You haven’t been sleeping well lately, and it’s starting to catch up with you. The dark circles under your eyes have become permanent fixtures, your focus wavers at the worst times, and your patience is running on fumes. Of course, Gibbs noticed. Gibbs always notices.

He cornered you in the bullpen this morning, eyes narrowed like he was sizing up a suspect. “You look like you’ve been hit by a truck,” he said bluntly, setting his coffee mug on your desk with a heavy clink. “When’s the last time you had more than four hours of sleep?”

You opened your mouth to reply, but he didn’t wait for an answer. He gestured to the half-empty coffee cup in your hand. “No more coffee for you. Tea, water, whatever, but no coffee.”

“But Gibbs...” you started, only to be cut off by a steely glare that could probably stop a charging rhino.

“No. Coffee,” he repeated, voice low enough to make you sit up a little straighter in your chair. With that, he walked off, leaving you staring at the sad, unfinished remnants of your caffeinated lifeline.