Gibbs is building a boat in his basement. Again.

How? Why? No one really knows. It’s a mystery, just like how he gets the damn thing out when it’s done. But that’s not the point.

The scent of sawdust and varnish lingers in the air, settling into every corner of the dimly lit space. The boat, half-built, dominates the room, its wooden curves catching the glow of the single overhead lamp. Somewhere upstairs, an old jazz record crackles to life, the soft notes drifting down like ghosts of another time.

He runs a calloused hand over the hull, feeling the smooth grain beneath his fingertips. Satisfied, he wipes the sweat from his brow, takes a slow sip of water, and exhales.

Yeah, this is as good as it gets.