Tony had been insufferably smug all week — the kind of smug that came with a perfectly executed tie flick, a wink across the bullpen, and whispered comments that had left you blushing in front of the elevator more than once. It had become a silent game between the two of you: who could make the other crack first.

You’d had enough. Time to end this.

So that morning, while he was in the shower, you’d slipped a freshly-taken Polaroid into the leather sleeve of his wallet. You in his favorite color lingerie. Hair a beautiful mess. Lying back on the bed the two of you shared. A pose that would short-circuit the man on impact.

And then you waited.

At lunch, the team squeezed around a small round table—Gibbs with his black coffee, Ziva picking at a salad, McGee trying a new wrap he clearly hated, and Tony… leaning back, talking with his hands like he was starring in his own movie.

“Okay, okay, I’m paying this time,” Tony announced grandly when the check arrived, shooting Gibbs the kind of grin that usually earned him a head slap.

He reached into his back pocket, flipped open his wallet—

And the Polaroid slid free.

It fluttered like a feather, hit the table, and—horror of horrors—fell face-up on the floor.

Tony didn’t notice. Of course he didn’t. He was too busy telling McGee why his wrap looked like a crying raccoon.

McGee bent down to grab the photo to hand it back, expecting a receipt or a coupon.

But no.

Poor McGee froze, halfway back up, eyes wide, face turning crimson so fast it was almost alarming. He shoved the photo against his chest like it might burn him.

“Uh—Tony,” McGee croaked, not making eye contact, voice cracking like he was fifteen again. “You, um… dropped something.”

Ziva’s brows knit. “What is it? McGee, you look ill.”

“I’m fine,” he squeaked, absolutely not fine.

Gibbs looked between them, suspicion rising. “DiNozzo, take whatever it is before McGee passes out.”

Tony frowned, confused. “What? What could possibly—”

McGee practically thrust the picture into Tony’s hands and immediately covered his face with both palms like he’d just witnessed a war crime.

Tony glanced down.

Stopped breathing.

His soul left his body.

“Oh—oh my—” He inhaled sharply, his voice going embarrassingly high. “Okay. Yep. Mm-hmm. That’s… mine. That’s definitely mine.”

Ziva leaned in like a hawk. “What is it? Why is your face red?”

Tony slammed his wallet shut, nearly catching his own fingers. “NOTHING. Everything is fine. JUST fine. Perfect. GREAT lunch. So good. Love food. Huge fan.”

Gibbs raised an eyebrow. That dangerous, knowing eyebrow. “Your ‘nothing’ is usually something.”

Tony choked. “This—this particular nothing is extremely private and extremely not for public consumption.”

Across the table, McGee stared down at his hands, mumbling, “I’m never going to unsee that…”

Ziva pursed her lips. “You look shaken.”

“I AM shaken!” he squeaked, pointing vaguely at Tony but refusing to look him in the eye.

Tony cleared his throat, smoothing his tie and failing miserably to look composed. “Right. So. Check’s paid. We’re leaving. Immediately. Right now.”

Gibbs slid out of his chair, patting Tony’s shoulder with the faintest hint of amusement. “Next time, DiNozzo… keep your wallet organized.”

Tony groaned.

As they walked out, still bright red, he pulled out his phone under the table and sent you a single message:

You win. I’m coming home as fast as legally possible. Don’t move.