike cracks a smile, looking more than a little relieved that Breen’s broken the tension. “You’re welcome.”

Daniel nods. “I think I’ll take you up on that, too. Maybe I’ll head up to Cape Reinga on the bike.”

“Grab a pie on the trip back, if you do,” Mike suggests.

Daniel shakes his head and chuckling. “Cheers.”

And then the three of them are turning to face her expectantly. 

“Well, uh,” she stammers awkwardly, thinking through the absolute mountain of paperwork the case is going to generate. There’ll be evidence to compile, all sorts of coordination with the maritime and Whangārei units, not to mention the local follow-up.

And then, almost to her own surprise, she stops.

She stops, and possibly for the first time in her life, she really, really takes a moment to feel the exhaustion pulling at her limbs. The remnant fear and stress. 

She’ll be fine without a break, she knows it. A little on edge maybe, and certainly tired. But fine.

Maybe it’s time she settled for more than that.

“You know,” she muses, testing the idea out, “maybe I’d also like the time off.” She swallows, feeling the weight of their collective focus. “I think that might be for the best, actually.”

She bites her lip, looking toward Mike for his confirmation. He nods, his eyes kind and his smile a little wobbly. “Good decision.”

Sam and Daniel are trading knowing looks, looking far too smug. She’s got absolutely no doubt that they’re going to tease her about this later. At least they have the grace to look sheepish when she glares at them. 

“Glad that’s sorted, then,” Mike pronounces, clapping his palms together. “Don’t worry about the paperwork, I’ll handle it.”

“Sweet as,” Breen crows, sounding a little more like his usual cocky self. “A whole week of free leave. I can finally set up my Xbox.”

“Don’t make me regret this,” Mike warns, but his eyes have a jovial glint to them. “You’re supposed to be recovering.”

“Can’t see anything more restorative than questing for the forces of good,” Breen retorts, as she rolls her eyes disparagingly. “Lopping orc heads off. Now that’s a holiday.”

Typical Breen. “You’re unbelievable.” 

“Want to join me?” he grins challengingly. “Come on, I bet you’d love to rip through a battle. We could do some PVP.”

“No thanks. I’d rather be home with a book,” she retorts flatly, biting back a laugh as Sam pouts at her.

There isn’t much more to say after that. They slowly make their way back to the car park, leaving the chatter and procedure behind them at the docks. Daniel insists he’s alright to take his own car back to the station, despite Mike’s assurances that he can send a uniform after it. She wonders if he’s actually that keen to drive, or if he’s just trying to throw off suspicion for their planned evening activities.

She’s about to follow him and Sam toward the vehicle when Mike lays a hand on her arm. “I can run you back, if you’d like,” he says, smiling gently. He’s playing it off casually, but she nonetheless gets the strong impression that there’s more to the invitation.

“Sure,” she finds herself nodding, trying not to let her disappointment show. She normally enjoys Mike’s company —if not his taste in music— but she can feel the day’s events catching up with her. Fatigue hangs heavy from her limbs. She’d been hoping to catch a nap on the trip home, but it seems that’s out of the question now.

“We’ll see you back at the station,” Daniel sighs, looking uncomfortable as they prepare to take their separate paths. It doesn’t feel right parting after everything they’ve been through today, even though it’s a short lived separation. Sam seems to be of the same mindset, dithering awkwardly beside Mike’s car as their old-soul boss fiddles with the manual locks.

“Safe drive, eh?” he murmurs, his eyes unusually earnest. “We’ll see you soon.”

She swallows, dredging up a weak smile. “Yeah. You too.” Her gaze flicks to his chest, hidden by the tent-like New Zealand Police shirt. She can only imagine the colours he’s starting to turn beneath the fabric. “Take it easy.”

“Right.” He nods, looking as though he wants to say more. She knows the feeling. “Good luck with Mike.” And with that he leaves, making his way slowly back towards Daniel’s car. She tries not to focus on the obvious limp in his gait, or the way one hand stays pressed to his side.

The rattle of keys brings her out of her melancholy. “Homeward bound?” Mike suggests, watching her a little too closely. She wonders how much he’s managed to surmise from their interactions; they haven’t exactly been subtle since their reunion.

“Of course.” She levers herself inside the Kingswood’s well-worn interior, mindful not to twist too sharply. Her ribs are already aching from the events of the day, a constant, dull, throbbing that worsens as she moves.

“You comfortable?”

“Yeah.”

They drive in silence for a while, save for the familiar maudlin melodies of Holly Collins. Gradually, Whangārei’s dense mix of stores and houses falls away, replaced by open country as the road winds its way down the coast. Soon, bright patches of turquoise water are visible through the bush. Late afternoon sunlight dazzles off the water, painting the ocean a vibrant gold. It’s hard to believe the picturesque waves are the same backdrop to their horrifying ordeal not long ago. Now, looking out at the bright expanse of blue through the Kingswood’s ageing windows, the ocean looks deceptively placid. She can see gulls circling above the surf, disappearing behind thickets of trees as they make their way steadily home.

Eventually, Mike breaks the silence. “If you don’t mind,” he begins hesitantly, “what else happened out on the water today?”

She tries not to let the tension show when she warily replies, “what do you mean?”

Mike pauses, lips pursed. When he resumes, he sounds as though he’s choosing his words carefully. “Back at the docks, Breen said something about barely making it. He didn’t sound like he was joking.”

She sighs, feeling older than she’s ever been. “Brian…wasn’t interested in bargaining. He wanted information. He,” she swallows heavily around the words, “took it out on Sam when I didn’t confirm Mary’s identity.”

Mike sucks in a sharp breath. “How so?”

“He beat him. He was armed, too. Sam didn’t have a hope of defending himself.”

Mike sighs heavily, throwing a concerned glance her way. “I see. The maritime unit didn’t radio for an ambulance.”

“No,” she shakes her head. “A medical officer checked us both out. All clear.”

“Both of you?” Now Mike looks truly alarmed. She can see him less-than subtly looking her over while pretending to focus on the road. It should be aggravating, but right now it feels weirdly touching.

“Yeah,” she confirms, twisting her hands together in her lap. “Brian panicked when the maritime unit showed up. He got a bit rough; it’s nothing like what happened to Sam though.”

There’s silence while Mike contemplates the news. He doesn’t look pleased; she can hardly blame him. Thankfully he doesn’t push for more detail, presumably judging it’s best to leave the exact events for a follow up discussion.

“So,” Mike finally sighs, flicking an unreadable glance her way. “How are you doing, really?”

She huffs out a breath, feeling the fatigue pull at her bones. “I’ve been better,” she concedes, watching white highway lines flick under the Kingswood’s antique bonnet. “Not keen to have that experience again.”

“I can imagine.” Mike shuffles awkwardly in his seat. “I’m proud of you, by the way.”

She looks sharply at him in surprise. “Thanks?” It’s not like him to dole out compliments, and by all counts, today has been a spectacular disaster. They've only narrowly avoided two uniformed deaths, for starters, and there’s still a lot of collateral damage to sort through.

Mike hasn’t even heard the full story of their experience yet; it’s probably taking everything in his power not to ask a sea of follow-up questions.

“I mean it,” Mike insists, smiling wryly. “I’m not about to ask for the full details right now, but everything I've heard has been a credit to the three of you.”

“Oh,” she says, a little stupidly. She shouldn’t be caught this flat-footed, but her mind feels sluggish, like she’s nearing sleep and struggling to stay awake. “I’ll pass that along to Daniel and Sam.”

“You do that,” Mike nods, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel. “It’s not just the events of the day, though.” He flashes her another reassuring smile. I’m glad you took the leave.” 

She doesn’t know quite what to say to that either. “Me too,” is what she settles on. 

“Sometimes it’s hard to say these things aloud,” Mike remarks charitably, when it becomes clear she’s run out of words. “I was a lot like you, once.”

“How many wives ago was that?” she retorts reflexively. Mike dodges the question, chuckling.

“I wanted to prove myself. I’d work nights, weekends, whatever it took to see things through,” he sighs heavily, watching the road. “Married to the job, you could say.”

“Some could say that,” she nods cautiously, not quite sure where he’s going with this. The conversation is reminiscent of his unexpected breakup with Beth, but feels much more charged somehow. Uncertainty starts to bleed through the fatigue.

“I like to think I’m finally getting the better of it,” Mike continues, seemingly oblivious to her trepidation as he flicks another glance her way. “But it’s good to know I don’t have to worry about you repeating my mistakes.”

Oh. That’s…not what she was expecting. A flush of confused, unexpected relief curls in her chest. Still, if she’s being honest with herself, “I’m not too sure about that.”

Her minds’ eye flashes to all the early mornings and late nights she’s pulled lately; the stubborn will to continue the case despite all obstacles. It’s been productive, certainly. But she can’t recall the last time she felt this exhausted. 

Mike shrugs, smiling ruefully. “I can only speak for myself, but I’ve always found it to be a work in progress.”

She hums in agreement, letting her head flop against the window. “Yeah.”

“Anyways,” Mike murmurs, probably sensing she’s nearing the end of her conversational rope, “I just wanted you to know.”

“Thanks,” she says again, and this time she means it. She yawns widely, the pull of exhaustion at her aching bones growing stronger. “It’ll be nice having the break. I’m knackered.”

“Well, don’t feel the need to keep up pretenses on my account,” Mike remarks, smiling as he fiddles with the dials of the tape player. “I’ve got Hollie to keep me company.”

“Mm, lovely. More heartbreak down on the ranch.” 

“Just three chords and the truth,” Mike chides, turning up the dial as yet another depressing track begins to play. “This is a good one.”

She doesn’t last much longer after that. She tries to keep her eyes open, staring blearily at the landscape as Holly Collins croons mournfully about yet another tryst gone wrong. But as her vision steadily darkens around the edges, she finds herself sinking more and more into the Kingswood’s familiar, sun-warmed seats.

She doesn’t realize she’s fallen asleep until Mike’s gently calling her name.

“Kristin. We’re here.”

“Hm?” she murmurs fuzzily, trying vaguely to get her bearings. She’d been so warm. 

“We’re at the station.”

“Oh.” She slowly pulls herself upright, wincing as the movement jostles her sore ribs. “Already?”

“We’ve been on the road for an hour,” Mike smiles placidly, pulling the keys from the ignition and twirling them in his fingers. “I didn’t want to wake you.” 

Huh. Now that she’s beginning to focus on her surroundings, she can see they’re in the carpark behind the station. Daniel’s vehicle is a few spots down, near a trio of uniformed officers chatting in the shade near a parked cruiser. 

“Sorry about that,” she murmurs. “Didn’t mean to make you the chauffeur.”

Mike throws open the drivers’ side door, stepping onto the asphalt. “No worries. Given the day you’ve had, I reckon it’s well-deserved.”

“Thanks.” She rubs guiltily at a small spot of drool on the windowsill, then gingerly extracts herself from the car using as few movements as possible. The fierce ache in her ribs has returned, though she supposes that’s to be expected given the events of the past few hours.

Together they make their way into the station. To her immense relief, Daniel and Sam are waiting expectantly by the whiteboard, looking tired but altogether alright. 

Sam is reclined in a desk chair, eyes shut, one arm holding an ice pack across his stomach. The other is resting on his desk, wrapped loosely around a steaming mug of coffee. Daniel’s standing next to him and sipping at his own mug. His face breaks out in a relieved grin when he sees them make their way through the waiting area.

“Kia ora, ” he calls, motioning toward the kitchenette. I just brewed a fresh pot, if you’d like any.”

“Thanks, I might just take you up on that,” Mike nods, looking curiously toward Sam. The redhead hasn’t moved, though she can see the faint rise and fall of his chest. “Is Breen alright?”

“Never better, Senior,” Sam replies, still not opening his eyes. “Just enjoying our wonderfully outdated office furnishings. They knew how to pad a chair in the ‘80s.”

“Right,” Mike says doubtfully, but he lets it go. “If the three of you want to take off for the rest of the day, I’m all good here.”

“Really?” Sam asks, his eyes opening in surprise. “Two of your direct reports just got taken hostage and you don't want to ask a million questions?”

Beside him, Daniel stifles a chuckle. 

“Kristin let me in on some of the details already,” Mike explains, although strictly speaking he doesn’t deny it. Her suspicions are confirmed when he continues, “Of course, if you want to talk—”

“Not much point if Kris already filled you in,” Sam remarks, his eyes flicking to her own curiously. “You could probably get Brian on assault charges, if you’re looking to add to the stack.”

“Don’t forget attempted murder,” Daniel supplies, looking pointedly between the both of them. “Pretty sure we’ve got enough to argue intent.”

“True,” Sam nods, his eyes slipping shut again as he takes a pull from his coffee. “Do you reckon it counts as forcible confinement if you’re on a boat?”

Daniel looks genuinely thoughtful as he mulls it over. “Not sure,” he shrugs. “You could get him for use of a firearm against a law enforcement officer though.”

“Strangulation,” Sam suggests, sounding vaguely amused. “Injuring with intent.”

“Unlawful possession of a firearm,” Daniel grins, leaning into the game.

“Nice,” Sam huffs. “Theft, d’you reckon?”

“What?”

“Well, I doubt Coastguard authorized the use of their boat for kidnapping and murder.”

“Christ,” Mike interjects, rubbing his face. “Alright, enough said. Go home, all three of you.”

“Aren’t you going to need our statements?” Daniel asks, eyebrows raised.

“I’ll review the statements forwarded from the maritime unit for now,” Mike sighs, his brow already furrowed in thought. “We’ll have to do follow-ups of course, but that can wait until you’ve had a proper rest.”

Nobody argues. There’s a short but heartfelt series of farewells, assurances to Mike that they’ll ring if they need anything, and then they’re emerging out from the station into the late day sun.

“Christ, I forgot about the cars,” Sam mutters, looking drained. “I don’t think I’m up to driving. Can I get a ride with one of you lot?”

“Sure, as long as you’re okay dropping by my place first,” she replies, fiddling in her pockets for her keys. When she looks back up, Daniel’s watching her doubtfully, one eyebrow raised. “Are you sure you’re fit to be driving?”

“Come off it,” she scoffs. “I’m fine.”

Daniel’s frown deepens, but he looks more concerned than upset. “Alright,” he sighs, clearly not willing to push the matter. “I’ll get the takeaway, then.”

“Thanks.” She looks around nervously, but the station carpark is deserted. She knows they’re beyond the range of the surveillance cameras, but even so, she’s quick when she reaches out to give his forearm a gentle squeeze. “We’ll see you soon? I’ll text you when we’re on our way.”

Daniel chuckles, the tension between them easing as he flashes her a small smile. “Sweet-as.”

-

Later, when they’ve reached her house and she’s rummaging about her kitchen for some water, Sam brings up the elephant in the room.

“So,” he drawls, leaning against her counter in a way that’s far too forced to be casual, “that sucked.”

“Yeah,” she sighs, grabbing two glasses from her cupboard and running them under the tap. “Not my favourite way to close out a case.”

“No kidding,” Sam mutters tensely, though his frown softens somewhat when she hands him a drink. “You were nearly shot and I almost drowned.”

A shiver runs unpleasantly across the back of her neck. “Don’t say it like that.”

“It’s true though,” Sam shrugs, not meeting her eyes.

She doesn’t know what to say to that. She stands by the sink for a moment, uncertainty twisting in her stomach, and then hesitantly makes her way across her small kitchen to wrap her arms around him.

It’s easier than she’d thought it would be. Maybe because it’s what she wants, too.

“Aw, Kris,” Sam huffs, sounding a little winded, and for a moment she wonders if she’s making things worse. But then his arms are wrapping gently around her back, and his cheek is coming to rest atop her head. “You’re a big softie.”

“Takes one to know one,” she retorts reflexively, but it comes out a bit choked. Sam’s chest is comfortingly warm and solid against her own, expanding and contracting with every breath.

“Yeah,” Sam concedes, his voice tremulous, and maybe she’s not the only one having a bit of a sniffle. “It’s… a lot, you know?” His fingers tighten fleetingly against her spine. “It just— we got lucky.”

She doesn’t know what to say to that. He’s right; it’s miraculous making it out alive, let alone relatively unscathed. “I don’t know what I would have done if—” she stops, the words sticking in her throat. A hot, sickly nausea accompanies them, and she finds she can’t bring herself to continue.

Sam seems to understand. “Me neither.”

He shifts slightly against her, and she feels the flinch when something in his chest fleetingly moves the wrong way. 

A groundswell of fresh guilt rushes out of her. “I’m so sorry, Sam.”

“Kris.” His arms tighten around her again. “It’s not on you. It’s on that piece of shit Brian.”

She knows that, of course. Even still, “He would have killed you.”

“You think I don’t know that?” Sam replies, sounding equally strained. “Christ Kris, imagine what it was like for me. Watching him bloody gearing up to shoot you right there on the deck beside me.”

He lets out a strangled sound unlike anything she’s heard from him before. “I couldn’t —I don’t know.”

For a moment the kitchen is silent, save for their ragged breathing. And then Sam’s letting out a shaky laugh, releasing her just enough that he can meet her eyes. “Sorry. I shouldn’t have gone off like that.”

“It’s fine.” She knows her voice sounds wrong —too thick, choked with emotions she can't put into words— but Sam doesn’t mention it. His eyes are suspiciously pink-rimmed, but he’s giving her a fragile, teasing smile. “We’re a right pair, aren’t we?” 

She manages a weak huff of laughter, scrubbing at her eyes with the heel of one palm. “Yeah, no kidding.”

“You reckon we’re living up to one of Mike’s terrible country ballads yet?”

“Nah,” she shakes her head, feeling a little of the sadness ebb away. “Not yet anyway. Haven’t bought a horse or taken up drinking.”

“There’s still time.” Breen nudges her forearm gently, looking a little more alive. “I bet I’d look flash galloping down the beach on a big black stallion.”

She rolls her eyes, though secretly she’s quite relieved for the distraction. “Maybe. Don’t get your hopes up.”

“Nah, yeah, I reckon you’d be into it,” he continues, carding his fingers soothingly through her hair. He takes a moment to tuck a few loose strands behind her ear, still smiling crookedly.

She can’t fight the laugh that escapes her, or the flutter in her chest. She stares into Sam’s warm hazel eyes, feels the steady pressure of his hand at her lower back, and suddenly she knows what she wants. He seems to know it too, because he’s already leaning down to meet her when she kisses him.

It’s soft and sweet, and she can feel the curve of his smile against her lips. 

They part for a moment, just long enough for a breathless giggle to escape her, and then Sam’s cupping her cheek and kissing her again. 

It’s a strange ricochet; all her pent-up grief and anguish temporarily assuaged by warm, giddy delight. It’s probably a stress response, a biological drive for oxytocin in the wake of extreme danger. She remembers reading something about it in one of her psych classes, but right now she’s not going to question it.

She presses closer to him instead, careful not to aggravate his bruises, and strokes her fingers gently through the short ginger hair at his nape. He seems to like it, so she deepens the kiss just a bit —just to see what he’ll do.

She’s rewarded when Breen groans against her lips, one hand dropping to rub slow, tantalizing patterns in the small of her back. She’s shocked to discover an unexpected warmth stirring between her legs, building steadily with every gentle touch.

By rights, she shouldn’t be getting turned on after everything that’s happened. But Sam’s laugh, the warmth of his hands on her body, the tender affection in his eyes when he pulls back to admire her face —they’re melting away the last shards of latent guilt and terror. Sam’s okay. Hell, he’s kissing her with a passion and vigour she hasn’t felt in years, and they’re still fully clothed in her kitchen. 

Being with Sam feels good. And for once, she’s not going to overthink things.

“Whoa,” he breathes when the kiss ends, his grin doubtlessly matching her own. “That’s something.”

“Yeah, it is,” she hums, bringing one hand to trace meandering patterns across his chest. She wonders how best to frame her proposition, then decides it’s best to go direct. “How, uh. How are you feeling?”

To her relief, Sam barks out another laugh. “Right now?” A pink flush is spreading across his cheeks, bridging constellations of freckles. “I’m really horny, to be honest.” He bites his lip, looking a bit bashful. “But uh, no pressure.”

She feels absolutely devious when she grins back. “None needed.” And then she’s kissing him again, long and slow, leaning into the easy, unhurried desire until she’s practically panting against his mouth. She can’t find it in herself to be too embarrassed though, given that she can feel the shape of Breen’s cock swelling against her belly.

“Bedroom?” she asks, wondering if she should be feeling more nervous about this. It’s their first time together, after all. There’s years of friendship at stake and she hasn’t even trimmed her bikini line. 

Breen laughs again, tracing a thumb across her cheek. “You have no idea how great that sounds.” His eyes are warm and tinged with obvious want, but he still manages to ask, “you sure, though?”

“Yeah,” she smiles, letting the worries fall away as she presses another kiss to his lips. Taking him by the hand, she leads him down the hall and into her bedroom, where they come to an awkward stop at the foot of the bed.

Sam gives a nervous chuckle, meeting her eyes. “Alright, uh, just so we’re on the same page,” he begins, looking suddenly shy. “You’ve still got two broken ribs and I feel like I’ve been hit by a car.”

“And?” She’s not quite sure where he’s going with this, because yes, she knows they’re not in peak shape, but she’d quite like to give it a try regardless. But she supposes he’s had an even worse time of things. Even now, he’s careful not to move too quickly. “It’s alright if it’s too much for tonight,” she assures him, though she’s really hoping he’ll rally.

He doesn’t let her down. “Oh, I’m very keen,” Breen laughs again, pulling her in for another kiss. “Just wanted to set the standard. But thanks for not taking advantage of my virtue.”

She raises an eyebrow. “Don’t pretend you mind it.”

“Nah,” Sam smiles smugly. “If you want to court me like a Victorian virgin, be my guest. I reckon I’ve earned some wining and dining.”

“Two weeks in a posh bach and it’s gone straight to your head,” she laments, another rush of excitement shooting through her veins as Sam’s hands find her hips again. He smells like salt and sweat, presumably from the events of the day. But his own familiar scent is still beneath it all, and right now she can’t get enough of him.

“Mm, whatever are you going to do with me?” Sam sighs playfully, looking far too eager to be remorseful.

“Lots of things,” she challenges, pressing another quick kiss to his lips. “If you’re up for it.”

Sam plucks at the first button in her blouse, grinning hopefully. “Best we get to it, then.”

But for all their enthusiasm, the reality is anything but rushed. 

They’re both ungainly getting undressed, which is hardly surprising. She does her best to help rid Sam of his shirt, wincing in solidarity as she gently pulls it over his head. His chest is a mass of bruises, swollen and dark with a few purple spots already beginning to show. 

Fresh guilt curls unpleasantly in her stomach, but Sam seems to anticipate her response, smiling crookedly and shrugging. “They look worse than they are,” he explains. 

She’s not convinced, but he recaptures her lips in another languid kiss before she can dwell on it. 

He’s equally considerate when it comes to her jeans and underwear, tugging them off while she lies flat on her back on the bed. “Do you reckon this is how the old folks do it?” Sam chuckles, wheezing a little from the effort of working the tight garments down her calves. 

“Statistically, I think they’re actually more spry than this,” she replies, staring dazedly at the ceiling. They’re only a few minutes in, and this is already the strangest tryst she’s ever had.

“Well, I’m going to need you to get your withered bones back over here,” Sam replies, finally succeeding at getting the last stubborn cuff over her ankle. He tosses her jeans toward the general vicinity of her closet, then turns his attention to the waistband of his trackies. “I don’t think I can get these off on my own.”

She can’t help but snicker, even as Sam’s warm palm finds a place at her back and helps guide her up. “You’ve got a weird approach to romance.”

“Takes one to know one,” he retorts, but she can see the glint of mischief in his eyes. “Besides, you never know. You might get a new kink out of this.”

“Oh god, don’t even joke.”

It’s a struggle, but they’re both worn out and laughing breathlessly by the time they manage to finish getting undressed, still standing at the foot of her bed. Sam’s arms are wrapped gently around her back, his fingers stroking soothingly over the muscles above her tailbone. She’s got her hands draped over his shoulders, smoothing unhurried circles across his skin as she admires the lean muscle beneath her palms. She's still sore, but not as much as she could have been; taking their time has its virtues. Sam looks to be faring about the same, moving slowly but with a lighthearted excitement that seems contagious.

“How’s that for foreplay?” he teases, still sounding as though he’s trying to get his breath back. She watches his gaze track slowly down her body, resting on her breasts for a moment before roving back up to her face.

She rolls her eyes, feeling far too fond. “Absolutely terrible.”

“Mm,” he eyes her knowingly, “somehow I’m not buying it.” 

He kisses her again, slowly but with a soft, genuine intent that fills her chest with butterflies. And then she’s helping him onto the bed and watching him shuffle around on the duvet until he’s flat on his back, head propped against a pillow.

She tries not to stare too openly, but it’s difficult. A trail of soft russet hair leads down his toned chest, ending in a forest of ginger curls. His cock is nestled amongst them, perky and flushed, looking just as eager as she feels.

Breen’s knowing laugh interrupts her thoughts. “My eyes are up here, you know.”

She can feel a blush spreading across her cheeks as she meets his gaze. “You’re one to talk.”

“Mm, true,” Breen sighs happily, his eyes full of affection. “You’re quite the view.”

Somehow, that’s even more embarrassing than being caught staring. But she still can’t quite manage to fight the pleased warmth that curls low in her belly. 

Ultimately, Breen doesn’t give her the opportunity to dwell on it. “You coming?” he asks, breaking the spell as he invitingly pats the mattress beside him.

“Where’s the rush?” she teases, but she doesn’t hesitate to join him. She moves slowly, trying not to aggravate her ribs any further as she gingerly crawls across the bed.

“Sorry, what part of this feels rushed to you?” Sam looks at her a little incredulously, lips twitching in a smile as she finally manages to lay on her side next to him. “This is the most geriatric make-out I’ve ever had.”

“Shut it, you,” she grins, fighting down another laugh as Breen cocks an eyebrow. “You’ll spoil the atmosphere.”

“Oh, right,” he chuckles, rolling his eyes. “The atmosphere.” 

He cards a hand through her hair, sweeping it gently back from her face as she turns to meet him in a sweet, simple kiss. Somehow, against all odds, she’s still wildly into this encounter. She can feel the evidence slick between her thighs, accompanied by a low, insistent hum of arousal.

Maybe it’s been a while. Or maybe it’s just something unique to Breen, something intangible and kind and full of laughter. She likes to think it’s the latter.

“So,” he drawls, looking amused as he meets her gaze. “Are we going to talk about the kiwi?”

For a moment, she’s completely thrown. “The what?”

Sam’s hand traces the ridge of her hip, dipping down into the junction where her thigh meets her pelvis. His fingers tap teasingly at the small whiskered bird inked into her pale skin. “This little guy. A north island brown, if I had to guess.”

“Oh. Right.” It’s been part of her long enough that she barely notices it, a small, goofy-looking memento traced in black ink. She’d grown used to fielding this question back when she’d been dating more, but she supposes it’s been a while. “I got it years ago, when I spent a few months traveling around Mexico after graduating uni,” she explains.

“A kiwi, though?” Sam’s still probing at the tattoo curiously, running the pads of his fingers against her skin. It’s extremely distracting, sending goosebumps down her thighs for entirely different reasons. 

“I was homesick,” she admits, grinning when Breen looks up in surprise. “I’d always wanted to leave New Zealand and explore, but once I did, I couldn’t help missing it. So one night I had a few too many margaritas and I got myself a traveling mate.”

“Above your pussy,” Sam grins teasingly. “Bet he’s seen a lot.”

She arches an eyebrow. “She, actually. Female kiwis are the larger and more aggressive of the sexes.”

Sam laughs, his fingers still tracing slowly over the kiwi’s beak. “Of course you specified.” His gaze is tender when he meets her eyes again. “Well, I like her.”

He pulls her into another kiss before she can think too much about it, though she’s pretty certain she’s smiling giddily against his lips. Sam’s fingers caress the kiwi one final time, then trail slowly up her side, leaving little fleeting sparks of sensation in their wake. He stops when he reaches the top of her breast, tracing light, teasing circles into the sensitive skin. 

“This alright?” he asks, as she squirms in obvious want.

“Yes,” she huffs, then clarifies. “But more, please.”

“Right,” Sam smiles, and then he kisses her again. She hums against his mouth when he finds her nipples, caressing them timidly until she directs him how she likes it. Soon he’s tweaking and rolling them gently, coaxing the sorts of soft moans and sighs from her that would normally leave her self-conscious.

But Sam doesn’t seem to mind them; if anything he’s eager. His movements gain confidence with every little sound she makes, intensifying the crackles of sensation spreading through her body. She can feel every pull at her nipples echoing in her clit, and before long she’s inspired to throw a leg across his thigh, rocking her hips slowly against the firm muscle. 

“Fuck, Kristin.” Sam groans in response, his cock twitching against his stomach. It’s rigid and pink, leaking more than a little, and she takes the opportunity to trace her fingers lightly up the shaft. She smirks as Sam loses his rhythm at her breasts for a moment, clearly distracted.

“Good?” she asks, slicking her palm with the wetness at the tip. Sam swallows thickly before answering, his pupils blown wide. “God, yes.” She feels his cock twitch again in her hand as his hips rise to meet her touch, and new heat licks across her skin as she realizes how much he wants this. 

“Good.”

They keep their unhurried pace for a while longer, languidly teasing each other until she feels dizzy with want and Sam’s panting desperately against her ear. Her pussy is leaving sticky smears across his thigh, but he’s clearly not far behind; her hand is slick with his precome, sliding easily over the sensitive shaft of his cock with every light, teasing movement.

“How do we want to do this?” she asks, watching as Sam’s hazel eyes flutter open to meet her own. His cheeks are flushed a dark pink, lips swollen from kissing, ginger hair mussed up against the pillow. He looks thoroughly debauched, and she preens with the knowledge that it’s her doing. 

“I’d really, really like to be inside you,” Sam begins, sounding breathless and a little uncertain. “But I’ll be honest, I don’t think I’m up for many acrobatics right now.”

She’d figured as much, but she’s still a little disappointed to be missing out. After all their foreplay, she wants to feel the stretch of his cock in her pussy, the devastating friction and heat as they move together. “I could ride you,” she suggests doubtfully, already wondering whether her ribs will survive it. 

“Thanks, but no thanks,” Sam winces. “Unless you can manage it without ever putting your weight on me, that sounds like a fantastic form of torture.”

“True,” she sighs ruefully, smoothing her hand across his thigh. “I reckon we’ll just have to get creative.”

He gives a relieved laugh, his eyes bright and eager. “I like the way you think.” And then she’s leaning over to kiss him again, riding a swell of affectionate contentment as Sam hums happily against her lips.

It ends up being the gentlest, most tender sex she’s ever had.

Sam takes his time working her up, kissing her passionately while he strokes tentative fingers across her slick folds. His whole face lights up when he realizes how aroused she is, and she can’t help but giggle at his obvious excitement.

“You’re so wet,” he murmurs, his fingers roving teasingly over her swollen mound. 

“And who’s fault would that be?” she gasps, giving his cock a long, slow pull in retaliation. Sam huffs out a laugh, eyes bright. “Fuck, Kris. You’re —ah,” he gasps as she twists her palm over the leaking head, grinning wickedly.

“Mm, you like that, eh?”

Sam shakes his head, huffing out a breathless laugh. “You’re unbelievable.”

Unsurprisingly though, he’s a quick learner, and it doesn’t take long for him to pay her back. He takes his time exploring, one hand delicately caressing her breasts, the other rubbing over her slick, swollen clit while she pants against his shoulder, feeling nearly delirious with desire. Every once in a while the fingers teasing her clit will dip to her entrance, probing at the wetness, pressing but never quite making their way inside. 

It’s driving her mad, which seems to amuse Sam to no end.

“Hurry up,” she huffs petulantly, after he once again denies her. 

“Funny, I thought there wasn’t any rush,” Sam chuckles, worrying her clit fleetingly between two slippery fingers. She opens her mouth to argue, but before she can threaten retribution he’s relenting with a fond smile. He kisses her warmly as he finally pushes one long finger inside her, stroking gently.

She sighs against his mouth, mollified, and feels the answering rumble of his chuckle against her chest.

Before long she’s canting her hips in fleeting little motions, trying to grind her clit against Sam’s palm as he lazily fingers her. She can feel him exploring again, probing at different angles until he finds the one that sends pleasant shivers down her arms. “There?” Sam asks curiously, looking unusually focused. “Yeah,” she hums, gasping when he presses again, a little harder. “Just like that.”

He flashes her a Cheshire grin, and she can’t help craning her neck to capture his lips in another tender kiss.

They continue like that for a while, long enough that normally she’d be a bit self-conscious. She’s got no doubt that she’ll come like this, but much like the rest of their strange encounter, the desire is easy and languid, flowing like warm honey in her veins. 

She can tell Sam’s chasing an orgasm too, sighing and humming into her kisses as she strokes his cock in long, slow pulls. She can feel the organ twitching against her palm, his hips rocking in small, aborted movements. But if Sam’s in a hurry, he doesn’t show it. In fact, he doesn’t seem to be in any more of a rush than she is.

It’s a nice realization.

Eventually he gives her a second finger, chuckling warmly as she sighs in delight. It’s a nice stretch, just enough to incrementally spark up her arousal, and it coaxes another wave of ardent want for him. Suddenly, she wants to know what he tastes like. “Can I go down on you?” 

“What?” Sam’s eyes are endearingly wide, surprise written across his features as his fingers still their movements inside her. The hand previously occupied with her breasts comes to rest on her bicep, stroking gently over her skin.

“Can I give you a blowjob?” she clarifies, watching as his face turns an even deeper shade of pink.

“Sure. Uh, I mean, yeah. Yes, please. If you want to,” Sam fumbles, very obviously trying to rein in his enthusiasm. 

She snorts, rolling her eyes fondly. “Alright. Give me a minute to get sorted. I’m still geriatric, remember.”

“Whatever you need,” Sam smiles, not withdrawing his fingers. “You want a walk me down?”

“A what?” It can’t be what she thinks it is.

“You know,” he grins mischievously, curling his fingers just a fraction more forcefully and thrusting, so that a wave of unexpected pleasure spikes through her. “A walk me down. One for the road?”

“The road to your cock,” she clarifies, simultaneously incredulous and somehow unbelievably turned on.

“Could be a long trip,” Sam warns gravely. “You said it yourself, those bones aren’t what they used to be.”

She bites her lip, weighing the options. Stupid name aside, it’s extremely tempting. 

As if he’s trying to sweeten the deal, Sam resumes his easy, gentle fingering. “You can always have another,” he adds charitably, grinning as she squirms. “We’re not in any rush.” 

He brings his other hand down to join the first, just barely ghosting his fingertips over her clit. It feels really, really, good but not nearly enough. 

“Getting awfully confident, are we?” she retorts, although truthfully, this is definitely working for her.

“Fortune favours the bold,” Breen grins cheerfully. “Besides, I’m really enjoying this.”

Another flush of heat washes through her for an entirely different reason. “Me too,” she admits, watching as Breen’s eyes crinkle at the corners. He chuckles, pressing a chaste kiss to the tip of her nose. “I figured.”

And then he’s fingering her properly, thrusting and twisting his long, dexterous digits inside her, his other hand swirling slippery circles across her clit. It’s exactly what she wants, and she can’t help the soft moan that escapes her when the timing of his motions syncs just right.

His scent is all around her, his eyes warm and bright, his lips soft against her own. He’s making little noises as well, gentle sighs and hums in tune with her reactions, and it twists the coil of arousal even tighter knowing that he’s just as into this as she is.

It doesn’t take much time —barely a minute, really— until she’s coming apart against him. The pleasure rises in a steady wave, slow but insistent, and it crests in a way that seems to go on forever. She comes on his hand with a soft keening moan, and he works her diligently through the aftershocks as though he’s intent on wringing every drop of ecstasy he can from her.

Eventually, when the pleasure is just starting to tip into the realm of too much, she bats at his hand until he gets the message and stills. “Good job,” she sighs contentedly, wondering if it’s normal to be this winded after objectively sedentary sex. She’s barely moved, but it feels like she’s run a marathon.

“Thanks, I try,” Sam chuckles, his breath warm against her cheek. There’s a pleasant silence while she tries to get her bearings back, interrupted briefly by an obvious squelch when he gently withdraws his fingers from her. She squirms a bit at the movement, then settles again when Breen starts soothingly stroking her back instead.

“Not to be crass or anything,” he says, sounding a little awed, “but that was really hot.”

“I’m glad,” she murmurs tiredly, shuffling until she can lay her head on his outstretched bicep. A yawn escapes her before she can stop it. “I think I’ve found an issue with your walk me down.”

Breen chuckles, his fingers tracing down her spine. “Yeah, that can happen. Fits with the whole geriatric vibe; don’t worry about it.”

“Oi, watch it,” she retorts, prodding lazily at his cheek. “Just give me a couple of minutes. Don’t think I'm not keen to return the favour.”

“Christ, Kris.” Sam gives a strangled laugh. “Well, take your time. I’m not sure I’m going to be able to hold out long, anyway.”

“That’s fine by me,” she murmurs, fumbling clumsily around until she gets her hand back around his erection. She’d lost track of it in the throes of her climax, but a quick stroke confirms Sam’s assertions. It’s warm to the touch and incredibly stiff, and she can feel a little pool of precome that's dribbled onto his belly.  “You weren’t kidding,” she marvels, resuming her languid strokes. Even the light touch seems to have his breath quickening, his fingers tensing against her spine.

The quiet intimacy of the moment is filling her with fresh warmth, a mix of arousal and affection swelling in her chest. She watches the way his hips rock minutely into her movements, his eyes soft and a little pleading as she sedately works him over.

“Fuck, Kris,” Sam gasps, cupping her cheek and coaxing her into another kiss. “Just like that.”

Grinning against his mouth, she fleetingly contemplates finishing him off like this. He looks unbearably attractive, laid out at her mercy and chasing an orgasm that's just out of reach. But she’s feeling a lot more lively now, and she’s keen to crack on with what she’s promised him.

“I reckon I’d best take that walk,” she purrs, delighting in the way his eyes widen. “Alright,” he breathes, caressing the curve of her waist. “If you’re up to it.”

She stills her handjob, rolling carefully over until she can push herself up onto her hands and knees. “Of course.”

Breen catches her wrist before she can move down the bed. “Hang on, I want to sit up,” he explains, stroking his thumb across the back of her hand. “Not much of a view if I’m flat on my back.”

Another tendril of warmth curls in her chest. “Yeah. I’d like that.”

It takes a bit of effort getting him propped against the headboard, but it’s worth it for the way he looks at her when she settles between his legs. He sighs quietly as she licks tentatively at the head of his cock, trying to get a feel for it on her palette. It’s been a while since she’s done this, and the taste isn’t bad per se, just something to get reacquainted with.

She flicks her gaze up to see Sam watching her, his pupils huge. He gives her a crooked grin, reaching forward to gently brush her hair back from her face. “That feels really good,” he murmurs, his thighs flexing beneath her palms.

Smiling, she takes him further into her mouth, suckling at the head of his cock, occasionally flicking her tongue in the slit, trying to get a sense of what he likes. It’s a difficult task, largely because Sam seems to be enjoying everything she’s doing. He’s still watching her, eyes warm and heavily lidded, his fingers running soothingly against her scalp.

She moves one hand from his thigh to his shaft, stroking over the parts of his cock she can’t reach with her mouth. His reaction is immediate; his head tips back, eyes fluttering shut. “Ah, fuck.”

She hums in acknowledgment, watching with amusement as his breath hitches in response to the vibrations. Admittedly, it’s a boost to her ego. She’s not exactly been doing this regularly, but Breen’s reactions suggest it doesn’t really matter.

He’s panting now, his chest and neck flushed a deep pink, his thighs rocking gently beneath her. And maybe she’s brought him closer to the edge than she’d realized, because suddenly his eyes are fluttering open and staring desperately into her own. His pupils are blown wide as he chokes out a warning. “Kris, oh hell, I’m really close, you don’t have to—”

She hums encouragingly, still maintaining eye contact as she sucks harder, and Sam abruptly cuts himself off with a soft moan. Seconds later he’s shivering all over, and she tastes bitterness across her tongue as his hips flex and tremble below her weight. She swallows diligently, trying to draw out his climax as best as she can, entirely captivated as Sam’s hazel eyes bore into her own. He looks absolutely wrecked, but he holds her gaze until he’s spent himself entirely in her mouth. And then he promptly flops back against the headboard with a faint thunk, panting.

For a moment the bedroom is silent, save for Sam’s unsteady breathing. She takes the opportunity to rest her cheek on his thigh, feeling sated and content in a way that’s always been rare for her. 

Eventually Sam manages to open his eyes. He smiles softly as he runs a hand through her hair, tracing down the side of her face until he can cup her cheek. “Come join me?” he asks sluggishly, sounding drained. His other hand lazily pats the duvet beside him, the implication clear.

“Sure,” she grins, carefully making her way over. Her movements are slow for entirely different reasons now, the post-orgasm contentment leaving her dopey and blissed-out. “You’re looking pretty worn out, old man.” 

“Whoa, rude,” Sam protests tiredly, shuffling around until they’re sitting side by side and he can get an arm around her shoulders. She notes with a bit of smug pride that he’s still not quite gotten his breath back. “No respect for the elderly these days.”

“It’s got nothing to do with age,” she retorts, biting back a laugh as Breen gasps in mock outrage. Still though, he lets her pull him into a gentle kiss that ends up lingering far longer than she’d initially planned.

He’s beaming when they part, long fingers tracing meandering patterns down her arm. “Not too shabby for a pair of feeble oldsters, eh grandma Sims?”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Sorry, my mistake. Wise and knowledgeable revered elder Sims.”

She groans, tipping her head back against the bedframe. “Why am I into you?”

Beside her, Breen laughs again. “Must be my incredible personality.”

She thinks about teasing him, but a chiming from the kitchen interrupts her thoughts. They both stare at each other for a moment, blinking stupidly, and then realization dawns.

“Oh bugger,” she groans, trying to lever herself out of bed in as few movements as possible. “We were supposed to text Daniel. He’s probably already ordered the takeaway.”

At least Sam has the good grace to look a bit sheepish. “Poor bloke, I can’t imagine we were quick.” He watches as she stumbles her way toward the hall, calling worriedly after her, “you reckon it’s going cold?”

She makes it to the kitchen shortly after the call’s gone through to voicemail, so she’s treated to the added embarrassment of ringing Daniel back whilst very obviously out of breath. 

“Hey. I’m sorry I missed you,” she begins, wincing at Daniel’s obvious sigh of relief through the speaker. “We’re still at my place.”

“No worries,” he replies, sounding less annoyed than she’d be if their positions were reversed. “Is everything alright? It’s been nearly an hour and a half.”

“What, really?” She glances quickly at the clock on her microwave, but there are no answers there —she still hasn’t reset it after the last power outage. “Yeah,” Daniel chuckles, now sounding amused. “It’s nearly six.”

She watches Breen stumble wearily out of the bedroom to join her, not looking nearly as concerned by the latest turn of events. He regards her with amusement from across the counter as he sips at a glass of water.

“Bugger, I’m sorry. We, uh. Well,” she fumbles awkwardly, trying to come up with an excuse that sounds vaguely plausible. “We must have taken a while getting ready.”

Sam chokes on his water. She waves frantically at him to keep it down.

“You spent an hour and a half getting ready for takeaway dinner?” Daniel asks, sounding doubtful. “Are you sure you’re okay?”

“Never better,” she assures him, hoping she sounds normal. “Just, uh, trying to figure out what to wear.”

Sam looks as though he’s trying to smother a laugh, though admittedly not all that hard.

On the phone, there’s a pause while Daniel seemingly digests this new information. “Alright,” he finally chuckles, sounding far too knowing for her liking. “Well, take your time. I’ll phone in the fish order when you’re ready.”

“I think I’m basically done,” she says hurriedly, as Sam raises a skeptical eyebrow. “We’ll head out in a few minutes.”

“Well, don’t let me rush you,” Daniel replies, and now she can hear the teasing laughter in his voice. “I’m sure finding the right outfit will be…satisfying.”

“Thanks again,” she croaks, because she really can’t contemplate the implications behind that little statement. “See you soon.”

“Bye, Kristin. Drive safe.”

The second she hangs up, she’s met with Breen’s sly smile. “You were picking out an outfit, Kris? Really?”

“Shut it,” she grouses, feeling uncertainty creep in. “What was I supposed to say?”

“Why not the truth?” Breen shrugs easily, his smile turning soft as he bracing his hands on the counter. “You were having slow, creaky, injury sex and lost track of time.”

She rolls her eyes, but she can’t fight the little huff of laughter that escapes her. “Come off it.”

“I’m serious,” he replies, his lips twitching when she scoffs. “People generally do this kind of thing when they date.”

“Injury sex?” She quirks an eyebrow. “Not sure what you got up to, but it’s a first for me.”

“Communication,” Sam replies patiently, making his way around the island to join her. “Why are you so worried, anyway?”

She sighs, wondering how best to put it. “This whole thing is really new to me, Sam. I’m —well. I’m worried I’m going to make a muck of things,” she admits. “What if Daniel gets jealous?”

“Well, for one thing, I think that’s pretty normal,” Sam chuckles, bringing an arm around her shoulders. “But if it makes you feel any better, I stress about it too.”

“Really?” It’s hard to imagine Sam fussing over anything, though she supposes she’s never really thought to ask. 

“Sure,” he nods, as though it’s obvious. “I want this to work. Not just you and me, but you and Daniel too.” He pauses for a moment, looking a little bashful as he weighs his next sentence. “I care about the both of you, Kris. Heaps. And I’m not arrogant enough to think I’m above making mistakes.”

She can feel the blush heating her cheeks as she contemplates Sam’s admission. “I care about you too,” she murmurs, feeling suddenly shy. “You know that.”

“I do,” Sam grins teasingly, pulling her in for a sweet, simple kiss. “You’re not very subtle.”

“Shut it,” she scoffs, though she can’t help the smile tugging at her cheek. “But thanks.” 

“Anytime,” Sam smiles, releasing her to lean against the island. He rubs distractedly at his chest, looking thoughtful. “For what it’s worth, I don’t think you have to worry about Daniel. I’ve only known the guy for a week, but it’s easy to see how mad he is for you.”

“I know,” she nods, feeling unexpectedly fond. There’s a lot more she could say on the subject, but she’s having trouble finding the words. “I guess we should get going, then. Don’t want to keep him waiting a second time.”

Breen sighs dramatically, slumping further against the island. “I was afraid you’d say that. Looks like it’s back to the old folks home for me.”

She stares at him uncomprehendingly until he’s forced to clarify. “Don’t get me wrong, I really enjoyed the sex,” he explains sheepishly. “But basically everything from the neck down feels like it’s been used for scrum practice.”

Oof. Between the unexpectedly good sex and Daniel’s phone call, she’d almost forgotten about the mass of contusions covering his naked chest. “I’ll go get your clothes, shall I?”

“Thanks,” Sam breathes, looking very relieved not to have to move. “Have you got an ice pack?”

She shrugs. “I’ve got some freezerburned peas.”

Sam sighs, looking amused. “Close enough.”