NCIS Quiet Harbor

He was acting like Gibbs—the very same one everyone knew. But this was a different Gibbs. The one who had fled the bed of the woman who had saved his life. The woman he had wanted—and the one he had turned away from.

In the first week, there was still hope. Weak, like a flame in a snowstorm. One, two… four days of delay—not yet a disaster. He could still call, he could still find an excuse. “I’ve been working a lot”—that was true; cases piled up like a cornucopia. “Still recovering from gas poisoning”—that was true too: his head constantly buzzed, nausea made him want to climb the walls, and Ducky still shook his head over his tests. Even “I didn’t know what to say”—it sounded awful, smelled of a cheap excuse, but hell, for a man who had spent the last few years communicating mostly through growls and head slaps, it could pass as an explanation.

But the week passed. Seven days. And with sharp, almost physical clarity, he realized: it was over. Too late now. Now Hollis knew. Knew he was a coward and a bastard. And he had no chance left to justify himself. She hadn’t heard it from someone else, hadn’t read it in his file. No. He had proven it to her himself. He had run away. Like a rat from a sinking ship.

The irony was that it wasn’t her ship that was sinking. Hollis was a frigate—powerful, shining with steel, uunafraid of tempests, pirates, or storm warnings. And he… he was an old, rusty barque with rotten planking and a leaking hull. It was long past time to drag him ashore, break him down for firewood, and burn him.

She had saved his life, and he hadn’t found even an ounce of courage to simply dial her number and say… at least “hello.”

And then, following the shame, came anger. Not a flash, not a fleeting rage, but a quiet, smoldering fury that filled every crack in his soul. It came in the dead of night, when he woke once again in a cold sweat from a nightmare.

He was angry at himself—for weakness, for cowardice, for the black hole inside that devoured everything bright. He hated himself for the fact that his only salvation had always been escape. He was like a cornered beast that bites the hand extended to it, for it knows no other way to protect itself—and those who would inevitably suffer if he stayed close.

But, to his own surprise—and greater fury—he was angry at her too. Unfairly, disgustingly—and therefore all the stronger. He was angry at her for being, for some damn reason, someone who could not be forgotten the next morning. Not one of those fleeting acquaintances whose faces fade quickly from memory. He tried to convince himself she was just another episode—bright but brief. It didn’t work.

Because she was Hollis Mann. Smart, cheerful, strong. She stood beside him as an equal. She looked at him with clear eyes and saw not only the armor but the man behind it. She laughed at his jokes and parried his barbs. And when they were silent, her silence was light, not burdensome. She was the woman he thought he would never meet. And that was why she could not be pushed out of his mind.

He was angry at her unsinkable frigate, at her resilience, at the smile that now perhaps carried a hint of bitterness—and in that, too, was his fault. He was angry because his barque had started leaking right beside her—it was humiliating, but apparently inevitable. And he hated himself for that anger.

He worked in the basement with such quiet fury that wood shavings flew everywhere, a constant attempt to distract himself, to forget. But his thoughts kept returning. They were like a tide—retreating for a while, only to come back stronger, bringing with them the wreckage of memories: the scent of her perfume, coffee on the hood of the car at sunrise, her hand on his pillow…

His demons—the same ones that had woken him at five a.m. in her bed—were feasting, celebrating victory. And he had nothing to oppose them except work, a boat, and a bottle of bourbon.

By the end of the second week, the fury had burned out, leaving a yawning emptiness. It was worse than anger. Anger demanded something—action, reckoning, destruction. Emptiness simply was. It filled the basement, crept into the office, turning familiar sounds—the clatter of McGee’s keyboard, DiNozzo’s chatter—into something distant, like noise from another dimension.

He worked on autopilot. Acting, deciding, giving orders. But it was only a shell—a well-trained puppet. The real Gibbs had frozen inside, grasping the magnitude of the loss. He had lost not just a woman. He had lost the chance to be different. Hollis had been proof that he was still capable of something beyond work, beyond loneliness. Now that proof was gone.

By the middle of the third week, emptiness gave way to quiet despair. It crept up on him Wednesday evening, when he found himself alone in the office. The bullpen was drowned in half-light, washed in the cold glow of a desk lamp.

He looked at the screen but saw her. Her smile, her laughter, the golden glow of her skin.

And then, suddenly, it hit him:

Fool! He could have sent her flowers.

The thought jolted him like electricity, striking in the middle of mindlessly filling out yet another form. His hand froze over the paper.

Flowers. Banal, foolish, reeking of the kind of cheap Hollywood movie DiNozzo adored. But it would have been something. It wouldn’t have erased the fact that he’d been too much of a coward to call her. But it would have shown… that he remembered. That he was grateful. That the night had meant something to him.

It was a chance—the last, desperate chance—to end their story, not perfectly, three weeks late, but with dignity. Not like a thief slipping away at dawn.

He even pictured it: an elegant, restrained bouquet. Not red roses—never. Something simple. White lilies, perhaps. Or irises. With a short note. “Thank you. J.G.”

He leaned back in his chair, pinching the bridge of his nose. The fantasy was so vivid, so alien to his nature, that it felt almost like a hallucination. He—Leroy Jethro Gibbs—contemplating types of flowers. His ex-wives would have died laughing.

But the opportunity was gone. Irrevocably. Now any bouquet sent after such prolonged silence would look not like gratitude, but like a pitiful handout, a belated confession of guilt. Too late. Always too late.

He slammed the desk drawer shut. It rattled into place. He didn’t send flowers. Didn’t make a single move. And he lost.

The fourth week brought cold calm. Fury had burned out, despair had run dry. Only emptiness remained—the one he knew all too well. His natural state.

He stood by the window, looking out at the city at night. Somewhere out there was her. But now her absence felt not like a wound, but a fact. Like an amputation. First pain, then numbness, now—a flat scar.

Suddenly, risking a head slap, Tony asked:

— Boss, this Colonel… Mann? She’s not coming back?

Gibbs fixed him with an icy gaze.

— Case closed.

And it was true. Case closed. Sealed and filed away. He was once again the Gibbs everyone knew. Only now, looking at the city lights, he understood: the emptiness he had so carefully cultivated for so many years was far more bitter than he had ever imagined.

But at least his demons—fed, sated, victorious—shut up for a while.

The truth was, there was nowhere to run from yourself: you can stop believing in the country you swore an oath to, but you can’t stand by when the world falls to pieces. Over and over again—goddamn it.

Jethro would still be sleeping on an autopsy table, tearing himself apart, throwing his body at bullets—if only there were still something worth it. But after Ziva’s death, something inside cracked and refused to heal. And so, for the third night in a row, Jethro sat in a half-lit, nauseatingly cheerful bar, drinking cheap bourbon and staring at the wall.

It happens to everyone, sooner or later: you burn out, like an old lightbulb, and in the end—it doesn’t matter much.

He left a full glass, a crumpled bill, and something else on the sticky counter—something intangible, and therefore irretrievable. Threw on his wool coat, frayed and worn, and limped out into the dark alley. The bourbon never dulled his senses, and still the world swayed, breaking apart around him.

The ruined knee ached, his chest echoed in rhythm, and screw the doctors who swore it was all psychosomatic. Inside, it was so empty he wanted to howl, but Jethro clenched his teeth, leaned on his bad leg, and hobbled to the car.

No howling. No complaining. No mercy for himself or for others —he couldn’t say when he made up those rules, or why he never numbered them, but he still followed them, even when the pain turned his vision black.

Not that there were “others” left. They’d filled a whole graveyard, scattered across the world.

Only Mike was harder to say goodbye to. His restless ghost kept popping up, spitting shit, dragging on soggy cigarettes, and vanishing just as lazily. Sometimes Jethro thought he’d finally lost his mind, but that would’ve been too fucking easy. And “easy” had never been his way.

His father’s old car was uncomfortable and chilly. The heater buzzed dutifully but blew nothing but cold air. Jethro cursed under his breath, floored the gas, and swore he’d finally fix the damn car, the house, the job. He’d save someone, drag them back from the brink, kick them hard if he had to. If he couldn’t save himself, he’d damn well save somebody.

Evening Washington was calm, quiet—either pretending or genuinely exhausted, ready to hibernate. The last days of October were colorless and stingy: no sounds, no hues, just the hiss of tires and the glow of traffic lights.

He hit red after red. Braked, leaned back, let go of the wheel. Time and again, his fingers found his wallet, flipping it open by touch, pressing the corner of an old photograph. He could almost diagnose himself with OCD, but the truth was simpler: he was just tired.

Tired of ghosts. Tired of losses. Tired of hopelessness that couldn’t be masked anymore. Lying to himself that things would get better was long past pointless. Only one thing could change: a couple of fresh headstones added to his personal graveyard. Nothing new there.

He cursed again, loudly, just to break the cursed silence, stared dully at puddles of light on the asphalt, and had no idea where to go, what to look for.

He was almost certain, if he turned around, he’d see Mike in the back seat, ready with a whole speech about where the hell he should go. But wherever Mike was now, he clearly had better things to do than set some sense into his crumbling old friend.

Red gave way to yellow, then green. Jethro stayed put, closed his eyes, and pretended he’d been gone a long time already. If only he could wake at home, in bed, morning sun spilling across the sheets, Shannon’s warmth at his side, her sleepy voice… But that ghost had left him so long ago it should’ve faded. Should’ve—but didn’t. Jethro stubbornly recreated the details, the smells, the sounds—out of habit more than hope. How else to fill the nights? How else to force himself out of bed?

Sometimes Jethro imagined that, on the other side, Shannon would sigh each time he remembered her, picking at the old wound with his memory. She would sigh, purse her lips, and spread her hands—fine, amuse yourself, it costs me nothing. But then she would lose interest in him, borrow a cigarette from Mike, and blow blue-gray smoke rings into the void. After all, even ghosts needed something to keep themselves busy, so they wouldn’t simply dissolve into dust out of boredom.

Deep down Jethro knew he’d made his late wife a prisoner: set her up like a statue, wrapped her in barbed wire, nailed up “High Voltage” signs. Beautiful. Dramatic. Convenient as hell. Always someone to mourn. Always something to justify himself with.

Three failed marriages? His mess with Jenny? The doomed attempts with women whose names he couldn’t even remember? Easy. He couldn’t forget Shannon. Who would blame him?

The tragic story of first love made a perfect alibi—especially when he kept acting like a bastard.

Finally, Jethro hit the gas and turned right. His fingers wouldn’t stay on the wheel; instead, they dug out his phone, scrolled through the contacts, stopped at one name.

“Fourth Ex-Wife”—Tony’s idea of a joke. Jethro himself wouldn’t have dared to label it. He knew the number by heart.

“Fourth Ex” had long been someone else’s wife. Still blonde, still smiling, still straight to the point.

No more drama when he didn’t call back—she’d just show up in his basement with bourbon and cheap takeout, throw a few cutting remarks that shook him awake, and disappear into her perfect new life.

“Show up uninvited,” he wanted to say. But truth was, for Hollis, his door was always open. Not much of an offer, but all he had.

Only now she had that “perfect life.” And a ring that came and went. Jethro refused to notice.

“Good guy. A trauma surgeon…” Just remembering that conversation made his teeth clench, made him want to break something. Hollis’s voice—purring, stupidly sweet, like sugared candy gone stale—was bitterer than poison to him. No way in hell he’d let her know that.

That night, she’d walked into his basement for the first time in six years. And her “good guy” better never know what went through Jethro’s head. Especially after a third of the bourbon was gone, and his sweatshirt landed on the bench next to her coat.

The truth was, Jethro had never been a “good guy.” Just another excuse he’d found and leaned on. But Hollis wasn’t the type to cheat on her perfect husband. Too bad.

This time, though, Jethro didn’t look for excuses. He hit “call,” turned on speaker, pressed his palm hard against his chest. He knew Hollis’s voice would push back the emptiness. Hated himself for pretending he hadn’t valued it before.

She didn’t answer. Lately she was the one who didn’t pick up, didn’t call back. Why would she? She had nothing to fear. Jethro wouldn’t show up at her door, wouldn’t bang a bottle on her counter, wouldn’t make her eat cold Chinese noodles with one set of chopsticks for two. He wouldn’t even leave a message—though for once, he had something to say.

Rings turned to the mechanical drone of voicemail, then silence. But Jethro was stubborn as hell, and that was his curse.

Hollis picked up after the fourth try. Sleepy, wary:

“What happened?” And without waiting: “Come over.”

Perfect offer. But no. Jethro couldn’t admit he had no clue where she lived with her “good guy.” He sure as hell wouldn’t play the third wheel. So he kept driving west—away from her old place. Just in case.

But Hollis wasn’t as stubborn, wasn’t as reckless, and the lousy bourbon wasn’t clouding her head. Calmly, she gave him her address—damn it, her old address—and Jethro knew he was in trouble.

He should’ve hung up, braked, told everyone to go to hell. Instead, he asked:

“And your… surgeon?”

“Not mine anymore.”

A minute later, he switched lanes, ducked under a bridge, and and picked up two brutally strong espressos from a Turkish coffee stand. Though a bottle of bourbon would’ve fit better.

Hollis met him on the doorstep of her small, doll-like house. In a place like that, married couples either lived “happily ever after” or waged a cold war, where every step was a landmine. No third option. The second didn’t scare him much—she had twenty years in the Army, he had a lifetime of war zones.

Only “happily ever after” sounded like a verdict, like a life-long sentence.

Of course, he had had to escape from the hospital. When the nurse left the room, he yanked the IV catheter from his hand, got dressed, and slipped out through the emergency exit. Otherwise, he would have faced Jenny’s scolding, Ducky’s grumbling, and Tony’s panicked wailing. But all of that could wait.

Now he was here.

He pushed the front door, testing it — it was unlocked.

“Lock the door, Colonel,” he thought to himself, a restless inner voice echoing.

Gibbs pulled his phone from his pocket, dialed her number, and, holding onto the railing, slowly climbed the stairs in the darkness to the second floor, where he believed her bedroom was. Weakness still buckled his legs, the world swam before his eyes, but Gibbs had no intention of breaking the agreement he and Hollis had made.

They had caught Sharif. Now “interfer” awaited them. And the kiss he had promised her.

A ghost of a smile touched his lips, the memory cutting through the fog in his mind. Just a few hours earlier, in the golden pool of light in his basement, she had asked:

“What do you see in my eyes?”

He had looked closely, though he already knew the answer. He wanted the same thing.

“You want me to kiss you.”

A slow, confident smile curved her lips.

“So are you going to?”

“Yeah.”

“When?”

“After we catch Sharif.”

The promise hung between them, driving him more than any threat from a terrorist.

Hollis greeted him in the bedroom with a slightly surprised look and a gentle smile.

"Yours door is unlocked."

“Yeah, but, uh… my doorbell works.”

"Well, then I guess we're even".

He approached her bed and sat down beside her, carefully moving her legs away from the edge. She was wearing a silk robe, her slightly wavy hair cascading over her shoulders.

“I came by to say thank you,” he said simply.

“You're welcome,” Hollis’s voice was soft and warm.

He kissed her and realized in that first instant: her kiss was worth waiting for. Worth surviving today’s hell for. There was no rush in it, only a slow, sweet flow that tingled his lips like a mild electric current.

When he pulled back, she smiled lightly and asked playfully:

“One kiss is all you came for?”

He answered:

“It's a start.”

They kissed again. Then that sly woman set him a condition:

“Okay… before we do this… I just need to know one thing…”

He tensed, instinctively bracing for trouble, but she continued with a fox-like smile:

“How'd you get that damn boat out of your basement?”

He muttered between kisses about the “disassembled wall” and the “ship in a bottle,” his hands already untying the belt of her robe. He shared a secret he had kept from everyone for years. No boat could stand between him and this woman now.

Her hands undid his vest, then his shirt, while his fingers, roughened from working with wood, glided over the silk of her nightgown, discovering faint scars beneath the fabric — a map of her battles. He brushed one barely visible scar above her chest with his lips, likely a fragment wound. In response, she ran her hand over the old scars on his forearm. In this silent dialogue, there was no pity, only recognition.

When she was naked, she made no attempt to cover herself. He watched, mesmerized. In the golden lamp light, her skin seemed dusted with honeyed pollen. He traced his finger along her cheek, down her neck, feeling as if she emitted a quiet glow, and he bathed in it like warm waters.

He wasn’t entirely sure the gas Sharif had poisoned him with wasn’t still affecting him. Perhaps the hallucinations were still haunting him... But at least they were pleasant ones. Not the nightmares that had tormented him, seeing ghosts from the past.

Just a few hours ago, he had thought he would die. That he didn’t stand a chance of surviving. That he couldn’t escape the double strike. But now he was here, in the golden-lit bedroom, beside Hollis.

He still could not fully believe he had survived — that this woman, now sitting naked before him, just hours ago, in camouflage with a gun in her hands, had first saved him from the crazed terrorist with three precise shots; then, with those clear gray-green eyes, had pulled him from hallucinations and darkness. If it hadn’t been for Hollis, he would have died a shameful, ignoble death on the floor of the train station restroom, helpless and defeated.

He cupped her face in her hands, gently moving it to meet her gaze. Her eyes, wide open, looked at him with such intense trust that it nearly hurt. She did not see the scars or the armor he had hidden behind for decades, but through them — to the place where life still flickered. A wave of warmth, unfamiliar and alarming, washed over him, and he was the first to lower his eyes, afraid of the bottomless depth.

“You saved my life,” he said after a moment, raising his eyes to look at her again.

“It was a joint operation,” Hollis smiled. “And… I had no choice. You owed me a kiss.”

“I think I’ve already paid in full.”

“Do you want to leave?” she teased him with a mischievous smile.

“Nope,” he replied without hesitation.

He pressed his lips to hers again, and their hands wandered over each other in slow, intoxicating movements. Every touch was careful, lingered, and the unhurried pace took his breath away. When his lips glided down her neck, his fingers traced lower along her body, and she responded by tangling her fingers gently in his hair. Further… below… Her body arched in a mute moan, responding with such immediate, bare readiness that sharp joy pierced him.

“What else did you come for?” she whispered, panting between kisses and moaning softly at his caresses.

“For everything,” he growled low and rough, the sound dark and possessive yet restrained. That growl contrasted sharply with his gentle touches and slow kisses, and Hollis laughed unexpectedly. He felt his blood surge through him again, making him crave her with unbearable hunger. And she laughed and laughed, slightly hoarse, beautiful, and infectious.

“You’re crazy,” he murmured, kissing her neck tenderly.

Damn, she’s dangerous, he thought somewhere at the edge of consciousness. She enveloped him not just with her body — delicate hands, long legs wrapping around him — but with something more: warmth, light, laughter that spun his mind.

He thought of nothing else. He just felt.

Hollis laughed softly as he moved into her, one long, agonizing thrust. She met him, wrapping her legs around him, and her quiet pleas of “more… more…” burned his skin. He was plunging into her like thick, golden water, where time was losing meaning.

Their orgasm overtook them both suddenly — she bit his lip, arched, and he, growling, no longer tender, but seemingly wild, lost control, following her.

Then he froze, breathing heavily, feeling the tremor slowly leave their bodies. She drew his head to her chest, stroked his wet hair, cooed softly. The tension of the last hours, days, years gradually melted from his muscles under her hands. His thoughts flowed slowly, like molasses.

He thought again that this woman had saved his life today. And now she warmed him, shielding him from the loneliness that had become a second skin.

When his mind fully returned, he whispered into the darkness:

“Thank you.”

“Always,” she replied just as softly. She understood what he meant.

Always. And that word hurt him. Because he knew — “always” was a lie he could not afford.

He pressed his face to her neck, inhaling the uniquely sweet scent of her skin.

“I’m glad you came for more than just one kiss,” she said, as if reading his anxiety.

“Why?” he asked, just to keep himself from slipping into his usual silence.

“Because one swallow does not make a spring, and one kiss does not make a summer. That’s an old saying my grandmother loved.”

He shook his head, pressing his forehead to her shoulder. Summer. She spoke of summer when it was January night outside. Summer felt as unreal as everything happening between them.

And he kissed her again — slowly, deeply, desperately, trying to make time stop. Trying to forget that morning would inevitably come, bringing rules, duty, and the nightmares of his habitual life, where there was no room for honeyed pollen or the quiet glow radiating from her.

Ultimately, she could have died today too. Because of him. Because she was nearby. Because he let her get close. Because, coming to his basement to share dinner, she had nearly become another victim of the gas Sharif had poisoned him with.

But now, not in his nightmares, but in the real moment, she was alive, warm, and she was his.

***

The air in the bedroom was thick and sweet, carrying the scents of sex, fine wine, and her perfume — subtle, floral, something Gibbs couldn’t quite identify, but something that would forever be entwined with this night in his memory.

Hollis sat on the edge of the bed, wrapped in a sheet like a toga. Her blonde hair was tousled, her shoulder flushed with red marks — he hadn’t held back, leaving his traces, his marks. Tonight, she was his.

She felt his gaze on her — heavy, possessive.

“All set?” Her voice was hoarse from recent passion. “You’re staring like you’re taking measurements for a report.”

Gibbs leaned against the bathroom doorframe, barefoot, wearing only his pants.

“In that department, DiNozzo’s the expert.”

Hollis snorted, pulling the sheet a little higher.

“Yeah, I’ve heard their chirping with McGee. Tony shaved three kilos off my weight and stole five centimeters of height. Audacious.”

The corner of Gibbs’s mouth twitched.

“That’s because in camouflage and a vest, you look like a little malnourished goblin when you start sparring with me at a crime scene.”

She laughed — loud, genuine, not offended at all. Her laughter affected him more than any touch. Of course, she didn’t look like a goblin; she looked like a queen.

Moreover, apart from the very first day, they hadn’t sparred at the crime scene — they were happy to see each other. He grinned foolishly in front of the team, delighted to be back on a case with her, joking, smiling, and openly flirting. When she once said of him, “Smart and devious, it's a dangerous combination,” he, unconcerned by the team’s presence, replied, “You forgot… charming,” — and his smile widened further when she answered, “No, I didn’t.” Yes, it was certainly the best joint investigation he could have wished for.

“A malnourished goblin? You sure know how to flatter a woman, Jethro. Strange you’re only thrice divorced,” Hollis said, squinting thoughtfully, then her eyes turned playful. “So… when you asked if I had anything besides my field uniform, you were hoping to see this?”

Without breaking eye contact, she let the sheet fall. In the lamplight, her body gleamed golden, lean, and surprisingly strong. She wasn’t teasing — she was stating a fact. Slowly, she pulled a short silk nightgown, amber in color, over her head. The fabric settled softly over her curves.

“Like it?” she asked, her voice carrying a light, confident flirtation. She didn’t need an answer — she already knew his.

Gibbs took a sip from his wine glass.

“I’ve seen it already.”

“Yes, I know.”

He moved closer to refill her wine:

“More?”

She shot a quick, sly glance, first at him, then at the tousled bed:

“More?”

“Second round? You’re insatiable, Colonel.”

“And you’re… appetizing,” she smiled, eyes assessing him. “Though… you look like I might wake up tomorrow morning with a dead man in my bed. Did the doctors really release you, or did you escape?”

“You think I ran for you?” he smirked, his signature grin.

“That would be flattering. But I think you just ran. Out of stubbornness. Principle. You need rest, Jethro.” She tapped the sheet. “Lie down.”

“Occupational hazard, or are you always this commanding?” he asked, stepping closer.

“Not always, not with everyone. Depends on the circumstances. And who’s around.” She sipped her wine, watching him over the rim of the glass.

“Mm… You’re not one of those women who just purr. With you, it really is worth putting on a body armor.”

She laughed again — low, husky, sending a shiver down his spine. When she spoke again, her voice was soft, deep, and enveloping, like warm velvet. Oh, she could purr… a golden-haired siren.

“Come closer, Jethro. My purring only works on short waves.”

He sat next to her, feeling the heat of her body. His fingers brushed her cheek, tilting her face toward him. The firelight danced in her eyes.

“So, no sleep then? You don’t spare human resources, Colonel, sending the wounded into battle.”

“If they’re truly valuable, I protect them like the apple of my eye,” she whispered, leaning closer. Her breath was warm, sweet with wine. “But it’s too soon to judge… you need to prove your worth, Special Agent Gibbs.”

He kissed her — slow, lingering, tender. And she responded the same. Though she could be a stubborn tank, now she was warm, soft, and tender. He felt something frozen inside him melt, and it scared him more than any ambush.

This kiss held a promise. A promise of warmth, a promise of summer.

***

He slept. And he dreamed — bright, like a flash.

Hollis laughed, her thin amber nightgown fluttering in the wind. Sunlight caught in her pale hair. She approached a sand bunker on the golf course, swung her club, and he saw sparks of light dance along the delicate wire like spider silk.

“Hollis, no!” he shouted, but no sound came.

In a moment — everything around exploded into fiery hell.

He woke abruptly, body jolting. Heart pounding so hard it throbbed painfully in his temples. His face was damp with cold sweat. He turned.

Next to him, Hollis slept peacefully. Her hand rested on his pillow. She breathed evenly, serenely.

Damn. No. He shouldn’t have come.

From the very first meeting, he had no chance of staying indifferent to her. But letting her get this close… allowing himself to get attached… knowing he could lose… Better not to start at all.

He watched her, torn between two desires: to pull this daring, fierce woman close — the one who had warmed him — or to leave. Now. Once and for all. Before it was too late.

His head spun from sleep deprivation, fatigue, and doubt. He couldn’t think rationally.

“Jethro…” Her voice was hoarse from sleep. She brushed hair from her face, eyes half-open. “What’s wrong?”

She was so… gentle. And beautiful. And she really could purr.

“Sleep, Hollis. I have to go.”

“At five in the morning?” she squinted at the clock.

“They start early at NCIS.”

She didn’t argue. But her gaze — clear, even half-asleep — was sharp, reading him. He saw a question there he couldn’t answer. He didn’t know what was right: “see you,” “goodbye,” or a parting kiss... So he chose the safest, vaguest option:

“I’ll call.”

He dressed quickly and left the bedroom. Crossing the threshold, he heard her quiet, genuine voice:

“Hey… You okay? Don’t drop dead on the way?”

“No,” he replied, one word for both questions.

Behind him, her soft, parting words came:

“Take care, kamikaze.”

His hand was on the door handle leading to the stairs when he paused. Stepped back, peeking into the bedroom. Hollis sat on the bed, watching him.

“Hollis…” His voice was firm, not harsh—the same one he used for the most important orders. “Lock the front door from now on. Please.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. Just turned and left, closing the door behind him. Outside, icy pre-dawn fog lay thick. Gibbs started the car they had shared coffee and silence in only hours ago. He didn’t look back at her house. He knew he wouldn’t call.

He leaned closer, conspiratorial.

“And how they were standing shoulder to shoulder in front of Jenny… Seriously, what did the Director even want from them? Something about our jealous Tinker Bell doesn’t sit right… Oh yeah… Definitely not right.”

McGee shrank lower into his chair, as if he could evaporate.

Tony went on, philosophically sighing, because he couldn’t stop himself.

"Future ex-wife alert—this is serious business. We should put it in the dossier: 'Gibbs’ Bermuda Triangle.' Just in case."

He spun toward McGee, expecting backup. Nothing. McGee’s wide-eyed gaze drifted somewhere behind Tony, clearly praying to be invisible.

Then, from behind, came a calm, steel-edged voice: "Agent DiNozzo, are we working or gossiping?"

Tony froze. Slowly turned. Classic horror-movie move. Right behind him stood Hollis Mann, flipping papers. Face? Totally unreadable. Eyes? Gray-green sparks of mischief.

"Colonel! I… we were just discussing… operational stuff," Tony blurted, his usual swagger evaporated.

"I heard," she said dryly, not even looking up. "Very… creative approach to analysis."

She scribbled a few notes in her notebook and strolled to the evidence board like she was on a catwalk.

Tony wiped an imaginary sweat from his forehead. And then—shadow. Gibbs with two mugs of coffee.

"Oh, Boss," Tony muttered, feeling like a fly on a griddle. "Coffee?.. Yes, thanks."

Gibbs’s gaze landed on him. Just a second. Cold. Steel. Pinning Tony to the chair. No anger, no irritation. Pure, absolute silence—the kind that promised instant consequences for even thinking one word too many.

Tony swallowed the lump in his throat and buried himself in the monitor like it held the answers to life itself.

Gibbs moved to Mann, stood beside her, and silently slid a coffee mug into her hand. She gave him the tiniest, almost invisible smile. No words exchanged. No explanations needed. They both got it.

***

During the lunch break, Gibbs and Hollis were stuck in the empty office, finishing paperwork at Jenny Shepard’s request. The team was out in the field.

He sat at his desk, filling out a report. Hollis perched on the edge of the same desk, reviewing witness statements. The silence was tired, but comfortable.

“Your team… they’re good,” she broke the quiet, not looking up from the papers.

“The best,” he replied without a trace of doubt.

“I see. Especially Agent DiNozzo. Annoying, but… sharp.”

Gibbs chuckled and signed the form.

“Can be useful.”

Finally, she looked at him, and her eyes showed understanding. She knew that behind that deliberately dry remark was pride and trust in his team.

She set the folder aside and stretched, easing her stiff neck. He watched the movement out of the corner of his eye. Then she watched him.

“A backache?” she asked, noticing him freeze for a split second while adjusting his posture.

“Old story,” he waved her off.

“You’ll tell me someday,” she said—not as a question, but as a statement. Something inevitable, meant to happen in the future.

He said nothing. Just nodded, picked up the next form, and continued writing. That “someday” lingered in the air. Almost like an unspoken agreement.

A few minutes later, when Hollis Mann went to get coffee for them and Gibbs thought he was alone in the office, Jenny Shepard’s whisper reached him straight in the ear:

“First time I’ve ever seen you let someone sit on your desk.”

***

Gibbs and Hollis stood before the board in the empty conference room, covered with photographs, diagrams, and satellite images. Night had long since fallen outside. Gibbs felt the growing fatigue, the familiar ache in his back reminding him of old injuries.

Colonel Mann seemed tireless. She confidently pointed to a spot on the map. “Here. If he was really seen in this area, Sharif must have exited through this drainage pipe. All checkpoints are covered, patrols are sweeping the woods. Otherwise, he would have been found by now. There’s no other logic.”

Gibbs wasn’t looking at the map, but at her hand. Long fingers, well-kept but without nail polish, with faint scars and abrasions. Hands of someone unafraid of hard work. Not an office clerk.

“The logic holds, but you missed one thing,” he said, stepping closer. He took a red marker and drew a line from the drainage pipe to an old stormwater system, unmarked on Hollis’s map. His hand hovered just a few inches from hers, and he felt the warmth radiating from her. “Back in ’85, they did expansion work here. The diagram wasn’t updated. He went west, toward the highway. You’re looking in the wrong place.”

“No direct route,” she countered, not yielding an inch. “Steep slopes, fallen trees, and a creek block any straight path. He didn’t need to crawl through rough terrain anyway; he knew that, because of the rain, the dogs wouldn’t be able to pick up his trail. Sharif is smart—he wouldn’t complicate things; the drainage pipe was enough. Your drains… could have been a backup route. But his initial exit—was here.”

She turned to him, and suddenly they were too close. Too close for an argument. Too close for something else.

He saw tiny golden flecks in her gray-green eyes, the small mole on her upper lip he hadn’t noticed before. The air between them became charged. They were arguing about the trail, but something else was at stake. Who would gain the upper hand. Who was right. Who would look away first.

Gibbs didn’t look away. And she didn’t either.

“Prove it,” he said quietly, and it sounded like a challenge that went far beyond professional boundaries.

“I’m proving it already,” she replied just as quietly, her gaze flicking to his lips for a split second.

***

Late at night, they were watching the house of man who could lead them to Sharif. Gibbs pressed the binoculars to his eyes, peering into the dimly lit window on the second floor. The cold November wind howled outside the glass. Next to him, in the driver’s seat of his Dodge, sat Hollis. She smelled of burnt gunpowder, cold steel, and faint hints of some floral perfume—a strange but pleasant mix.

They had been silent for over an hour. With most people, Gibbs’ silence was a weapon, a way to make the other person talk, to make them nervous. With her, it was different. Her silence was calm, confident. She didn’t try to fill it with unnecessary words, didn’t fidget, didn’t complain about the cold. She just was. And it was… pleasant.

He cast a glance at her. She was sitting with her head resting on the headrest, staring at the same house, her profile sharply outlined by the streetlight. He caught himself observing her as closely as a target—but with a different kind of interest.

“Cold?” he asked unexpectedly, his own voice sounding slightly hoarse from the long silence.

She turned her head, and in the dim light he saw the corners of her lips lift in a smile. “After Afghanistan, cold is better than heat. Back there, dust was in your mouth, not coffee in a cup. This… counts as a resort.”

Gibbs chuckled. Not a complaint. A statement of fact. An answer he liked. He handed her a thermos of coffee he had brewed himself. Strong, real coffee. Not some hellish mix from a coffee machine. She took it, their fingers brushing briefly. A moment. Two. Only then did Gibbs slowly withdraw his hand.

***

Half an hour later, the silence in the Dodge was broken by a soft knock on the window. Outside stood Tony, holding a paper bag.

“Boss, Colonel,” he said with his characteristic smirk as Gibbs rolled down the window. “A proper Gibbs-style dinner. Not exactly how I pictured your little date… But I tried: it’s the best you can find at three in the morning.”

Gibbs took the bag silently, nodding at DiNozzo to indicate he could leave. But Tony didn’t move.

“Boss… you know, that 2 a.m. text ‘food, urgent!’—that wasn’t in my job description,” Tony continued, though his grin faltered slightly under Gibbs’ heavy gaze. “Uh… here you go, boss. Always at your service.”

Gibbs remained silent for another second, then gave a short nod. It was almost a “thank you.”

“Tony… Don’t forget to feed McGee,” he added before rolling up the window. “He’s in the van.” A quick nod toward the parking lot across the street.

The car filled with the aroma of hot noodles, savory meat, and sesame oil. Gibbs opened the bag, pulled out two containers, and handed one to Hollis along with a pair of disposable chopsticks.

They ate in silence, listening to the radio. No awkward words, no ceremonies. Just two professionals sharing a meager meal in the pause between chaos and quiet. They ate to regain their strength. This wasn’t a date—it was camaraderie and unity, like in a cold foxhole during a lull in the fighting.

Gibbs finished the noodles, ate the last piece of meat, and stuffed the empty container back into the bag. She did the same, her movements just as precise and economical as his.

“Agent Gibbs,” she said quietly a second later. He turned toward her, expecting her to continue. But she simply nodded toward the dark doorway across the street. A shadow stirred in the depths.

He was already reaching for the door handle when his radio crackled. McGee’s voice reported that it was just a homeless man looking for a place to sleep.

Gibbs slowly released the handle and exhaled. Hollis relaxed her shoulders, and the corner of her mouth curved into that familiar playful smile he especially liked.

“Dessert’s missing,” she said.

“Next time,” he nodded, shifting his gaze from her face to the dark doorway, and they both understood that this wasn’t just a remark. It was a promise. A promise that next time would definitely come.

***

Three hours later, they sat on the hood of Dodge, waiting for the team to pick up the detainee. The man who might lead them to Sharif. Or maybe not. That would become clear later. For now, the first rush of adrenaline had faded, leaving only a pleasant fatigue and silence.

Hollis handed him a paper cup of awful coffee from the nearest machine. Their thermos coffee was already gone. Gibbs took the cup. This time their fingers didn’t brush—wasted.

“Not the worst day,” she said, watching the sunrise glow over the city.

“Been worse,” he nodded.

He looked at her. At the still-red cheeks from the chase, at the strands of hair that had escaped her ponytail. She looked… real. Not polished, not playing a role. Just a competent woman he had just gone through a firefight with. She had covered his back—thanks to her quick reaction, the bullet that should have hit him slammed into the wall instead.

“Thanks,” he said suddenly. “For covering me.”

She turned to him, raising an eyebrow slightly.

“And I thought you never thanked anyone, Agent Gibbs.”

“For that, it’s worth saying,” he admitted honestly. And it was, perhaps, the most personal thing he had said in a long time.

Hollis nodded briefly. No extra words. She simply lifted her cup in a silent toast. Gibbs returned the gesture. In that simple action, there was more respect and trust than in a dozen formal “thank yous.”

***

A few days later, he was sitting at his desk in the office when his phone vibrated on the desk, displaying a familiar number. Jenny.

“Jethro,” her voice came through evenly, but there was… something in it. “A decision’s been made. The Army is taking Colonel Mann. The investigation is on hold until we get new leads on Sharif.”

“I figured as much,” he replied, staring out into the window.

“Was she useful?” Jenny asked, her tone carrying that familiar playfulness, tinged with something like jealousy.

Gibbs was silent for a moment, choosing his words.

“She… got involved.”

Involved. That had become their code with Hollis.

“Is there anything I should know about you before we get… involved?”

But Jenny understood it in her own way. A soft chuckle came through the line.

“Alright then. Let the Army have their star back. We won’t need her anymore. I’ll tell the Pentagon that the cooperation was… productive.”

“Go ahead,” he said, almost hanging up.

“Jethro?” Her voice softened slightly, but was no less biting. “I hope you weren’t getting too used to her.”

He didn’t answer. He just set the phone down.

***

Well, they had lost Sharif. His trail had gone cold. All alerts had been sent out, all law enforcement agencies warned — now it was just a matter of waiting. Sooner or later, he would show his face again. People like him don’t stop. Then they would catch him. Maybe together. Maybe not. But for now, the joint investigation was over — that was the decision from above, from the Army, and from the Navy.

“Well, Colonel,” Gibbs said, hands in the pockets of his coat, nodding toward the Navy Yard building behind him, bathed in the warm glow of evening lights. “Looks like your mission here is complete.”

“Affirmative,” she replied, her gaze fixed on him, the same faint hesitation in her eyes that he felt in himself. Professional duty demanded a handshake and a parting of ways.

But something hung in the air between them. Unspoken. About everything that had happened these past days. About the silent stakeouts in the car; the debates at the board; the cheap takeout Chinese food they had shared in the empty office at night; about how she had stood with his team in the middle of Georgetown, hand on the shoulder of the poor guy with a backpack containing a bomb on his knees while Ziva disarmed the device; about wading knee-deep through the forest mud chasing the ghost of Sharif; about coffee on the hood of the car at sunrise…

“Jethro, I…” she started, calling him by name for the first time, and faltered — highly uncharacteristic for her.

He stepped forward, closing the distance. He didn’t speak. Instead, he looked her in the eyes — long, appraising, the same look he had given her the first day.

He remembered Jenny asking about Hollis, “What's she like?” He had known the answer then. Now he was a hundred times more certain.

Hollis held his gaze, smiled, and barely nodded.

“Back to back,” she said quietly, using their tactical shared term — a signal that they had each other’s back, both professionally and… maybe a little more.

“Always,” he confirmed.

He had her number, but he didn’t promise to call. He didn’t suggest a meeting. That would be too direct, too out of his character. Instead, he simply turned and walked to his car. But he knew. And she knew. This was not goodbye.

"Assume 100-meter blast radius from the sand trap."

"It's called a bunker, boss, not a sand trap."

One look from Gibbs shut him right up. Tony backpedaled immediately.

"Blast radius, hundred meters, got it, boss. Probie, you got the woods, I got the far side." He didn’t dare give Ziva any orders.

"Uh…" Tim stalled. Everyone turned toward him.

"What, McGee?"

"Poison ivy, boss. I just… I look at the stuff and I break out."

Gibbs shrugged.

"Don't look."

McGee had no choice but to trudge off toward his leafy nemesis. Meanwhile, Ziva and Tony headed in the opposite direction, careful not to step on charred remains. Ziva remarked,

"Zaka would be busy today."

"Zaka?"

"Orthodox Jews who volunteer to collect body parts from terror attacks."

Gibbs crouched by the bunker, trying to picture what had happened here—and remembering how close he himself had come to ending up like Colonel Cooper just a few months earlier. A woman’s voice cut into his thoughts, firm and polished.

"Agent Gibbs?"

His mood soured instantly. Women at a crime scene usually meant trouble. Hell, women anywhere usually meant trouble. Three divorces had taught him that.

He rose and turned. The voice belonged to a tall, attractive blonde in an unflattering field uniform.

"Lieutenant Colonel Hollis Mann," she said, extending her hand with practiced confidence. Gibbs took it, giving her a once-over, then met her clear, steady gaze with the kind of weary indifference only he could pull off.

"Army Criminal Investigation Division. I believe your director called."

"She did," Gibbs confirmed, just as flatly. He gestured toward his agent adjusting her black NCIS ballcap. "Officer Ziva David."

"Ziva David—yes, I know," Mann nodded politely, then turned back to Gibbs, resting her hands on her hips just below the heavy gun belt. "Army criminal investigative division has excellent intel."

"Good. You can use it to support our investigation." Gibbs walked away, making it plain he didn’t need outside help.

But Mann kept pace, her tone calm but unyielding.

"Our joint investigation. With army in the lead. This isn't the Navy-Army club, it's the Army-Navy club."

"Yeah. That —" Gibbs jabbed a finger at the mangled corpse "—is a dead marine at the Army-Navy club."

He hated jurisdictional disputes. Hated joint cases even more. Didn’t matter what gender the Army sent—he wanted every camo-clad interloper off his crime scene. Gibbs trusted his team. Everyone else just got in the way.

As Gibbs jotted notes from Mann’s report, which she had generously shared—she still seemed to believe in this "joint investigation"—her agents combed the grass for evidence and collected stray fragments of human tissue. Meanwhile, Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo employed his own "method": he scooped up a handful of dry grass, tossed it in the air, and followed wherever the wind carried it. Anything to avoid scraping his knees or digging through body parts.

"I had EOD sweep the rest of the sand traps." Mann reported when she and Gibbs regrouped at the blast site.

"Bunkers," Gibbs corrected.

"Excuse me?"

"They call them bunkers, not sand traps." He pointed at the crater—and, to his own surprise, gave her an actual smile. He had no idea why.

She didn’t react, just continued matter-of-factly.

"The Colonel's son said he saw what he thought was a spiderweb in the bunker."

"Trip wire?" Ziva cut in. Mossad training had made her an expert in explosives.

"Possibly," Mann admitted. "It’s hard to verify that at the moment. Of course, we've got a lot of land to cover."

"Eighteen holes on a golf course," Gibbs pointed out.

“You want to divide them up?” she offered readily.

Naïve, Gibbs thought.

"Sure. We’ll take the crime scene. You and your people can take the other seventeen holes."

That earned her a smile—and a hands-on-hips stance that told him she wasn’t backing down.

"You’re not taking away my crime scene. End of story." She stared him straight in the eyes, unflinching. Ziva tilted her head, half-expecting sparks to fly.

Mann went on, "But if you ask nicely, I might just give you the body.."

Wow! Gibbs hadn’t expected that. Not the pushback — he always expected pushback — but not with that kind of disarming smile. Still, he had his counter ready. But before that, he let slip a ghost of a grin.

"I don't really have to ask, seeing as my M.E. got here first."

"Fine." Mann crossed her arms. Her voice was still friendly, but there was steel under it. "Okay. If this is going to be a pissing match, you better bring an umbrella."

She tilted her head, smiling. They stood like that, locked eyes, neither blinking.

"Whoa-ho! Got some good news, Boss!" Tony announced, ducking under the tape at a run. He slowed when he spotted Gibbs and the lieutenant colonel squaring off.

"Did I miss something?"

"Gibbs just found his fourth ex-wife." Ziva murmured.

Gibbs heard her, but didn’t look away from Mann. "What do you got, DiNozzo??"

Only when Tony got close did Gibbs finally break eye contact.

"Found this off the next tee, boss. It was outside the blast radius. Wind must have carried it. Looks like part of a detonator."

"I checked the neighboring tees myself." Mann interjected.

"Well, maybe you shouldhave checked the trash cans," Tony shot back. He turned to Gibbs. "Looks like a hole in one, Boss."

Gibbs allowed himself a faint smirk. "Nice work."

"Thanks." Tony beamed like a kid who’d just been handed candy.

Mann pressed her lips together, then gave Tony a short nod—seemed annoyed more with herself for missing it than with NCIS for finding it. That was new. Usually, outside investigators loved pinning failures on Gibbs’s team.

This investigation was going to be... interesting.

***

Several hours later, after Colonel Cooper’s body and all evidence had been brought to NCIS, medical examiner Dr. Donald “Ducky” Mallard finally indulged in his favorite pastime: conversing with the newest arrival on his autopsy table.

This time the topic was golf. Ducky mimed a swing with an imaginary golf club.

“…I forget to follow through. And the ball just goes a couple of feet. Not nearly as far as you traveled, my friend.”

At that moment, Lieutenant Colonel Hollis Mann, followed by Special Agent Gibbs, stepped off the elevator and entered Autopsy.

“Is he talking to himself?” Mann asked, surprised.

“The body,” Gibbs corrected, suppressing a smile.

“Ah, Colonel!” Ducky brightened immediately, already acquainted with the blonde at the crime scene. “Your commanding officer just called. Requested copies of my autopsy report,” he told Mann—and with barely a glance at her companion, greeted him with a curt, “Gibbs.” Ducky's gaze returned instantly, almost intently, to Hollis.

Gibbs flicked a sharp look between the two of them. Colonel Mann seemed slightly unsettled by the pathologist’s attention. Gibbs cut in, brisk and no-nonsense:

“The report?”

“Yes, well…” Ducky tore himself away from Colonel and turned back to his duties. “The cause of death appears to be just what you see here. Explosive dismemberment.” To emphasize, he lifted the victim’s severed foot.

Gibbs muttered tightly, “Yeah, got that part.”

Mann interjected: “What we don't have are traceable fragments from that explosion.”

“Yes, Abby was complaining about the dearth of physical evidence from the crime scene. Present company excepted, of course.” Ducky’s eyes drifted meaningfully back to the corpse.

“Bomb shell was plastic,” Gibbs suggested irritably, frustrated that he couldn’t drag Ducky’s attention his way.

“Which means the fragments disintegrated,” Mann finished for him.

“Yes.” Ducky nodded and went on, still directing his words—and gaze—at Colonel. “But luckily for you, not all of them. As the ancients soon discovered, fire and water do not mix. The human body is over two-thirds water…”

He retrieved a specimen jar from a nearby tray. Gibbs stepped forward, expecting the find to be handed to him—but to his annoyance, Ducky bypassed him completely and presented the jar directly to Mann.

“Some of the burning fragments were cooled by the interstitial liquid in the colonel's tissue before they could disintegrate.”

Gibbs’s eyes darted between the two of them. What the hell? Sure, Ducky never missed a chance to charm a pretty woman, but this was… different. And it was needling Gibbs more than he cared to admit.

He growled, “Get that to Abby,” and strode out, leaving the colonel and the pathologist alone.

Ducky watched him go, puzzled. Jethro was never one for pleasantries, but something in his behavior had carried a new edge. Could it be that Tony and Ziva’s jokes weren’t far off the mark?

Hollis handed the specimen back politely, thanked him, and followed Gibbs. Ducky pursed his lips to suppress a grin. The elegant blonde reminded him, for a fleeting moment, of Alice chasing the White Rabbit. Only Gibbs was no rabbit anyone could easily catch.

Ducky chuckled softly. Something was definitely brewing.

***

While Tony was in the conference room interviewing the victim’s son, McGee and Ziva, under Colonel Mann’s direction, were reviewing photos from the crime scene.

“There it is,” McGee said, pulling up a shot of a pale Toyota parked behind a fence.

“Okay, good. Punch in on that,” Mann ordered.

“We can read the entire license plate,” Tim said excitedly.

“I'll update the bolo.” Ziva offered, heading toward her desk.

“Bolo for what?” Tony asked suspiciously, approaching just in time to see the smooth teamwork—without Gibbs and with the new colonel in charge.

“Well, we cleared the course, we vetted everyone as they left, but we don't have any record of this '99 toyota leaving. The owner's a green skeeper at the club,” Hollis Mann began, filling him in.

Tony froze, startled, then slowly sank into his chair, staring at this strange blonde. She was a boss (not their boss, but a boss), so why was she wasting time explaining all this to him? Gibbs would have just barked: “Where the hell have you been, DiNozzo? Get to work!”—end of story.

Tony shot McGee a wary look, as if asking: “What’s going on here?”

But McGee ignored him and calmly went on working with this conqueror of foreign lands: “He must have used an old service entrance and snuck out before we covered them all.”

“Nice catch, McGee,” Tony praised.

But Mann smiled sweetly.

“No, that’s my catch.” Then, turning to Tim, she added: “Let's see if we can get an address on this.”

The blonde-Colonel turned away, and Tony instantly pulled a face, mocking the suddenly appointed Boss Number Two. A very strange boss. One who smiled, made small talk, and didn’t hand out headslaps. A very wrong boss.

At that very moment, just behind Tony, the armored MTAC door slid open. After a long, tense video call, it released Special Agent Gibbs and Director Shepard back into the bullpen.

“Was it just me, or did the Secretary of Defense seem nervous?” Jenny asked, peering at Jethro’s face.

But he ignored her, leaned on the railing, and stared down at Colonel Mann, who was speaking with McGee.

“Probably has a tee time tomorrow,” Gibbs muttered, still watching Mann.

Jenny, unable to resist, asked casually:

“What's she like?” And it sounded like, ‘She is good?’”

Jethro was clearly unprepared for the question. He hesitated, silent. Jenny hated his reaction instantly. She fixed her probing gaze on her former lover, trying to read his mind.

“I just meant, is she up to the job?”

Again, Gibbs faltered. Opened his mouth, then finally said:

“I’ll let you know.”

The phone saved him. But nothing could save Jenny from the sharp sting of jealousy. That was not the answer she’d expected. Jethro should have tossed off some biting remark about the colonel foisted on him. Instead, Gibbs answered the call.

“Hey, boss, DiNozzo here,” Tony whispered into the phone.

Gibbs lowered the phone and shouted across the bullpen:

“DiNozzo!”

Tony rolled his eyes as if hearing the voice of God. He turned, saw Gibbs waving at him from above, and laughed nervously.

“Hey, that's weird, 'cause I… I thought you were still in MTAC.”

“What do you want?”

“Uh… we…” Tony began, planning to secretly complain about the colonel. But Hollis Mann answered for him.

“Just found an unaccounted for vehicle from the Army-Navy club..”

Tony rolled his eyes again. No one spoke that loudly in this bullpen. No one except Gibbs. Where had this loud blonde come from, and why was she shouting like she owned the place? Surely the boss would set her straight.

But to everyone’s surprise, Gibbs didn’t say a word. He simply hurried down the stairs. Jenny watched him go, then glanced at the colonel. “Damn sand trap… She’s not even a redhead.”

***

Jenny Shepard strode into her office, opened her email, and printed out Hollis Mann’s file.

She’d received it from Army CID that morning, but had only skimmed it then. Her only real thought at the time, while looking at the colonel’s official photo, was: the Army uniform flatters no woman. But in person, the blonde colonel was very attractive — much to Jenny’s irritation.

She still couldn’t understand Jethro’s reaction to this blonde. That look… What the hell was that look?! Jethro only liked redheads. Everybody knew that. By definition, this blonde wasn’t supposed to be his type. No—Jenny told herself. Definitely not.

She nervously smirked, ran a hand through her short red hair, slid her glasses onto the tip of her nose, and began reading.

Damn it. Hollis Mann was no lightweight. Enlisting right out of college, she’d spent the last two decades in some of the most dangerous places on Earth, climbing through the ranks faster than most officers could dream. She’d survived multiple combat deployments, led missions in hostile territories, jumped from planes into enemy zones, and managed to make her mark as a brilliant tactical operations trainer at Fort Bragg, one of the Army’s largest and most elite bases. Being stationed there—and trusted to train soldiers for high-risk operations—was a distinction few officers ever earned. Unmarried, never divorced, no children—her life had been wholly devoted to mastering her profession.

Her file made Jenny’s jaw tighten. Mann wasn’t just decorated—she was tested to the limit. Explosives, intelligence operations, undercover assignments that would have made most men break a sweat, hostage situations, global counter-terror missions… and she’d excelled at every one. Her colleagues and superiors (and even the damn Secretary of the Army) noted in her evaluation her precision with weapons, intelligence, and instincts in the field, as if she could read a battlefield like a chessboard.

Jenny exhaled, running her fingers through her hair. Heavy artillery, indeed. This was the kind of woman who made generals blink, who could walk into a room and instantly command respect without raising her voice. A woman who had no time for distractions, no patience for incompetence—and clearly, no fear of Gibbs.

For the last decade she’d served as an Army CID special agent in Arlington, blending tactical mastery with investigative skill. She was still officially listed at Fort Bragg as a trainer in the Airborne Division, drilling soldiers in combat readiness. Every mission, every badge, every award—none of it was decoration for the shelf. It all had teeth.

In short, Hollis Mann had faced every challenge the Army could throw at her—and left them all trembling behind her. Jenny couldn’t help but feel a flicker of… awe—and professional envy. Women like this didn’t just survive—they dominated. They climbed, they led, they owned a man’s world. Exactly the type Jethro should avoid after what had happened seven years ago between him and Jenny in Paris.

Jenny almost exhaled with relief, almost convinced herself that once Jethro realized what a powerhouse Hollis Mann was—someone who could be above him—he’d set distance. Besides, he wouldn’t risk breaking his own Rule #12: Never date a co-worker. Even if this was just inter-agency cooperation.

But damn… this Hollis Mann… Jenny could see her. Hollis Mann was beautiful—it was… How did Tony put it? Jenny had overheard. “Army-Barby”. Mann wasn’t a grunt—even in dull Army camouflage, she was a queen. Jenny was ready to hate her.

On the other hand, Jenny knew Gibbs’s type: a chauvinist at heart. He didn’t need a successful lady-colonel, and a queen wasn’t on the list either. His ex-wives may have been witches, but his ideal was the Stepford wife—sweet, proper, patient, waiting with dinner on the table. That’s how Jenny imagined Shannon Gibbs. That’s probably how Jethro once imagined Jenny, when he asked her to quit the Paris op seven years ago and marry him. She’d said no—and ended up as Director of NCIS. But she still loved him.

***

A black Dodge Charger roared under the old concrete bridge. Gibbs and DiNozzo stepped out just in time to see—of course—Colonel Hollis Mann already there.

“Woman’s everywhere,” Tony thought bitterly, straightening his stylish jacket.

“DiNozzo,” Gibbs signaled him to get to work. But Mann was faster:

“The suspect is already in CID custody, Agent Gibbs.My people can handle the interrogation.”

Gibbs turned, stunned, to Tony. DiNozzo threw up his hands, silently: “Not my fault! What the hell is going on?!”

“What are you doing?” Gibbs growled and Tony bolted back toward the car.

“Divorced, right?” Hollis asked suddenly.

“Three times,” Jethro replied, almost proudly. Let her know who she was dealing with. Deep down, though, he realized the words were sharpened by Jenny’s earlier question still echoing in his head. What's she like? Damn right, she’s good.

“Only three?” The colonel was unimpressed. “Well, I'll be sure to let my superiors know how you assisted.”

Gibbs only smirked.

Meanwhile, Army EOD cracked open the Toyota’s trunk. Moments later Gibbs had another reason to smirk: just a stash of marijuana.

“Okay, drugs,” Hollis sighed, shoulders dropping, but refused to give up. “Doesn't mean he didn't plant the bomb.”

Nice twist, Gibbs thought. It gave him the perfect excuse to slip away from the confusing blonde and work the case his way.

He smiled, wolf-like, slipping free of the red flags around him. “YYou can have that interrogation. I'll look for who did.”

***

As always, Leroy Jethro Gibbs spent the evening in the basement of his house, working on his boat, trying to detach from the day’s events. But it wasn’t that easy.

“Agent Gibbs!” a loud voice cut through his solitude at the worst possible moment. Gibbs looked up, startled, and saw Hollis Mann at the top of the stairs, smiling at him with a confident, yet slightly embarrassed smile.

“I… I've been ringing your bell for the last three minutes,” she said.

“Yeah... I've been meaning to fix that,” Gibbs muttered, returning to his task: he was just preparing paint to finish the name on the stern of his boat. He didn’t need company—but he said nothing aloud. And Mann came down the stairs into his “holy of holies,” remarking:

“Well, the door was unlocked, so…”

“So this would be trespassing, not breaking and entering,” Gibbs replied, not particularly politely. Mann ignored the tone, glanced around, then tilted her head, looked at the boat, and, of course, asked:

“‘Kelly’?”

Gibbs immediately set down the brush, turned toward his uninvited guest, and, unsure how to react to her appearance, asked dryly:

“Is there a reason you... broke into my house?”

Mann paused for a few seconds, seemingly regretting her decision to come. Finally, she said conciliatorily:

“This is a joint investigation. I thought maybe we could share some information.”

Gibbs paused before answering. After all, far less pleasant visitors had shown up uninvited in his basement. Hollis Mann, at least, came with friendly intentions—and no reason to want him dead… yet. So…

“Beer?”

“Beer?” His unexpected offer took her by surprise.

Gibbs didn’t answer verbally, but with unprecedented hospitality, he waved the stick he held toward his workbench, where the last unopened bottle sat.

“Uh… sure.”

In reality, it was a distraction. As Mann shrugged off her coat and headed to the far end of the basement, Gibbs peeked from behind the boat’s hull, sneakily admiring her long legs, finally free of the ridiculous military uniform. He had already decided that the uniform deserved to be burned: it unfairly aged a blooming beautiful woman and rendered her faceless. In civilian clothes, hair down, the uninvited guest was exactly the type DiNozzo called a “strawberry-sugar blonde”—nothing like the colonel they’d met earlier on the golf course.

Yeah… and now Hollis Mann, all neat as a figurine, friendly and pretty, casually showed up in his basement at night… uninvited. Definitely should have locked the door.

As these thoughts ran through his mind, Mann took the slightly wet bottle lying on a metal tray of melting ice, wrapped the neck with the rag he usually used to wipe sawdust, and unscrewed the cap. Gibbs quickly turned away before she could catch him staring. But he immediately felt her assessing gaze on the small of his back. And somehow, the idea of a joint investigation now seemed like a compelling plan.

Still, he wasn’t happy to see her — or anyone — in his basement. He wanted to be alone with "Kelly".

The guest, unaware of his thoughts, shared news about the investigation as promised:

“I got the results on the swabs from the Toyota. There were traces of diesel fuel and fertilizer. Same thing that McVeigh used to blow up the federal building in Oklahoma.”

“Yeah. Guy driving the Toyota was a greenskeeper.”

“I know,” the colonel agreed, slowly walking along the hull of the boat, his hand tracing the varnished surface. “He's around fertilizer and diesel fuel all day. It was a bad lead," she said, shrugging in a cartoonish gesture. “Anything you'd like to share?”

“Well, I got some sardines upstair.” Gibbs replied stubbornly, trying to focus on the boat.

“I meant about the case. But, then, you knew that.”

He couldn’t resist a glance at the colonel, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He admired that she didn’t give up—but said nothing.

In truth, he had nothing to share. The investigation had stalled. CID had a bag of marijuana and the gardener-dealer. NCIS had… nothing.

Suddenly, Mann snapped her fingers loudly and asked something she really shouldn’t have:

“Girlfriend. Is… hm… Kelly—your… your girlfriend?”

Gibbs flinched, pressed his lips together, set down the brush, and sat motionless for a few moments, staring into space. Then he looked at her and shook his head, aware that the bitterness had flashed in his eyes. Mann noticed and her look softening with understanding, slowly stepped back. Gibbs was glad she didn’t need further explanation.

“Okay…” She stepped a couple paces away, rested her hand on the boat, and only then did Gibbs return to his work. “Look. CID intel did a profile on you for me. I know you flaunt authority, especially in front of a female...”

“A female write that, too?”

“Yep. She also wrote you were a sniper, a good one, but your eyesight's shot, you're injury-prone, if not in a state of near death-wish fulfillment…” The colonel spoke in calm measured tones, but then suddenly got more animated, mechanically scratching a crack running along the hull. “And though you're pressured and impatient, you're also passionate and loyal, in spite of the fact that you don't trust anyone.”

Gibbs decisively grabbed her hand, stopping her from further defacing his "Kelly". And then the colonel hit him with words, speaking coaxingly yet firmly:

“You are gonna have to trust me.”

Gibbs didn’t know whether to be annoyed or admit that this woman, crashing in like a snowstorm, had somehow captivated him.

He’d thought, having lost his first love and survived three ex-wives and Jenny Shepard, he’d seen it all. But the colonel was a sand trap and an explosion in one.

He asked, his voice lightly irritated but masking confusion:

“Is there anything I should know about you before we get... involved?”

“Involved?” she frowned in puzzlement.

Gibbs barely suppressed a smirk. “In the case.”

Oh no. At that moment, he wasn’t talking about the investigation at all. She’d intrigued him since the golf course earlier that morning, and the effect had only grown. Now Mann had him hooked for real. Something about her was special.

Judging by her reaction, the hint he’d embedded when he mentioned “getting involved” had caught Hollis Mann off guard. It seemed she hadn’t been thinking of "getting involved" in any way. Too bad…

Finally, she replied, steering the conversation back to work:

“You can have NCIS intel do a profile on me, if you'd like.”

“Oh, I could. But I like surprises.”

Later, they had shared a dorm room. After graduation, Sarah married the “suitable guy” — it seemed like the right thing to do at the time. It was 1987, and law and society were against them: two young women in love.

Yet the long road had brought them back to each other, to this gym, and to these smiling children, Summer leading the mischief while Michael followed his sister diligently.

"He's late," Hollis murmured, her calm voice betraying a flicker of worry. She knew how much these competitions meant to Jethro—these chances to be present, to cheer the kids on, to show them his love and pride—and just imagining him missing it today made her chest tighten.

"He said he'd be here," Sarah said softly. "Relax, Hollis, there's still plenty of time. Besides, last time it was you who nearly missed it."

Hollis nodded silently. A month ago, a long Pentagon briefing and Friday traffic had thrown her off. Today… something had delayed Jethro.

Right after Summer was born, Gibbs and Hollis made a pact: no overtime, no working weekends, no unnecessary risks or dangers. They preserve themselves for the kids.

Naturally, they kept working. Hollis—first as an investigator for the Department of Defense, and later as a private consultant for the Pentagon and its contractors—has continued in that role ever since. Jethro, of course, remains with NCIS: he stepped away from field work, handed his team over to DiNozzo's leadership, and took charge of a department handling cold cases. Most of the archives still aren't digitized, so they need an employee, a top-tier professional who knows how to work the old way, uncovering leads where no one else can, and for whom old cases still matter.

For Jethro, who carries the memory of Shannon and Kelly—his first wife and young daughter, murdered on a drug lord's orders—there are no old or forgotten cases. He pursues justice for the victims and their families—now in dusty archives, without bullets or chases, but with the same full commitment—and he excels. For field work, he still relies on DiNozzo and Ziva, and for digital investigations, the inexhaustible genius of McGee.

Tired of the political games, Sarah returned to the financial sector after stepping down as Secretary of the Navy. She now chairs the boards of several small but promising companies and, most importantly, continues to fulfill a long-held dream: giving guest lectures at universities. In front of the students, she comes alive—brilliant, witty, and immensely knowledgeable. She doesn’t just hold the audience’s attention—she shares insights and experiences you won’t find in any textbook. The students adore her. Freed from the stern mask of a high-ranking official, she can now laugh, show her emotions, and be herself.

"His phone is off…" Hollis sighed loudly, after failing to reach her husband, and looked at the clock again.

"He's fine."

"Rule number…" Hollis began, but Sarah’s gentle smile stopped her mid-sentence.

"For us, he's the exception to all his rules, and you know it. He'll be here."

At that moment, a text from McGee arrived on Hollis's phone.

"Boss is on his way. Phone died. Tell Summer and Mikey – break a leg! From all of us."

Hollis showed the message to Sarah. She smiled:

"They still call him 'Boss'?"

"At least he’s stopped the occasional head slap," Hollis snorted. "Though I think DiNozzo kind of misses it."

"Michael," she raised a hand to get her son's attention, "Come here, don’t distract your sister."

Michael ran over and settled between Hollis and Sarah just as Summer's name was called.

Summer stepped onto the floor mat. She looked so small and fragile beneath the gym's high ceilings. Her eyes found her audience in the bleachers—Mom, her brother, and Aunt Sarah. She didn’t see her father, raising her eyebrows in surprise, but she took a deep breath and stepped into the center of the hall with a serious expression.

Hollis threw one last glance at the clock and the door, then focused entirely on her daughter, determined not to miss a single moment of her performance.

Summer was magnificent, moving with precision and composure, performing not just with skill but with genuine joy. When she struck her final pose and smiled at the judges, the hall erupted in applause.

Hollis, who had been holding her breath, finally exhaled and returned her daughter’s smile.

"Well done," she whispered, her eyes shining with pride.

"She's beautiful, Hollis," Sarah exhaled. Lowering the camera to her lap, she began to applaud louder than she ever would at a diplomatic reception.

Then came the awards ceremony. Summer stood on the top step of the podium, beaming—a perfect miniature of her mother.

Finally, Hollis, Sarah, and Michael went down to hug and congratulate their champion. Summer was radiant.

"Did you see? Did you see?! And Dad? Is he here?" Her eyes immediately scanned the crowd for a familiar face.

"Dad couldn’t make it, sweetie, but he tried really hard," Hollis said softly, hugging her daughter. "McGee texted—he says the whole team is rooting for you."

Summer’s eyes widened in surprise—her father always came to her competitions, to parent-teacher conferences, to school Father’s Day events, even Easter egg hunts.

"Dad’s gonna be so sad…" Summer murmured, then suddenly perked up. "I know! Aunt Sarah will show him the recording, and I’ll show him my medal. Maybe Dad will make it for Michael’s test?"

While Michael was adjusting his gi before his belt test, Hollis and Sarah set up an “operations center” in a corner of the gym.

“I’m still going to kill him,” Hollis muttered good-naturedly, watching her son try to tie his slightly frayed white belt—today he was supposed to earn the right to replace it with a yellow one.

“I’ll join you,” Sarah replied with a smile. “But first, Colonel, we need to get back to the stands.”

She gave Hollis’s hand a light tug and led her toward the bleachers.

Michael's performance wasn’t graceful, but it was full of determination. He attacked his imaginary opponents with increasing drive, looking more like his father than ever at that moment. A little Jethro, straight out of the old photos—dark hair, serious blue eyes.

Hollis’s professional eye, as a black belt in aikido, noted every detail: the stance a bit too wide, the center of gravity slightly high, impulsiveness instead of precision. All forgivable for a five-year-old boy who had only spent six months on the tatami. The analyst in Hollis fell silent, yielding to love and maternal pride.

And when Michael turned and gave a deep bow to the judges, Hollis felt tears welling up in her eyes.

At that exact moment, as Michael straightened up under the applause and searched for his audience, the gym door swung open forcefully.

In the doorway, slightly out of breath, wearing a work shirt and vest, stood Jethro. He froze, his gaze immediately finding Hollis, Sarah, the beaming Summer with her medal around her neck, and then—Michael on the tatami. He was late. But he was here.

Michael saw him first. The serious little face broke into the widest grin. He didn’t shout or run; he just straightened up even more, and, looking straight at his father, gave a solemn bow—to his sensei.

Gibbs nodded back to his son, and in that nod was more pride than any words could hold.

Jethro moved along the bleachers, taking the stairs two at a time, and finally reached Hollis, who had risen to meet him. She looked at him, arms crossed over her chest, one eyebrow raised.

"You're forty minutes late, Marine."

"Traffic," he replied simply, but his eyes held an apology.

He ruffled Summer's hair, studying the gold medal around her neck intently.

"First place? Knew you could do it. Well done."

"Thanks, Dad!" she beamed. "Did you see Michael's kata?"

"I caught the bow," Gibbs answered honestly. His gaze met his son's as the boy ran toward them, barely restraining himself to maintain dojo etiquette.

"Both did well."

Gibbs hugged Michael as he reached them, then turned his gaze to Hollis.

"Everything okay?" he asked quietly, the concern in his voice reaching beyond the kids, to her, to her feelings.

Hollis finally relaxed and smiled.

"It is now. Of course."

Gibbs nodded, one hand resting on Hollis's shoulder, the other arm pulling their radiant son close. Summer leaned trustingly against Sarah, whispering something with a sly smile.

They stood like that, a united front amidst the noise and chaos of the gym. Not perfect, not conventional, but their family.

One of the guests was Hollis's college friend, Sarah Porter, who, by the time of the Hawaiian wedding, was already divorced and had left her post as Secretary of the Navy. Alone and with no children, she was searching for a new anchor in her life.

That anchor had been found here. In their home.

Not right away. Gradually. It took years.

First, it was infrequent but long conversations in the kitchen over a bottle of wine while Gibbs was in the basement. He heard fragments—laughter, animated debates about politics, memories of their college years. Wine and memories—Gibbs knew they had been close in college, more than close… Then a few of joint investigations for the Pentagon: Hollis worked for the Defense Department, Sarah consulted. Then there was Sarah helping with Hollis’s children—a daughter and a son, two years apart. This help was somewhat awkward and inexperienced, but it was sincere.

Sarah was unobtrusive, delicate, and always respected personal boundaries. Had it been otherwise, Gibbs wouldn't have allowed the intrusion.

He and Hollis had built a tight, sealed cocoon around themselves and their children—their family was the main thing. All other life was built around this unshakable center. But the children grew older, Hollis returned to active work, and the cocoon began to expand naturally, creating space in their home for something more. For someone. And Sarah started coming over a bit more often, staying a bit longer, and one morning Gibbs found her asleep on the living room couch, covered with a blanket Hollis had brought her from the bedroom.

The former Secretary of the Navy was in his house—strange, perhaps, at first. Gibbs had known Sarah from a different angle—from his own, not Hollis’s. He had worked under Sarah’s command, had seen her iron will, her cold, sharp intellect and her ruthless efficiency in achieving goals. He had respected her as an opponent and an ally on the bureaucratic battlefield. And then he had watched this same woman, having shed her ministerial armor, sprawled on the floor of his living room, building a block tower with his children and laughing the most sincere, carefree laugh. Or baking them sugar-free cakes, with icing ending up everywhere…. It had been a strange, dual image that had initially confused him. And then it had become the norm. If his wife was smiling and his children were laughing when "Aunt Sarah" brought them gifts "for her bunnies," so be it.

He saw everything. He saw how Sarah gazed at Hollis with a mix of tenderness, nostalgia, and a mischievous spark that he knew could transport Hollis back to their carefree youth. He saw how Hollis blossomed under her attention, her refined intelligence, her gentle humor, and the lightness he, forever encased in his armor of silence, couldn't give her.

He couldn’t give Hollis hours-long conversations about the latest book she’d read, new philosophical or social concepts, or anything about ethics. He had his own code—a set of rules he lived by—and that was enough for him. Words weren’t his currency; action was. His comments never went beyond “interesting” or “nonsense.” He would never go to the opera willingly—only if she held a Colt to his temple. A trip to a museum to look at “colorful splotches” in expensive frames was torture, unless it was a museum of weapons.

But Sarah—she could. She gave. Easily, with a generosity of spirit, knowing Hollis's tastes, knowing what she had missed, having devoted several years to small children and a husband who preferred his basement to the world outside their home.

And then Sarah gave him and Hollis tickets to some marine artist's exhibition for their anniversary. Gibbs snorted. But, expecting boredom, he ended up standing before huge canvases of storms and ships for a long two hours, silent and impressed. And, most importantly, he saw how Hollis looked at both of them—at him, mesmerized by the painted sea and sails, and, that evening, at Sarah, who had given them this moment—and Hollis's eyes shone with happiness. The next time, Sarah gifted them tickets to the "On the Water" exhibit at the Smithsonian—a collection of ship models, navigational instruments, displays on fishing, sea trade, and naval history. And after that, Gibbs never snorted at Sarah again.

He understood. Sarah filled a void that Gibbs, by his very nature, could not fill. She was the one with whom Hollis could talk for hours. The one who understood Hollis’s need for intellectual companionship. The one with whom Hollis could go to the theater and later discuss the play over a glass of wine.

It was simple: Gibbs a soldier, Sarah a diplomat, and Hollis carrying both within her—discipline and strategy, tact and heart.

Sarah didn't enter their home by storm—she entered with the quiet steps of an old friend, not as the shadow of a former lover.

But one night, a week ago, he heard a soft whisper, slightly drunken laughter coming from the bedroom. Not one voice. Two. He froze on the stairs, and his heart clenched not with jealousy, but with a strange, sharp understanding. He returned to the basement and sat there until morning, thinking.

The next morning at breakfast was tense. Hollis avoided his gaze. Sarah looked guilty.

Gibbs knew Hollis wasn't cheating on him. She couldn't. Maybe just one innocent kiss… He trusted her—not blindly, but with the absolute certainty of a man who knew his wife's code as well as his own. She was faithful, she was his Hollis.

But he also knew he couldn't give her what Sarah could. Not just friendship. More…

He poured himself coffee, looked at both of them, and said the only thing that mattered:

"Sara, move into the guest room. The closet's big enough."

It was his acknowledgment. His blessing. His rule: "Family is the crew you choose yourself."

And Sarah stayed. For good. And it was right.

A knock on the basement door pulled him from his thoughts.

"Come in," Gibbs said hoarsely.

The door opened slightly, and Hollis appeared in the doorway. She was wearing his old flannel pajamas, her hair mussed from a shower. She looked peaceful and happy.

"Coming up? It's late."

"Soon," he nodded toward the boat. "Almost done."

She came down a couple of steps, hugging her shoulders.

"Summer can't sleep. Worried about her school project. Michael asked if you'd show him again tomorrow how to hold the handsaw."

Gibbs nodded. The thought of the children— their children—made something warm and strong spread in his chest. Seven-year-old Summer, smart, cheerful, with freckles and golden hair like her mother. And Michael, a five-year-old clone of himself, quiet and observant.

"Sarah's reading them a story," Hollis added, her voice carrying that particular, delicate tenderness that only appeared when she spoke of Sarah. "After all these years, she's still into it, bedtime stories… The kids adore her, you know?"

He nodded again, putting the tool down.

"Good."

They were silent. He could see she wanted to say something.

"Jethro…" she began and stopped, searching for words. "You're really… okay with it? That I… That Sarah and I…"

He walked over to her and lifted himself onto the step, bringing his eyes level with hers. He put his hand on her cheek.

"Hollis," he said simply. "What she gives you… I don't have it. And I'm glad she does."

Her eyes glistened with tears of gratitude. She covered them, pressing her cheek into his palm.

"I love you," she whispered. "You know that?"

"Know," he replied, because it was true. Her love for him was one facet. Her love for Sarah was another. And together they made a whole.

"Go on to the kids," he said quietly. "I'll be up soon."

She nodded and, leaning down, kissed him on the cheek before heading upstairs.

An hour later, he went up to the house. The children's room was quiet. Michael was already asleep, clutching a small wooden toy boat Gibbs had carved for him. Summer was tossing, but her breathing was even—Sarah's stories had worked.

The door to Sarah's room was slightly ajar. He peeked in—life in their house was built on respect for personal boundaries, and one of the rules was clear: if the door was open, it was okay to look; if it was closed, it was closed.

Hollis lay on her side atop the neatly tucked-in coverlet. Open folders and documents were spread around her, and a pencil still rested in her hand. She and Sarah were working on a new assignment for the Pentagon—auditing defense contracts, identifying irregularities, and investigating financial mismanagement. Sometimes they stayed up late poring over reports, and tonight it seemed that exhaustion had quietly claimed Hollis.

Sarah sat on the edge of the bed, her back to the door, in her silk robe. She was running her fingers through Hollis's hair, humming softly—a tender, caring gesture.

Sarah turned, sensing his gaze. Their eyes met—quiet, calm acceptance, a wordless understanding passing between them. She gave him a soft smile and nodded toward the empty space in the bed on the other side of Hollis.

He hesitated for a second. Then he walked in, took off his boots, turned off the lamp on the nightstand, and settled onto the bed, staring up at the ceiling. Sarah did the same on the other side. They lay in the dark, listening to Hollis's even breathing between them.

"She's out," Sarah whispered softly across Hollis.

"I do," Gibbs replied just as quietly.

"You know, sometimes Michael snores just like you?"

Gibbs nodded in the dark.

He felt the warmth of Hollis's body, smelled her scent mixed with Sarah's light perfume. It was strange, wrong by the world's standards, but perfect for the three of them. It was… wholeness. 

"Thank you, Jethro," Sarah said suddenly, her voice barely audible.

"For what?"

"For this house. For this family. For letting me stay."

He was silent for a long time, staring at the ceiling.

"You're not a guest, Sarah," he finally said. It was perhaps one of the longest sentences he'd ever said to her. And the most important.

He heard her soft exhale and understood she'd been waiting for those words for years.

"Sleep, Sarah," he said. "I'll go to the other bedroom."

"Goodnight, Jethro."

And in the silence, under the secure roof of their shared home, three once-lonely people had found their port. Their crew. Their strange, wrong, and perfect family.

***

The next morning, after Gibbs and Sarah’s night conversation, the sun streamed through the kitchen window, illuminating the table where plates and mugs were already set, waiting. The strong, bitter aroma of coffee mingled with the sweet smell of pancakes Sarah was frying—a new weekend ritual.

Five-year-old Michael stood in the doorway, his expression as serious as his father's. In his hand, he clutched a small handsaw—a perfect copy of Gibbs's.

"Aunt Sarah, is Dad in the basement already?" he asked, walking around the table.

"Good morning, sweetie," Sarah turned and kissed the top of his head. "No, your dad went out early for fresh boards. He'll be back soon. Go wash your hands."

Michael trudged obediently to the sink just as seven-year-old Summer burst through the door, her golden hair a mess, a textbook in her hand.

"Mom, you promised to help me with the math problems!" she declared, addressing Hollis, who was curled up in a corner of the sofa with a tablet and coffee, scanning the latest reports—part of her current consulting contract for one of the Defense Ministry's contractors.

Hollis looked up from the screen and smiled at her daughter.

"Good morning, smarty. I will, after breakfast. Though you know how Aunt Sarah loves solving these puzzles—would you like her to help instead?"

"No!" Summer refused immediately. "You explain things like a colonel, it’s simple. Aunt Sarah talks like… a politician."

Sarah snorted, transferring pancakes to a plate.

"Only because your mom sees a tactical takedown scheme in everything, and I see a flexible solution. But I'm not offended."

"I know," Summer ran over and hugged her around the waist. "Later we’ll bake cookies together if I still don’t get it."

At that moment, the sound of a truck pulling up came from outside. Michael, drying his hands, perked up.

"Dad!"

A moment later, Gibbs walked into the kitchen in his work vest, carrying several long boards.

"Dad, look!" Michael immediately ran up to him, showing off his handsaw "I'm ready for work!"

Gibbs set the boards down carefully by the wall and took the tool, inspecting it with a professional eye.

"Good. After breakfast," he ruffled his son's hair briefly. His gaze swept over the kitchen, lingering on Hollis, then on Sarah, who had shifted from preparing breakfast to reviewing some work papers, and finally on the children. Deep, silent contentment was written in his eyes.

"School?" he asked Summer, taking a sip.

"Still just a nightmare so far," she replied gloomily. "But Mom and Aunt Sarah will help."

For Summer and Michael, the world had always been this way. They had a mom—strong, smart, kind, sometimes strict, who taught them how to shoot a real, not toy, bow and fly a kite. She was also their first and best listener, the one who taught them to name their feelings and never be ashamed of them. She gifted them tenderness and unwavering acceptance, giving them the emotional vocabulary to share, to be heard, and to truly listen in return.

They had a dad—quiet, wise, who taught them about working with wood, reading maps of the land, and navigating by the stars, and whose hugs were the safest in the world. He taught them quiet reliability — that presence and actions speak much louder than words. He gave them a deep, unshakable calm — the feeling that no storm is frightening when you're in your safe harbor. And he taught them to appreciate silence — you could sit together for hours on the dock, quietly enjoying each other's company, and it would be the most meaningful conversation.

And they had Aunt Sarah. She wasn't just a "family friend." She was family. She was always there. Now she lived in the room upstairs, and she had her own coat hook in the hallway, her own section in the large dressing room on the second floor, and her favorite mug in the kitchen. She was another version of an adult—not a parent, but not an outsider. She was a source of sweets, gentle hugs, patient help with homework, and endless stories about everything, which she could tell like thrilling adventure novels. She taught them to advocate for their point of view as if in a debate, and to find the right words to mend a fight or deliver a school presentation with brilliance.

In the evenings, she could sit with Mom on the couch, their legs under one blanket, quietly laughing over some shared memory, while Dad whittled something in his armchair. And it was completely normal. This was their home. Their team.

After breakfast, Gibbs and Michael went down to the basement for "serious work." Summer settled with her textbooks between Hollis and Sarah.

Later, when the homework was done and the sounds of the handsaw had quieted in the basement, Summer found Michael in the children's room.

"Mike, you didn't forget, did you?" she asked mysteriously.

"Of course not," he said importantly, pulling a neatly wrapped object from under the bed. "I made the frame in the basement. Dad helped."

They sneaked into the living room. Sarah was curled up in her favorite armchair, a sketchbook balanced on her knees. She was deftly sketching the view from the window, her brow slightly furrowed in concentration. A half-finished cup of tea sat on the side table.

"Aunt Sarah?" Summer called out.

She turned around, smiling:

"Yes, my bunnies?"

"This is for you!" they blurted out in unison, holding out the package.

Sarah put her pencil and sketchbook aside and took it. Inside was a wooden photo frame, roughly neat, made by Michael's small hands. And in it—a photograph: Gibbs, Hollis, Sarah, and the two of them, the kids, all together on a picnic. Everyone is laughing.

"We love you," Summer said seriously. "You're not going to move to another house, are you? You're our Aunt Sarah forever, right?"

Sarah took the frame, and her eyes filled with tears. She hugged them both.

"I'm not going anywhere," she whispered, kissing first one, then the other on the cheek. "I'm your Aunt Sarah. Forever. You are my family."

At that moment, Gibbs and Hollis walked into the kitchen. They stopped in the doorway, watching the scene. Hollis smiled, her gaze meeting Jethro's. In his usually stern blue eyes, she saw the same thing she felt herself: a quiet, absolute, unconditional truth.

To the world, they might be a retired colonel, a special agent, and an ex-Secretary. But to these two children, they were Mom, Dad, and Aunt Sarah. And that was the only rule that mattered.