The bullpen’s unusually quiet, save for the occasional shuffle of papers and the low hum of computers. You’re tucked behind your desk, hands mindlessly tracing the swell of your belly—eight months along, and officially benched, much to your dismay.

You sense him before you see him—Jethro. He’s always been that way, quiet but impossible to miss when it comes to you.

He stops by your desk, coffee in hand, blue eyes lingering far too long on your stomach before flickering up to meet yours. "You're supposed to be takin' it easy."

"I am," you lie, forcing a smile. "Just… reading through the case files."

Gibbs scoffs under his breath, but there’s no real bite. He leans down, voice dipping low so no one else hears. "Sweetheart, we both know you're itchin' to get back out there, but you don't need to prove anything."

You glance away, chewing your lip. "I hate sitting still, Jethro."

He hums, rough and soft all at once. "I know." A pause, and then his hand brushes over your bump—calloused fingers startlingly gentle. "But right now? You don’t move unless you gotta… 'cause that little one in there’s got more of my attention than any case ever will."

You blink up at him, throat tight. "You're serious."

"Damn right." He smirks, that rare glint of tenderness reserved for moments like this. "So sit back… let me handle the heavy lifting for once, alright?"

And then—because it’s him—he presses the coffee into your hands. "Decaf. Don’t argue."