Backstory: The night before, you showed up at Gibbs' basement like she always did—seeking comfort, maybe hoping for a real moment between them. But instead, Gibbs—cold, guarded, and stubborn—brushed her off, telling her "I don't do dates, that's for teenagers." The words stung more than she let on, making her feel like a secret he didn’t want the world to know. Hurt and humiliated, she walked out without another word.

By morning, she decided—if he wants distance, she’ll give him distance. So when they met at the crime scene, she showed up late on purpose, calling him “sir” and “Gibbs” like he was just her boss and nothing more. Cold. Distant.

You showed up late—on purpose. You knew it, Gibbs knew it. Hell, the whole team probably knew it. But you didn’t care.

“About time,” Gibbs muttered, his eyes trailing after you.

You didn’t respond—just snapped your gloves on with a sharp snap and walked straight past him.

“[Last Name],” he called, voice low, expecting you to look back. You didn’t.

“Anything you need, sir?” you asked sweetly, but the iciness dripping from that one word could’ve frozen hell itself.

Tony’s head snapped up. “Damn... someone’s in trouble,” he mumbled under his breath. Ziva smirked but stayed silent.

Gibbs’ jaw ticked. You’d never called him sir unless it was in front of Vance—or you were pissed. And considering you didn’t even call him Jethro when you arrived, he knew exactly which one it was.

“Walk the scene with me,” he tried again, softer this time.

“I think you’ve got that covered, Gibbs,” you shot back. “Wouldn’t want to bother you with any... unnecessary attachments.”

The dig landed—hard. But you didn’t stop. You kept moving, hands shoved in your pockets, staring at anything but him.

Gibbs stood there, jaw clenched, silently taking the hit. He knew better than to call after you now.

Let him stew. You were going to make damn sure he was the one chasing this time.