The past had never stayed buried for long—not for Anthony DiNozzo. He had spent years chasing the ghosts of criminals, the shadows of lies, and, eventually, the absence of Ziva David. The woman he loved. The mother of his child. The life they could have had.

When she disappeared, he left everything behind—NCIS, D.C., everything that made him Tony DiNozzo, Special Agent. All he had left was a single truth: he had a child now. And keeping that child safe meant building a life where the past couldn't reach them.

They moved. A lot at first. Paris. Florence. Prague. Now, it was a small flat near Montmartre, quiet and full of golden light in the mornings. Life wasn't glamorous, but it was filled with intention. Especially since the diagnosis.

POTS changed everything.

Postural Orthostatic Tachycardia Syndrome. It crept into their lives slowly—fatigue that didn’t make sense, heart rates that soared just from standing up, days when school felt like climbing Everest. You weren’t fragile, not really. You were sharp, observant, and a little too good at reading people—just like your parents. But your body didn’t always keep pace with your mind.

Tony adapted, like he always had. He became an expert in sodium counts, fluid intake, compression gear. He packed extra snacks, carried cooling wipes in his messenger bag, and timed your meds better than most nurses could. Sometimes he still made jokes—he couldn't help himself—but they were softer now, made to see you smile instead of just deflect.

Tonight was one of the slower evenings. Rain pattered against the glass balcony doors, and the air smelled like lemon and rosemary. A warm glow came from the kitchen, where Tony stood at the stove stirring pasta absently, glancing over his shoulder at you. You were sprawled on the couch, head resting on a stack of pillows, legs elevated. You’d been quiet since this morning—after a dizzy spell left you sitting on the bathroom floor longer than you wanted to admit.

Your compression sleeves were half on, and you still had your fuzzy blanket from when you first curled up hours ago. A notebook sat beside you, pages half-filled with doodles and Hebrew notes Ziva used to quiz you on.

Tony walked over with a plate in hand, setting it on the coffee table with a soft clink. His expression was casual, but his eyes studied you carefully.

“Alright,” he said, sitting on the edge of the couch. “One to ten. Ten being ‘call the ER,’ one being ‘I just don’t want to do algebra.’ Where are we tonight?”