#hollis mann

I honestly never understood why “How does Gibbs get the boat out of the basement?” was treated like some big, big secret for so long. Back in the early seasons, I just assumed the basement was basically built like an underground garage: one wall could be opened, and there was a ramp leading up to the yard. And maybe that ramp wasn’t a permanent structure — maybe the space for it was covered or hidden from the outside until Gibbs finished his next boat and actually needed to pull it out. (As far as I remember, over all the seasons "Rule 91" was only the second boat he actually completed — the first one (Kelly) was taken apart for parts during the investigation when Gibbs and the boat were attacked at sea. Plus there was the boat Diana, but Gibbs burned that one before the main series even started.)

In the early seasons we didn’t know what Gibbs’s house looked like, but later they showed it from different angles, and it became clear that the first floor sits pretty high above ground level. Which means the “basement” is basically the first floor — just slightly sunken. That only reinforced my theory.

Now Gibbs had to bring Hollis to Ducky’s house for Thanksgiving. And there he stood at the door, keeping his inner tension in check. He knew Ducky had always been warm toward Hollis, and that the team—Tony, Ziva, Tim, Abby, and Jimmy—would welcome her with smiles. But there was also Jenny… and Jenny, it seemed, was jealous.

Hollis looked as if she knew all these nuances in advance. She held his hand as they walked side by side, smiling as if she were already anticipating all the chaos waiting for them inside.

“Jethro,” she said softly, “relax. It’ll be fun.”

“Consider me at full combat readiness,” he grumbled, raising an eyebrow.

They entered Ducky’s house and immediately felt the festive atmosphere: the smell of roasted turkey, fresh pastries, and spices filled the air. The team greeted them with cheerful shouts and hugs.

“Colonel,” Ziva said with a barely perceptible smile, “we finally get to see you!”

“Boss!” Tony shouted. “Whoa! You should’ve told us you brought her!”

“Ma’am…” McGee greeted, slightly stumbling from excitement.

Abby, as usual, was ecstatic, hugging Hollis. Jimmy smiled a bit awkwardly, trying to help in the kitchen without tripping over his own excitement.

But Jenny… Jenny watched with a slight squint, clearly monitoring every move of Hollis and Gibbs. Gibbs noticed this and muttered quietly:

“Interesting detail.”

Hollis just smiled and gently squeezed his hand, as if to say, “It’s Jenny—she’s always watching us like that.”

The day promised to be long, fun, and a little crazy: conversations, laughter, and a touch of playful jealousy that flared and faded across the table. But Gibbs felt that in this chaos there was something… familiar. Somehow right. That here, among friends, with the team, and with Hollis by his side, he felt once again that home wasn’t walls—it was the people you love.

And who knew… maybe this Thanksgiving, Gibbs would discover new reasons to smile more often than he was used to.

The dinner began in its usual chaos: Ducky raising toasts for everyone, and Tony, as always, trying to be the funniest and most original.

“Well, Boss,” he said, leaning toward Gibbs, “I hope you brought that famous ‘marine glare’ to keep everyone in line?”

Gibbs just squinted and slowly nodded.

Hollis sat beside him, smiling at his reactions, seemingly enjoying every moment.

Pies, salads, and turkey began to circulate the table. Abby enthusiastically described how she had decorated the desserts with tiny marzipan pumpkins, while Jimmy tried not to spill sauce on the tablecloth.

“Look,” Tony whispered to Gibbs, “Jenny’s watching you two again.”

Gibbs quietly smirked. He saw Jenny casting glances from time to time, barely noticeable but clearly curious and a little jealous. And it amused him.

“Well then,” Ducky said, raising his glass, “time to start the holiday contest! Who can best say what they’re thankful for this year?”

They went around in turn. Tim said something sweet and simple about family. Ziva reflected on adventures at work. Tony, of course, tried to outdo everyone with another joke about, “Boss, you’re too serious for a day like this.”

“I’m thankful I didn’t have to cook,” Gibbs muttered, and everyone laughed.

“And I’m thankful that I’m in Washington, not Hawaii,” added Hollis.

Tony laughed. “Come on, Colonel! Hawaii’s prettier than Boss’s basement!”

“What’s wrong with my basement, Tony?” Gibbs muttered.

Everyone laughed. Only Jenny frowned slightly, but even on her face, a shadow of a smile appeared when she saw Hollis nudging Gibbs playfully, and he barely held back a grin.

When it came to dessert, Ducky suggested a little “guess the ingredient” contest. Abby, as always, tried to confuse everyone with her experiments, and Gibbs and Hollis participated almost silently, exchanging brief, knowing glances and gentle teasing.

“Hollis, did you put ginger in the pie?” he guessed from the aroma, asking with the serious expression of an investigator.

“Of course!” she laughed. “To test your attentiveness.”

Gibbs skeptically tried a piece. It was tasty, though he didn’t like ginger.

“Test passed,” he muttered, hiding a smile. “But it’s still punishment.”

The evening continued with small funny incidents: someone dropped a spoon, someone accidentally spilled sauce, and Jenny quietly commented on everything, as if watching the film from behind the scenes. Tony commented too—but loudly! Still, all the little mishaps only made the holiday warmer, the atmosphere more real.

By the time dinner was coming to an end, Gibbs looked around. Hollis sat beside him, laughing at another joke from Tony; the team was engrossed in their conversations; and Jenny… she was still watching, but now without her usual jealousy, with a soft, gentle smile instead.

Gibbs realized that this Thanksgiving was one of those rare days when everything came together perfectly. No investigations, no dangers, no strict protocols. Just laughter, friends, Hollis nearby, and the feeling that despite all the chaos, he was home.

“Hollis,” he said quietly as he helped her put on her coat. He didn’t say anything more—she understood anyway.

She looked at him, smiled, and lightly touched his hand.

“Always, Jethro.”

And in that moment, Gibbs felt that within the chaos, laughter, and small victories of the day, there was something more—something worth being thankful for every year.

____

After Thanksgiving, December arrived. Hollis was radiant, as if a small town inside her soul had lit up all its lights at once. Gibbs, standing at the threshold of her house, felt a slight tension, anticipating that this month promised to be… unexpected.

“Jethro,” she said, snapping her fingers, “it’s time to get ready for Christmas.”

“Get ready?” Gibbs frowned. “I thought Christmas was when people quietly decorate the tree, light some candles, and… eat cookies.”

Hollis just laughed. “Oh, that’s only part of it. Real Christmas is lights, garlands, gifts, decorations all over the house, baking, Christmas music… And we’re doing it all.”

Gibbs squinted. He knew strict orders, precise protocols, and holiday duty—those used to be her element. But now… now Hollis was free. Twenty-two years of army discipline had made her precise and determined, and now, being able to do whatever she wanted, she was dangerous. Very dangerous—for him.

“You’re serious?” he muttered. “Everything?”

“Absolutely serious!” she smiled. “And you’ll have to help.”

And it began.

First came the garlands. Hollis turned the living room into a true winter wonderland: twinkling snowflakes, tinsel, red-and-green ribbons, little angels. Gibbs tried to help—hanging lights, carefully placing decorations. But every time he thought he had done enough, Hollis would smile and add: “No, no, a little more here, a bit higher, and here, so it’s symmetrical…”

“Symmetry is for missions,” he grumbled. “Here—it’s chaos.”

She just laughed and nudged him toward the next stage: baking. First, they had to make gingerbread cookies. Gibbs, armed with a rolling pin, couldn’t believe that a woman who had commanded army units for twenty-two years could laugh so easily when dough stuck to her fingers. He tried his best to cut the shapes neatly, but ended up with funny “trees-angels-elephants,” which Hollis cheerfully called “masterpieces.”

“Jethro,” she said, winking, “look, you have a talent for making weird things beautiful.”

“I’d say weird… even weirder,” he muttered.

Then came the gifts. She showed him how to tie bows beautifully, decorate packages, and add little touches so the gifts would look… magical.

“I thought Christmas was just gifts,” he said, tying a ribbon crookedly.

“No, Jethro,” she replied, taking his hand and straightening the bow. “It’s magic. We’re creating an atmosphere.”

Every day brought new surprises: evening walks through the city with illuminated windows, Christmas markets, balcony decorating, a nighttime trip to get a Christmas tree. It wasn’t poaching; Hollis had obtained permission, but they still snuck through the woods at night like spies.

Gibbs realized one thing: he had never met a woman who could be so strong, determined, and free, and now—simply joyful, doing whatever she wanted, breaking routine, and dragging him along. And he had to admit, there was a certain charm in that.

“Jethro,” Hollis said, placing a vase with fir branches on the table, “see how beautiful it is?”

He looked at the garlands, the cookies, the wrapped gifts, her radiant face, and with a heavy but warm sigh said: “Yes, good. But know this—it’s a crime against my inner peace.”

“I think,” she smiled, “your inner peace has been wanting a holiday for a long time.”

And Gibbs realized that despite all the preparations, chaos, and laughter, despite never being a fan of Christmas, this month had already become special. Because Hollis was there—free, radiant—and he could once again allow himself to simply be near her.

____

But the real December chaos began when one evening Gibbs caught Hollis working on a diagram on a large sheet of butcher paper.

“What’s this? A plan to capture a Christmas elf?” he asked, studying arrows and zones marked with “A,” “B,” and “HIGH RISK.”

“Almost,” she replied, with the seriousness of a colonel planning a landing. “This is a map for optimal gift delivery to our friends. Zone ‘A’—Tony, McGee, and Abby, they live close. Zone ‘B’—Ducky and Jimmy Palmer, taking bridge traffic into account. And ‘HIGH RISK’…”—she looked at him meaningfully—“is your father’s house in Stillwater. We need to pick a time when he’s out fishing so we can leave the gift unnoticed. Operation: Secret Santa.”

Gibbs stared at the map, and his mind—used to tactical layouts for tracking criminals—refused to process it as a plan for distributing Christmas socks and gingerbread. He was at a loss.

“Hollis,” he began slowly. “Can’t we just mail everything? Or hand it over in person? The team will come here for the Christmas breakfast anyway.” She had almost certainly never heard that many words from him in a row.

“Sure. But where’s the adventure in that?” she countered, winking.

Thank goodness, the idea of handing the gifts out in person eventually appealed to her—but Gibbs still had to work to convince her.

Another time, Gibbs arrived and froze at the doorway, hearing strange sounds. Hollis, standing on a step stool, was attaching mistletoe to the ceiling, humming Jingle Bells to the tune of an army march.

“What are you doing?”

“Strategic mistletoe placement!” she said firmly. “According to tradition, people must kiss under it. I calculated the points of maximum foot traffic in the house so no guest can avoid the ritual!”

Gibbs looked at the mistletoe and just shook his head. He was at a loss. Again. Who should kiss under it? Tony and Ziva? They’d never admit they were in love. And a kiss? Although… maybe not a bad idea.

____

Finally, Christmas Eve arrived. Hollis’s house smelled of cinnamon, ginger, and fresh pine. Gibbs stood by the window, watching the softly falling snow, trying to get into the “holiday spirit.” His mind occasionally drifted back to the recent trip to Stillwater—he hadn’t been there… maybe half his life—until Hollis said, “Get in the car, we’re going,” and… it went fine. Even after not speaking to his father for sixteen years, it could be fixed.

“Jethro,” Hollis called, “come here. We’re almost done.”

He turned: garlands glowed softly, the tree sparkled with ornaments, rows of neatly wrapped gifts lined the table, the scent of cookies filled the air, and small candles flickered everywhere.

“I…” Gibbs began but stopped. “I don’t know what to say.”

“Say ‘wow,’” Hollis smirked and winked. “And frown a little. Otherwise it won’t look like you.”

Gibbs silently approached and helped her place the last decorations. Hollis, as always, worked with enthusiasm and playful boldness: straightening garland wires, placing candles, adjusting bows. She shone as if every moment was a little holiday.

“You know, last Christmas I spent on duty at Fort Bragg,” she said, sitting on the couch by the tree. “But now… now I do what I want. And I like that you’re here.”

Gibbs, unsure of what to say, sat beside her. He quietly watched as she tucked a blanket over their knees and allowed himself simply to be near her, without thinking about missions, protocols, or plans. Even those involving mistletoe.

Dinner time arrived. They had prepared a simple but festive meal: roast chicken, vegetables, potatoes, and cookies for dessert. Gibbs set the table, carefully making sure nothing fell or broke.

“Jethro,” Hollis said, “today you can relax. It’s a holiday.”

“I’m relaxed,” he grumbled, though his lips twitched in a slight smile.

After dinner, they went for a short walk in the snowy park. Streetlights reflected off the snow, making everything magical. Hollis walked beside him, holding his hand, occasionally nudging him to move faster.

“Remember when we went boating in the summer?” she asked, looking at him with a gentle smile.

“I remember,” Gibbs replied. Of course he remembered—his boat. He usually let no one ride it; he hadn’t even shown it ready to anyone.

“You’re probably dreaming about when you can get back on the water?”

“Yeah,” he grumbled. Honestly, he didn’t understand the point of winter. Only navigation on the water stops.

On the way back, Hollis suddenly stopped and pulled a small box from her bag.

“This is for you, Jethro. Just… because,” she said, slightly embarrassed.

Gibbs opened the box and saw a carefully carved miniature wooden boat—with perfect sanding and a small sail. It was the same boat Hollis had made under his guidance a few months ago. He looked at her and quietly said:

“I… I thought it had floated away.”

“No way! Who would allow that?” Hollis smiled slyly. “It’s a memory of what we do together.”

He silently nodded, pressed her hand to himself, and for a moment realized: this Christmas wasn’t about gifts, lights, or snow. It was about being able to be himself next to her, laugh, make mistakes, do something ridiculous, and still feel that home is wherever she is. Even if that home temporarily resembled a Christmas special operations headquarters.

“Hollis…” he began, but said no more. She just smiled and rested her head on his shoulder.

And in that moment, among the lights, garlands, and falling snow, Gibbs realized that a woman who had lived twenty-two years by army rules and schedules could now create miracles. And he, even if he grumbled a little and occasionally descended into full cognitive dissonance, was ready to witness each of her miracles—as long as they didn’t involve tactical schemes for decorating Easter eggs in the future.

____

The morning of December 25th was crisp but clear. Snow lightly dusted the street, and inside Hollis and Gibbs’s house, the air was filled with the scent of hot chocolate, fresh pastries, and lingering notes of Christmas cinnamon.

A knock sounded at the door, and soon one by one the team members began to arrive: Tony with a wide smile and a tray of pancakes, Ziva carrying a neatly wrapped roulade, McGee with homemade bread, Abby with a small box, Jimmy with a gift jar of jam, Ducky with an elegantly wrapped book… and, of course, Jenny, who entered with the look of “I came to observe and maybe break nothing,” yet carrying a few neatly wrapped gifts.

“Good morning!” Hollis greeted. “Who’s ready for the holiday breakfast?”

Gibbs stood in the doorway, slightly tense but with a barely noticeable smile. He already knew this morning would be… special.

“First the food, then the gifts!” Hollis winked, gesturing toward the table that was already being set.

Everyone began placing their offerings: Tony’s pancakes were decorated with berries, Ziva’s roulade was aromatic and perfectly baked, McGee’s bread smelled fresh, and the beautifully wrapped gifts promised amusing surprises.

“And now,” said Hollis, “the moment everyone’s been waiting for. Jhetro, it’s your turn to open the gifts!”

Everyone gathered around, watching him. Gibbs sighed, though inwardly he was already ready for the little “gift-opening operation.”

The first gift he pulled out was from Tony—a bright orange mug with the inscription: “Coffee for the Team Leader.” At the bottom, in small print, it read: “Don’t forget to smile.” Gibbs shook his head slightly, barely concealing a smile.

Next was a gift from Ziva—a small knife with an engraving on the blade: “For missions and dinners.” He raised an eyebrow: the knife was beautiful, precise, with a hint of danger, but, as always, given with care and respect.

McGee gave him a miniature model of a ship—not wooden, but assembled from polished sea glass pieces. Gibbs ran his fingers over it, feeling McGee’s attention to detail and meticulousness, and quietly said: “Solid work.”

Abby handed over a small set of “mini home experiments”: a tiny retro-style light bulb labeled “make your own light,” perfect for his basement; miniature potted plants that Hollis liked, and several odd but amusing objects that he didn’t know how to use, but looked… interesting. Gibbs raised an eyebrow but secretly appreciated the creativity.

Jimmy presented a neatly wrapped jar containing “mini ingredients for a special sauce,” each labeled with instructions—try, mix, achieve results. Gibbs smiled through his teeth, understanding that Jimmy had poured his heart and care into the gift, even if through a culinary experiment. Deep down, Gibbs had already accepted that culinary experiments were now his companions for life.

Then Gibbs picked up the elegantly wrapped book from Ducky. It was an old, time-scented volume in a leather cover—Classical Wooden Boat Projects: Plans and History. Gibbs slowly flipped through a few pages, his fingers respectfully tracing the diagrams and schematics. “Thanks, Ducky,” he said quietly, warmly. “This… is perfect.”

Finally, it was Jenny’s turn. She handed him a long, narrow package. Unwrapping it, Gibbs found an antique, restored hand plane for woodworking. The tool was impeccably clean, the blade polished to a mirror shine, and the wooden block engraved with the initials “L.J.G.” “For your next boat,” Jenny said with a rare, slight smile. “So the shavings fly even more perfectly.”

Gibbs nodded, feeling the weight and balance of the tool in his hand. It was a gift that spoke to a deep understanding of him—without words, yet precise as a shot.

When everyone had exchanged gifts, opened amid smiles and laughter (there were plenty of funny gifts, all given with heart), Hollis hugged him by the shoulders: “See, Jethro, everyone put a piece of themselves into their gift. Now—eat, drink, laugh, and enjoy.”

Gibbs thought back to all the trips through craft fairs, secondhand bookstores, and other little adventures—it hadn’t been for nothing. Not just the experiences, not just the time spent with Hollis, but also the carefully chosen gifts for his team. And he realized that he had never given them gifts like this before.

Gibbs looked around: the team was gathered, laughing, joking, sharing stories and little anecdotes. His heart felt warm. He realized that despite the chaos, the strange gifts, and the jokes, this morning was a true celebration.

“Jethro?” Hollis’s voice snapped him out of it. “Everything okay?”

“Fine,” he muttered, stepping inside. His gaze immediately landed on the coffee table in the living room, where a large plate with… something… sat all alone. His brain, sharpened by years of identifying murder weapons and evidence, struggled to classify the contents of that dish.

Hollis closed the door and followed his gaze. “Oh, you’re right on time. I think there’s enough for two.”

Gibbs walked toward the couch slowly, as if approaching a suspect. He sat down without taking his eyes off the plate. Up close, he finally made out the details. On one half of the plate lay dark-green leaves, slices of pear, and blue-green crumbs of some sort of cheese. “That cheese is definitely expired,” was his first professional thought.

On the other half sat a small mountain of boiled beets sprinkled with tiny nuts and white cubes he reluctantly identified as goat cheese. Everything glistened suspiciously under a drizzle of something that smelled like oil or vinegar—neither of which reassured him.

“What is this?” he asked bluntly, unable to restrain himself.

Hollis smiled, sitting down beside him. “This is a gourmet dinner, gunny. On one side—arugula salad with pear and gorgonzola. On the other—roasted beet salad with pine nuts and goat cheese. Very healthy. Full of antioxidants.”

Gibbs nodded slowly, pretending he understood. “Antioxidants.” Sounded like the name of a covert government program. He looked at the salad, then at Hollis, then back at the salad. His mind desperately searched for logic. Pear… with cheese that had obviously gone bad. Beets, which he hadn’t eaten since the Marines’ mess hall. Nuts that looked like sunflower seeds but much smaller.

“I… I thought we’d order something,” he muttered awkwardly. “Something with meat.”

“You didn’t warn me you were coming today. And as you can see—I’m all set.” She handed him a fork. “Try it. It’s good. I promise.”

Gibbs accepted the fork with the expression of a bomb tech inspecting an unexploded device. He hesitated between the two halves of the plate as if choosing between two evils. Eventually, he prodded the beets—at least they were familiar, even if unwelcome. He scooped up a chunk of beet, a few nuts, and a tiny bit of goat cheese.

He looked at Hollis. She watched him with an expectant smile.

He put it into his mouth and began chewing with the focus of a man analyzing evidence. Sweet beets. Crunchy nuts. And then it hit him. Goat cheese. A bright, specific flavor that almost made him twitch. He chewed heroically and swallowed.

“Well?” Hollis asked.

“Interesting,” he exhaled—Gibbs-speak for anything from I’m impressed to this is atrocious.

She laughed, understanding him perfectly. “All right, Marine, don’t torture yourself. I see you need real food. I think I have some chops in the freezer. I can fire up the pan.”

She made a move to stand, but Gibbs was faster. He rose with a quiet groan of exhaustion, but his movement was decisive.

“Sit,” he said softly but firmly. “Eat your… antioxidant salad. I’ll handle it.”

He headed to the kitchen, knowing exactly where everything was. In their relationship, there was no room for nonsense like the woman belongs at the stove. He was hungry, her food didn’t work for him—so the problem was his, and he’d solve it. That was their unspoken agreement: two strong people who didn’t serve each other, but simply shared a life.

A minute later, he stood at the stove, a fork in one hand, tongs in the other. Two thick pork chops sizzled in the pan. The aroma was finally right—meaty, hearty, familiar.

He heard Hollis approach. She wrapped her arms around him from behind and rested her cheek against his back.

“You terrible man,” she whispered without the slightest reproach. “You show up to a ready dinner and stage a culinary coup.”

Gibbs set the tongs down, covered her hand with his, and closed his eyes for a moment. The exhaustion drained away, replaced by a deep, warm calm.

“Your salad looked like physical evidence,” he muttered.

Her soft laughter was the best seasoning for any meal. Even the one he had to cook himself.

-----

A few days later, Gibbs started to suspect something was off.

He noticed it in the little things. In the way Hollis looked at him across the table — not with anticipation like the first time, but with the narrowed eyes of a researcher observing how a lab rabbit reacts to a new stimulus. The food had gone from merely “strange” to downright mysterious.

On Monday, there was a soup made of something green, with the consistency of swamp sludge but a surprisingly pleasant taste. “Broccoli and spinach soup with coconut milk,” she explained. Gibbs ate it, stoically keeping his opinion to himself.

On Tuesday, his plate held neat little rolls made out of some kind of leaves, stuffed with grainy cheese streaked with green. “Beet greens stuffed with quinoa and avocado.” Gibbs ate them, letting out a skeptical grunt.

On Wednesday, he poked suspiciously at something purple with his fork. “Cauliflower purée with roasted beets added. The color is fun, isn’t it?” Hollis said cheerfully. Gibbs ate it, feeling his inner Texan — raised on steaks and potatoes — slowly losing his grip on sanity.

And then, on Thursday, stepping into her house after an especially exhausting day, he froze. On the table, in an elegant salad bowl, lay Something. Bright-orange slices of unknown origin, mixed with white little balls (cheese? but what kind?), green leaves he could now just barely identify as arugula, and sprinkled with some kind of dark seeds. The whole thing was drizzled with a golden dressing and looked so aggressive that Gibbs felt slightly dizzy.

Hollis walked out of the kitchen, drying her hands with a towel. Her face carried an innocent, almost angelic smile. “Jethro! Perfect timing. Today’s culinary experiment is called ‘Persimmon, Mozzarella, and Arugula Salad with an Orange–Olive Oil Dressing and Toasted Pumpkin Seeds.’”

Gibbs approached the table slowly, never taking his eyes off the salad. He stayed silent for so long that Hollis lifted an eyebrow. “Something wrong?”

“Hollis,” he began slowly, his voice low and suspicious. He pointed at the orange flesh. “This is persimmon?” “Yep,” she nodded. “Ripe and sweet.” “And this?” He pointed at the white spheres. “Mozzarella. The little ones — they’re called bocconcini.” “And these… seeds?” His tone was getting more and more interrogative. “Pumpkin. I toasted them a bit.”

Gibbs crossed his arms and stared at her. His look held not just confusion, but outright suspicion. “Explain one thing,” he said, leaning slightly closer. “Why has my plate looked like the palette of a mad painter for the last four days? First green, then green with red, then purple… Now this orange explosion.”

Hollis tried to maintain her innocent expression, but the corners of her mouth twitched. “I’m just expanding your culinary horizons, Jethro. It’s good for your health.”

“Healthy,” he countered, not blinking. “Healthy was the pork chop I made for myself. And this…” he glanced at the salad again, “this looks like some kind of undercover operation. You’re up to something.”

She laughed, though a trace of nervousness slipped into the sound. “Don’t be paranoid. It’s just food.”

“With me, ‘just food’ doesn’t look like evidence from a crime scene.” He leaned forward, narrowing his eyes. “Talk. What happened? Did you lose a poker bet and now we’re cutting back on meat? Did you sign up for some cult newsletter about ‘cleansing your karma through colorful meals’? Or…” — he paused dramatically — “did you start dating some new guy? A vegan?”

That last guess seemed to hit something. Hollis rolled her eyes, though her cheeks flushed with barely contained laughter. “Oh my God, Jethro! Of course not!”

“Then what?” he insisted. “Confess. I’ll get it out of you. I have methods.”

Hollis sighed, giving in, and smiled — that smile that could melt the ice in his soul. “Alright, you got me, Special Agent Gibbs. I’m…” — she let the pause stretch, eyes sparkling — “preparing for a culinary masterclass for military kids at the Army Officers’ Club. ‘Healthy and Fun Cuisine.’ I’m practicing my dishes. And you…” — she tapped his chest lightly — “you’re my star, my toughest, and most entertaining taste tester. Lucky you.”

Gibbs froze, processing the information. Everything fell into place. The investigation was complete. He nodded, accepting the conclusion. “I see,” he said simply. Then he looked at the persimmon salad, then at her. “So I’m the guinea pig.”

“The best one,” she said with a smile. “So? Are you going to try the orange exhibit?”

Gibbs picked up a fork, speared a slice of persimmon, a piece of mozzarella, and a few arugula leaves. He put it into his mouth and chewed. Sweet, almost honey-like persimmon, neutral cheese, bitter greens, and crunchy salted seeds… It was surprisingly good.

“Edible,” he pronounced, setting down the fork. “But now that I’m part of your ‘masterclass’ as the control group…” — he took her hand and drew her closer — “my fee is a normal dinner. With meat. And nothing colorful.”

Hollis laughed, letting him pull her into an embrace. “Deal. One pork chop for my picky taste tester, included in the cost of his consulting services.”

“Two,” he corrected, kissing her hair. “It was a long investigation.”

-----

Hollis Mann’s retirement became a new kind of operation for Gibbs — one he was absolutely not prepared for. He was used to danger, conspiracies, and crisp protocols. But nothing could have prepared him for the fact that his girlfriend, a battle-hardened Army colonel whose mind was honed on strategy and tactics, would suddenly plunge into a series of the strangest hobbies he had ever seen.

It all started with the “culinary masterclass,” which thankfully concluded without casualties. But something new immediately took its place. Every few days, Gibbs would drop by and discover a brand-new scene.

One day, the entire living room was covered with building diagrams, and Hollis, eyes sparkling, was explaining the principles of “feng shui” to him. “See, the chi energy has to flow freely, Jethro! This angular cabinet is a harmony killer!” Gibbs touched the offending cabinet and muttered, “Someone thinks my house is a harmony killer. And I’m still alive.” But he quietly helped her move the furniture, catching her satisfied glance.

The next week he found her sitting cross-legged on a special mat, a meditation app playing on her phone. “This helps clear the mind of mental noise,” she said without opening her eyes. “My mind clears when I’m planing wood for the boat,” Gibbs countered. “The noise is pleasant. And the results are visible.” But he brought her a glass of water and sat beside her in silence, listening to her breathe. It was… not bad.

And then came the evening when, unlocking her door, he heard strange, droning sounds coming from the living room. He froze on the threshold, assessing the situation like he was about to breach a room.

Hollis was sitting on the floor, and on the low table in front of her stood… a bowl. A big metal bowl, like a camping pot. She was running a stick along its rim, and the bowl was producing that vibrating, humming sound that filled the entire space.

“Jethro!” she smiled without stopping. “Perfect timing! Sit down, this is good for two. It’s sound meditation. Singing bowl vibrations harmonize the space and relieve stress.”

Gibbs approached slowly and sat crosswise across from her, to be on the same level, eyes fixed on the bowl. He looked as if someone had planted an unknown explosive device in her living room. “So this is a new interrogation technique?” he asked seriously. “If you keep rubbing it long enough, the suspect confesses on his own?”

Hollis laughed and finally stopped. The sound faded gradually. “No. It’s for relaxation. Try it. Just close your eyes and listen.”

Gibbs snorted skeptically, but under her insistent gaze, closed his eyes with a theatrical sigh. The silence, broken only by the steady hum, was unfamiliar. His mind, always tuned to threat detection, resisted at first, making a mental to-do list for tomorrow. But eventually, through the fatigue, the strange sound began to feel… not so bad. Just background. Just nothingness.

He wasn’t sure how long had passed when he opened his eyes again. The sound was gone. Hollis was watching him with warmth and understanding.

“So?” she asked. “Feel the tension leaving?”

Gibbs stretched, his joints cracking. “I feel like sitting on the floor is a bad idea for my back,” he replied. But there was no irritation in his voice, only a tired, soft smile. He glanced at the bowl. “Why are you doing all this, Hollis? You’ve got offers on your desk from the FBI, the Department of Defense, and some private contractor offering you a salary I don’t make in a year. And you’re…” — he gestured at the singing bowl — “harmonizing space.”

Hollis set the stick down, her expression turning serious. “My whole life, Jethro, was scheduled by regulations. Orders, missions, objectives. And now, for the first time, I have time to think who I am without the rank. And yes, maybe I’m trying out too many things. Getting carried away.” She shrugged. “But it’s my way of finding a new focus. Just like your boat in the basement.”

Gibbs nodded. That he understood. The boat was his anchor. His way of sorting his thoughts. These strange bowls and green soups, apparently, were hers.

“All right,” he said, getting up and extending a hand to help her stand. “Are you harmonized enough? Because my stomach is sending signals that it’s time for an operation to harmonize the contents of the fridge. I propose a mission codenamed ‘Steak and Potatoes.’”

Hollis took his hand and let him pull her up. “You’re impossible.” “And so are you,” he countered, kissing her forehead. “And that’s your advantage.”

He knew that sooner or later she would choose a new goal — some serious job where her mind and energy would be needed. But for now… for now he was willing to tolerate all her strange hobbies. Just to watch her searching for herself — and to be there when she found who she wanted to be next.

____

The next month turned out… unexpectedly good.

Yoga, which Hollis added to their schedule with an innocent “try it, you’ll like it,” never did surrender to Gibbs. Though to be fair — he tried. Honestly. When she demonstrated downward dog, he looked like he was about to dismantle the floor. And when they got to warrior, his knee cracked so loudly Hollis nearly dropped her mat from laughing.

“You’re messing with me,” he grumbled, trying to straighten up. “No,” she laughed, “I’m expanding your skill set. Flexibility can be tactical too.” “My flexibility is in my elbows. The rest is… optional.”

But he kept coming back. He complained, he groaned, once he even hit his head against the wall — but he came. Only because it made her happy. And she always rewarded him with a kiss on the temple, which, in her opinion, “improved energy flow.” Gibbs considered it the only real benefit of yoga, but he didn’t argue.

Then came the era of “fresh-air missions.” Hollis dragged him out of the house with the kind of confidence usually reserved for Pentagon-approved orders.

They took long walks around the reservoir; one day she forced him onto a bicycle (“Gunny, you chased an armed suspect across a construction site — don’t pretend you can’t pedal”). And once — beginning what was clearly a covert operation — she announced:

“Today is activity number three. Come on.” “Is that an order?” “It’s a surprise. And surprises outrank orders.”

They stopped in front of the batting cages. Gibbs couldn’t help smiling — the memory hit him like a wave: their early date, her in his hoodie, that confident stride, and how she had… humiliatingly easily hit every pitch while he tried not to look like an idiot.

“So you’re finishing off my self-esteem today?” he asked, opening the gate. “No,” Hollis narrowed her eyes playfully, “I just want to recreate the success.”

She picked a bat, rolled it in her hands, stretched her shoulders, stepped to the line. He watched her — confident, focused, almost glowing. And suddenly he felt what he had back then, in the beginning: lightness. And a thrill. And admiration that hadn’t faded even a bit over these months.

She hit the first few balls perfectly. Smooth, technical, beautiful. Then she handed him the bat.

Gibbs took his stance, aimed… And missed.

Hollis laughed so hard she nearly fell over. “Jethro, this is statistically significant. Your accuracy is in the negatives!” “I’ve had a rough week,” he muttered. “You’ve had a rough life. Doesn’t change the numbers.”

He finally hit the third ball. Awkward, rough, but he hit it. Hollis clapped her hands.

“See? You’re not rusty. You’re just… a vintage model.”

He leaned in, caught her by the waist, pulled her close. “You’re asking for trouble, Colonel.” “I always ask for trouble,” she smiled. “Especially with you.”

She kissed him — short, warm, in that way that made everything inside him settle, like the clean recoil of a well-balanced rifle.

The month flew by like that: yoga, biking, baseball, walks, laughter. And somewhere in all of it, Gibbs realized he’d stopped waiting for her “self-searching phase” to end. Because he’d found something in it himself. Something simple.

Calm beside her. Warmth. And… a new habit — enduring yoga once a week for a kiss on the temple.

Though he still considered pigeon pose a national security threat.

___

Then came "Museum Month".

Why? For what? Who had he wronged? Gibbs never figured it out—Hollis announced it as cheerfully as if she were handing him a ticket to his dream fishing trip.

"We’re expanding our horizons," she said, while he stood in the doorway, trying to come up with a convincing excuse to stay home. "My horizons are already wide enough," he grumbled. "Wide enough to avoid lines."

But Hollis just snapped her fingers—march—and he complied. Of course he complied. Because when she had a plan, Gibbs knew resistance was pointless and would take more energy than the adventure itself.

The first stop was the Museum of Modern Art. Gibbs stepped inside, looked around… and instantly regretted it.

In the middle of the room stood a cube. Just a cube. White. Perfect. Smooth. "What is that?" he whispered. "Discourse of presence in space," Hollis whispered back, pretending to be serious. "That’s a box." "That’s the idea." "The idea of a box," concluded Gibbs. "Magnificent."

In the next room, a black dot hung on a white canvas. Hollis paused, tilting her head thoughtfully. "What do you think the artist meant?" Gibbs thought. Seriously. He leaned closer. "Maybe… he ran out of paint?"

Hollis laughed so hard that the security guard shot them a warning glance.

At another museum, they stumbled into a lecture on 18th-century household items. Gibbs stood there, trying to understand why they were spending half an hour discussing… a spoon. A spoon. For thirty minutes. "I’m losing touch with reality," he whispered to Hollis. "Relax," she whispered back. "It’s cultural enrichment." "I’m already enriched," he replied gloomily. "Rich enough to know: that’s a spoon."

But there were moments that grabbed him.

At the aviation museum, Gibbs fell silent, studying an old navigation chart tucked among displays of instruments and flight plans—its edges worn, its ink faded. He didn’t speak; he watched Hollis beside him, noted the way she leaned in, the small, attentive nods. From that he could tell she understood this mattered to him: course, endurance, keeping a heading even when the map was barely legible.

She simply took his hand. He didn’t object.

Later, at the maritime museum, Gibbs came alive—so much so that he guided Hollis from exhibit to exhibit, pointing out the anatomy of a ship as if he were back aboard one of his own boats.

“See the keel? That’s the backbone. These ribs—frames—give the hull its shape. There’s the rudder; that’s how you make her turn. And here—look at the bilge and the pump arrangement.”

He tapped models and diagrams, explaining with the steady, practical precision he used on deck. Hollis watched, smiling; he noticed the way she watched him, and in that look he found the proof that this was his element.

By the end of the month, he had even stopped grumbling. Almost.

When they left the last museum—a small, quiet one dedicated to local history—Hollis handed him a paper ticket. "A souvenir," she said. "Why?" "To remember. The month you survived." "I survived," Gibbs smirked. "Only because you didn’t make me go to the opera."

She raised an eyebrow. "Noted for consideration."

He stopped, looked at her with that rare, tired-but-soft expression. "Hollis… don’t even think about it."

She laughed, looped her arm through his, and tugged him toward the car. "I’ll think about it. Maybe. In a couple of months. If you behave."

But he knew: the moment she decided, she would drag him there anyway. And he would go. Because this month, strangely enough, had been… good. Surprisingly human. And because walking beside Hollis—simply being there—was, in itself, a work of art.

____

The next month was “Workshop Month.”

Gibbs was smart. He reacted immediately, setting firm boundaries: no musical instruments, no dancing, no singing. Hollis protested the last one fiercely.

"But, Gunny, you have a amazing voice!" she said, her eyes sparkling as if that alone was enough.

Gibbs pretended not to hear her. He wasn’t about to admit that when he was alone in the shower, he sang… well… quite well. But no, in public—even for someone as cheerful as Hollis—he wouldn’t sing.

Otherwise… he liked working with his hands. Time spent working on the boat with her, sanding, planing, fitting boards—felt natural. He loved it. It made sense. It was honest work.

The workshops she dragged him to? That was an entirely different story.

The first day was a pottery class. Gibbs sat at the wheel, hands sticky with wet clay, trying not to ruin what Hollis, beaming, had called “your vase.”

"Gunny, just feel the clay with your hands!" she encouraged him.

"I feel it," he muttered, "and it feels like trouble."

By the end of the hour, he had a crooked, wobbly cylinder that could have been a vase, a cup, or a hat. Hollis smiled and called it “charming,” while Gibbs quietly vowed to destroy the creation before anyone saw it.

The following week was a painting lesson. Not weapons, not targets, not maps—painting.

"Watercolors, Gunny! Relaxing," said Hollis.

Gibbs painted rigidly, precisely, awkwardly. Every attempt at “art” looked more like a crime scene sketch than a landscape. But Hollis beamed, turning his awkwardness into her own version of triumph.

Then came knitting.

Gibbs had never considered yarn a threat, but he was wrong. Half an hour was spent untangling knots, counting stitches, and quietly grumbling. Hollis occasionally helped, demonstrating the “proper technique,” but more often just laughed at his grim determination.

"You're stubborn," she said, "and that’s good for this."

"Stubbornness doesn’t help with yarn," Gibbs grumbled.

Working with wood was easier. He enjoyed measuring, sanding, hammering, sawing. He liked the smell of sawdust. He liked creating something solid, functional. Hollis observed, sometimes handing him tools, and Gibbs felt competent again. He even allowed himself a little pride.

Culinary workshops… now that was another trial. Gibbs endured them only for Hollis. She made him explore exotic spices, plant-based ingredients, and the “art of presentation.” He grumbled, nibbled only at the edges of the strange pastries, the names of which he couldn’t even pronounce, and secretly planned to eat a steak afterward.

But despite everything, there were moments of joy. For example, when she made a small wooden boat under his guidance, sanded it perfectly, and set it afloat. The boat sailed. For a brief moment, Gibbs allowed himself pride—and noticed how much he enjoyed sharing that moment with her.

By the end of the month, Gibbs still grumbled. Still doubted. Still, as a rule, refused to sing outside the shower. But he began looking forward to the next session—not for the workshops themselves, but to see her joy, to laugh together, to be near her as she shone.

He could call it all absurd, inconvenient, and unnecessary. He could grumble and complain.

But Gibbs gradually realized: sometimes you don’t need to expand your horizons tactically. Sometimes it’s enough to simply share them. And sometimes he could expand his own horizons without leaving his comfort zone entirely—especially if it meant seeing her smile across the room.

____

The next month was “Farmer’s Markets, Craft Fairs, and Bookshops Month.”

Hollis promised it would be safe. Predictable. No surprises. No weirdness. Just a quiet stroll among stalls, sniffing fresh bread, admiring handcrafted trinkets, browsing through dusty old books. She described it as a peaceful, almost meditative month.

Gibbs… he simply didn’t know.

The first morning, she dragged him to a bustling farmer’s market. He blinked against the sun, inhaling the mingled aromas of fresh herbs, baked goods, and ripe fruit. His hand found hers automatically, like it always did when she led him somewhere unfamiliar.

"Look at this, Jhetro!" she exclaimed, pointing at a stall with bright orange pumpkins. "Imagine carving one of these."

Gibbs squinted at the pumpkin. Its orange skin glowed in the sunlight, inviting and terrifying all at once.

"I can carve a target," he muttered. "Or a wooden practice dummy."

"Not today!" Hollis laughed, tugging him forward. "Today we’re artistic. Just follow my lead."

He followed. Cautious. Guarded. Like always. Yet, he couldn’t help but notice the small joys: a baker letting her taste a crusty roll, a farmer explaining the difference between heirloom tomatoes, the way Hollis’ eyes lit up when she found a handwoven basket.

Next came the craft fair. Hollis’ enthusiasm skyrocketed as she led him past stalls of ceramics, jewelry, and whimsical wooden toys. Gibbs navigated carefully, trying not to topple a display of painted birdhouses with his shoulder.

"Jhetro, feel the texture!" she insisted, holding up a delicately carved wooden owl.

He ran his fingers over the smooth wood, suppressing a frown that would have said, this is absurd. But inside, he found a strange satisfaction in the feel of it. Solid. Real. Honest work—just like on the boat, just like in the basement.

Then came the bookshops. Quiet, dusty, smelling of old paper and polished wood. Gibbs wandered down narrow aisles, fingers trailing over spines. He resisted the urge to organize, catalog, or judge. Instead, he let Hollis lead him, pointing out a collection of Civil War memoirs, rare navigation manuals, and well-worn poetry volumes.

"See, Jhetro?" she whispered, holding up a small, leather-bound book. "Isn’t it beautiful?"

He nodded, allowing himself a small smile.

By the end of the month, Gibbs realized something. No, it hadn’t been predictable. Not really. Not in the sense Hollis imagined. There were surprises—strange flavors, loud crowds, odd crafts that made him twitch—but there was also calm. Shared laughter. Moments where he didn’t need to protect or control. Just be.

And that, somehow, made the chaos feel… safe.

He was still grumbling, of course. Still muttering about the impracticality of quills, the absurdity of hand-knitted scarves, and the unnecessary extravagance of chocolate-dipped figs.

But when Hollis laughed, tugging him along to another stall, he found that even chaos could be beautiful—especially when she was at the center of it.

Because some months weren’t about missions or strategy or survival. Some months were about noticing the world she wanted to share—and quietly, stubbornly, he loved it.

Even if it meant tasting exotic cheeses, holding delicate pottery, or pretending to admire hand-painted bookmarks.

I’m sitting on the porch, looking at the lights in the distance. Hollis is inside, making dinner. Through the window, the smell of garlic and herbs seeps out — the very rosemary I planted.

This past year…

We fixed the roof together. She held the ladder, I laid the shingles. Grumbled at me for climbing up there “like a damn goat at your age.”

We painted the fence. In the color she chose. Terracotta — like earth at sunset.

The Mayor — the ginger cat who wandered in one day — now sleeps on my lap when I read.

Tony called. Came over with Ziva and Tali for a week. Talked nonstop. Taught Hollis how to make some kind of hellish pasta. When he left, he said: “You finally look like a living person, boss.” Patted me on the shoulder. I barely got annoyed.

And there were nights. Quiet ones. And not so quiet. Sometimes I woke up from nightmares. She never shook me awake. Just lay down beside me and put her hand on my chest. Kept it there until my breathing evened out.

Yesterday morning I woke to her watching me.

“What?” I asked.

“Nothing,” she smiled. “Just memorizing you.”

We don’t talk about love. We don’t need to. It’s in the coffee she sets on my nightstand every morning. In the way she leaves my tools where they are, even though she could put them away. In the way she laughs when I grumble at the cat.

And me — I’m in every repaired piece of this house. In every board that doesn’t creak anymore. In every bloom in our garden.

Sometimes I think of Shannon and Kelly. It used to be a sharp, cutting pain. Now… a quiet sadness. Like a distant star that once shone bright, but whose light reaches you cold now, without burning. I finally buried them. Truly. Not in anger and vengeance, but in silence and peace.

Hollis steps onto the porch, wiping her hands on a towel. Today she’s really in the mood to cook. Or maybe she’s just tired of my steaks.

“Dinner’s almost ready, Marine.”

She looks at me, and in her eyes — a whole life. Our life.

___

I thought I had everything. A house that smells like her and my coffee. A garden where every plant is something we built together. A cat who purrs on my lap in the evenings. And her, Hollis. Her laugh, her wordless understanding, her hand in mine when we fall asleep.

I thought there was nothing left to dream about. Everything an old man could dream of had already come true. All that was left was to live. Breathe. Be.

But this morning she woke me earlier than usual. Her eyes had that mischievous spark — the one she got when she was plotting something bold during our joint investigations.

“Get up,” she said. “We need to go somewhere.”

I didn’t ask. Got dressed. She drove, I watched the island wake up through the window. She turned onto a small road leading into the hills. Stopped in front of the gates of some animal shelter.

My heart skipped.

She got out, nodded for me to follow. We walked down a corridor smelling of disinfectant and dog hair. Stopped at a kennel.

And there… there he was. An older dog. Lab mix — with maybe some shepherd. Fur the color of fallen leaves, intelligent, calm eyes carrying their own history of loss. And one ear sticking off to the side, giving him the look of a seasoned, slightly weary warrior.

He didn’t rush to the gate, didn’t bark. Just stood up, walked over, and nudged my hand through the bars. Warm, damp nose. Trusting.

I looked up at Hollis. She was watching me, wearing that smile I love — carefree, happy.

“He’s been waiting for you,” she said simply.

We filled out the paperwork. The dog walked beside me on the leash without pulling, like he always knew he was going home. Sat in the back seat of the Jeep with his head out the window, and I swear he was smiling.

At home, the Mayor-cat hissed for half an hour, then started sniffing. Now they sit at a safe distance pretending not to notice each other.

The dog… we named him Boss. He lay down at my feet on the porch, rested his head on his paws, and sighed so deeply and contentedly it felt like he’d finally reached the place he’d been searching for his whole life.

I sit here, stroking his head, that ridiculous ear. He nudges my hand back.

I have a home. A garden. A cat. The woman I love, cooking in the kitchen. A team that hasn’t forgotten me. And now — a dog.

Hollis approaches and sets a mug of coffee in front of me. Puts her hand on my shoulder.

“Well, Jethro? Now you have everything?”

I look at her, at Boss sleeping at my feet, at the cat grooming himself on the steps. I feel her warm hand on my shoulder.

“Yeah,” I say. And my voice doesn’t crack. “Now I do.”

And I realize you can still dream even when it seems you have everything. The dreams just change. Become quieter. Tangible. About waking up tomorrow with this dog nudging my hand with his wet nose. About walking him along the shore at sunrise. About sitting like this in the evening, in silence, surrounded by my pack.

Hollis didn’t just give me a dog. She gave me one more piece of home. One more reminder that life isn’t behind me. It’s right here. And there are still so many mornings ahead. So many sunrises. So many evenings like this one.