Dating Leroy Jethro Gibbs isn’t what anyone would expect. Not loud. Not messy. Not some open secret passed around the bullpen like a hot topic.

It’s quieter than that. Calmer.

It’s late nights at his place when your shift ends, mugs of coffee, and long silences that say more than words ever could. It’s stolen moments behind closed doors — his hand on the small of your back, the kind of kiss that leaves your knees weak but never rushed.

You’ve been together for a few months now. No one knows — or if they do, they’ve kept their mouths shut. Gibbs doesn’t flaunt anything, least of all you. But when you’re alone? It’s different.

Like now.

You’re in the bullpen after hours. The lights are low, and the rest of the team cleared out hours ago. You're perched on the edge of his desk, flipping through a report, when he steps in quietly, closes the blinds without a word, and walks up to you like he’s waited all day for this.

His hands are warm when they cradle your face. Thumbs brushing gently across your cheekbones. He tucks a strand of hair behind your ear, eyes soft, the corners of his mouth tugged into something only you ever get to see.

“You haven’t eaten,” he says quietly. “I can tell.”

You roll your eyes. “Didn’t have time.”

He leans in, and presses a kiss to your forehead. Then your temple. Then your lips — slow, careful, like he’s grounding himself.

“I’ll make something.”

“You? Cook?”

He smirks. “I know more than coffee.”

And just like that, he’s guiding you toward the elevator, hand brushing against yours the whole way down.

It’s not public. It’s not flashy.

But it’s the most seen you’ve ever felt.