The teenagers' expressions immediately shifted from disappointment to fascination, their eyes widening with the kind of morbid curiosity that seemed to be a universal adolescent trait.
"You were shot?" Zoe asked, her eyes growing round. "Like, with a real gun?"
"It really wasn't as dramatic as it probably sounds," Holt said quickly, having no desire to get into the traumatic details of that fateful day.
"My dad was shot too," Tyler said matter-of-factly, stepping closer to the conversation circle. "In New York City during a drug bust."
The statement hung in the air for a moment before the teenagers immediately redirected their collective attention to Rad, bombarding him with questions.
Holt could see the discomfort in his son's posture as the teens pressed for details about traumatic experiences that Rad clearly preferred not to discuss. He knew he should probably save his son from the teenage inquisition, but it provided the perfect opportunity for Holt to slip away without seeming rude to the young people who had been kind enough to include him in their plans.
He walked into the kitchen, which was noticeably quieter than the back part of the house. He found June standing at the large center island, methodically tearing lettuce leaves for what appeared to be a substantial salad that would feed the entire gathering. Or by the size of that salad bowl, probably an entire army, it was so ridiculously large.
She looked up as he entered, her face brightening with the kind of warm, genuine smile that made something settle comfortably in Holt's chest.
"Escaping the noise?" June asked, amusement clear in her voice and expression. “I heard the teens were trying to rope you into playing volleyball.”
"Yes, I slipped away before I had to expose FBI secrets," Holt joked.
He moved to stand beside her at the spacious island counter. The workspace was large enough that they could work together comfortably without crowding each other, but intimate enough that he was very aware of her presence.
"Can I help with anything?" Holt asked, his eyes scanning the food June had laid out for the salad.
"Would you mind cutting the cucumbers?" June asked, gesturing toward a small pile of fresh vegetables waiting to be prepared. "There's a cutting board in that drawer right behind you, and the knives are in the block on the counter."
Holt found the cutting board and selected a sharp knife, settling into the familiar, almost meditative rhythm of food preparation. There was something deeply peaceful about working alongside June in the kitchen, their movements falling into a natural coordination that spoke to years of shared meals and domestic routines from what felt like another lifetime.
"This was really a good idea," Holt said as he began slicing the cucumbers into uniform rounds, the repetitive motion providing a welcome contrast to the mental intensity of their current investigation. "Everyone needs to unwind a bit after everything that's happened over the past few days."
"I completely agree," June said, adding diced tomatoes to the growing salad with practiced efficiency. "It's been incredibly tense, and not just because of the investigation itself. Sometimes people need to be reminded of what they're working to protect when they're in the middle of fighting to keep something safe."
"Community connections," Holt said, understanding exactly what she meant. "The relationships between people that make a place worth living in and worth defending against whatever threatens it."
"Exactly right." June's smile was warm and genuine as she handed him a serving bowl for the cucumber slices. "I'd almost forgotten how much I missed this kind of thing."
"Large family gatherings?" Holt’s eyebrows rose questioningly.
"No, not just that." June gestured between them with her free hand, her voice taking on a softer, more reflective quality. "This. Working together on simple, domestic tasks. Having someone to share the small, everyday responsibilities with. It's been a very long time since I've had a real partner for the ordinary parts of life."
The word 'partner' seemed to hover in the air between them, loaded with implications and memories that neither of them appeared quite ready to address directly. Holt focused his attention on cutting the cucumbers into precise, even slices, trying to ignore the way his pulse had noticeably quickened at her admission.
"I understand what you mean," Holt admitted quietly, his voice rougher than he'd intended. "There's something uniquely satisfying about shared domestic work. Even the smallest tasks feel different when you're not doing them alone."
They continued working in comfortable silence for several minutes, the sounds of the barbecue and animated conversations drifting in through the open sliding doors. Holt found himself stealing occasional glances at June as she arranged vegetables in the overly large salad bowl, noting howthe late-afternoon light streaming through the kitchen windows highlighted the slight silver threads woven through her dark hair and accentuated the laugh lines around her eyes.
"Mom?" Willa's voice came from the kitchen doorway, interrupting their peaceful moment. "Could you help me figure out the timing for the corn on the cob? I want everything to come off the grill at the same time, but I'm second-guessing myself on the coordination."
"Of course, sweetheart," June said immediately, setting down her knife and wiping her hands on a clean dish towel. "Let me just?—"
"Go ahead," Holt interrupted, gesturing toward the remaining vegetables. "I'll finish the salad. Take your time with the timing logistics."
"Thank you so much," June said, pausing to touch his arm lightly as she moved past him toward the door. The brief contact sent a wave of warmth through him that was entirely disproportionate to the gesture's casual, friendly nature.
Holt watched her follow Willa out to the patio area, then turned his attention back to the salad preparation. The kitchen felt distinctly different without June's presence. It was now somehow much too quiet and empty, though the sounds from outside hadn't actually changed. The sound of genuine laughter drifted in from the backyard, punctuated by animated voices and the barking of two excited dogs. This was what Sandpiper Shores had always represented in Holt's mind. A sense that everyone truly belonged, that individual struggles were shared and supported by the broader community, that celebrations were always better when they included everyone who wanted to participate.
Holt was in the process of mixing olive oil and vinegar for a simple salad dressing when he heard rapid footsteps approaching the kitchen from the direction of the patio. June appeared in the doorway, moving considerably faster than seemed entirely safe while balancing a precarious stack of plates loaded with the leftovers of various appetizers.
"Careful there," Holt said automatically, as his eyes spotted some liquid on the floor in front of her.
