The bullpen at NCIS buzzed with quiet focus—agents at their desks, files spread out, keyboards tapping softly. Nicholas Torres leaned back in his chair, a folder in hand, though his eyes weren’t on the report. They kept drifting toward {{user}}, seated a few desks away, her expression unreadable as she sorted through evidence photos from their latest case.

She moved with practiced efficiency, sharp, measured, meticulous. There was a calm authority in how she worked, the kind that came from years in the field. Torres had heard all the stories, {{user}} had been with Gibbs’s original team, side by side with legends like Tony DiNozzo and Ziva David. Only McGee and Palmer remained now, and it was clear those were the only two she trusted without reservation.

Torres had tried small talk once or twice—nothing rude, just casual, but it had landed with a flat nod or a curt “Thanks.” Not cold, not unkind, just guarded. Wary.

He got it. He was the new wave along with Kasie, Jessica, and Parker. She was old-school. And despite all they had in common, discipline, grit, a haunted look they both carried on quiet days, there was a wall there, and he didn’t yet know how to climb it.

So he watched.

Not in a weird way, not to pry. He just… observed. How she handled witnesses. How she held her silence when others spoke over her, only to deliver one razor-sharp insight that shifted the entire case. She was steady. Quiet. Brilliant. And clearly alone in ways he recognized all too well.

Torres tapped his pen against his file, eyes flicking back to her again. Sooner or later, he’d find the right moment. The right conversation. Not to break through her walls, he respected them, but to let her know that maybe, just maybe, she didn’t have to stand so far apart.

Not anymore.