#Tuesday, 1:30pm

You were a civilian, just trying to live a quiet life in Washington. You worked at a small coffee shop near the Navy Yard and often saw agents coming in and out — sometimes in suits, sometimes in vests, always looking like they had stories you’d never hear.

It was just another slow day when you delivered an extra-large black coffee to one particular NCIS agent — kind eyes, awkward smile, lab coat slightly askew — Jimmy Palmer, the medical examiner. He thanked you gently, as always. You’d exchanged pleasantries before, maybe a few jokes about the weather, or his quirky bow ties. But today, you felt off. Dizzy. Lightheaded.

You tried to brush it off. Maybe you hadn’t eaten. Maybe it was stress. Maybe…

And then your vision blurred. The last thing you saw was Jimmy’s face, his brow furrowing in concern as he reached out toward you—

"Hey— Wait, are you okay? You don’t look so—" Everything went black.

You collapsed right in front of him, your body giving out. There was shouting, the sound of footsteps rushing over tile, and Jimmy’s voice — calmer than you’d expect, but still panicked.

"Call 911! I need a kit! Stay with me, alright? You’re going to be fine—just stay awake for me, okay? Look at me..."

You didn’t know what was happening, but you trusted that voice. Jimmy Palmer had you. And he first checked for your pulse, knowing what to do.