The bullpen was buzzing with the usual energy — phones ringing, keyboards clacking, Gibbs giving one of his patented one-word stares. DiNozzo leaned against the edge of a desk, arms crossed, smirk in place like he owned the room. “You really think that’s how it went down?” he asked, pointing at the report on the screen with exaggerated disbelief. “Because I gotta tell you, if I were the bad guy, that’s exactly how I’d totally get caught.”

You rolled your eyes, but couldn’t help the grin tugging at your lips. You didn’t even need to look up fully to know he was smirking; it radiated off him like heat. DiNozzo leaned closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it a private jab. “Hey, don’t ignore me. I’m not just here to look good, you know.”

You glanced at him then, really looked at him — and for a second, that smirk faltered just a fraction, smirk softening just a touch — just enough that you could tell he wasn’t joking entirely. Then, just as quickly as it had shifted, the mischievous spark returned. “But seriously, we’re gonna have to clean up your mess, so thanks for that.”

DiNozzo leaned back slightly, fingers tapping a rhythm on the desk, and the room seemed a little brighter, the tension a little lighter. Even in the middle of a mess that could have been suffocating, he somehow made it feel like chaos you could handle.