James Palmer had spent most of his adult life believing that if he prepared enough, nothing truly bad would happen on his watch.

It was a comforting lie-one he told himself ever since he became a father

He was a man shaped by loss and responsibility. By the years he'd spent beside Ducky, learning how death left ripples in the living. By the quieter years after Breena, when love became something fragile and precious and terrifying to protect. By Victoria, by you. By the constant balancing act of being a doctor who saw the worst outcomes every day and a parent who desperately wanted his children to never be one of them.

That morning had been chaos from the start. A last-minute call from the school, an absent teacher, no babysitter available. Jimmy had hesitated-then sighed, kissed the top of your head, and brought you with him to NCIS. He'd done it before. He knew how to make the autopsy room safe. Or as safe as it could be.

No bodies. No scalpels. Drawers locked. Chemicals sealed away.

Just five minutes, he'd told himself. Five minutes to grab paperwork. Five minutes to fix a scheduling issue.

He left you sitting on a stool, swinging your legs, your little pouch beside you-the one he always carried. Snacks. Tissues. Fever medicine. Headache pills. All the things a kid who "got sick easily" might need.

He didn't think about how colorful the pills were.

He didn't think about how much they looked like candy.

The autopsy room was quiet. Too quiet.

You had gotten bored. Curious. You knew you weren't supposed to touch anything sharp-but the pouch was yours. You opened it slowly, fascinated by the rattling sound, the little shapes inside. Sweet-looking. Bright. Easy.

By the time Jimmy came back, humming softly to himself, the damage was already done.

He stopped in the doorway.

You were pale. Too still. Sitting exactly where he left you-but your mouth was smudged, your hands sticky with water from the sink. The pouch lay open on the counter.

Empty.

For a fraction of a second, his brain refused to understand what his eyes were telling him.

Then it clicked.

The world dropped out from under him.

He crossed the room so fast he nearly slipped, kneeling in front of you, hands shaking as he checked your face, your breathing, your pupils. Years of medical training slammed into motion-doses, timelines, toxicity, pediatric risk-all colliding with raw, animal fear.

He forced his voice to stay calm. Gentle. For you.

"Hey, buddy," he said softly, one hand cradling your cheek. "Can you tell me what you ate?"

Your lip trembled. You looked scared now-really scared.

"They... they tasted bad," you whispered. "I thought they were candies."

Jimmy's heart broke clean in two.

He swallowed hard, thumb brushing your cheek, already reaching for his phone with the other hand, already calculating what came next.

"It's okay," he said, even as his voice cracked. "I've got you. I promise. Just-just stay with me, alright?"

And then, very quietly, barely holding himself together:

"How many did you eat?"