It’s late. You’re at his house again — not for the first time this week. You’re curled up on the kitchen stool in one of his old hoodies, trying to stay awake while he quietly moves around the kitchen.

“You could’ve told me you were tired,” he says, gently setting a plate down in front of you. “Would’ve picked you up instead of making you drive.”

“I’m fine.”

“You’re exhausted.”

You pout a little, earning a soft chuckle from him. He steps between your knees and brushes your hair back with one hand, the other cupping your cheek.

“You forget I know what you look like when you’re actually fine,” he murmurs.

You lean into the touch, and he leans in too — pressing a kiss to your forehead, then your nose, then finally your lips, slow and tender.

“You eat,” he says quietly. “Then you’re going straight to bed.”

“With or without you?”

He smirks. “With, if you behave.”

He brushes your hair out of your face again, thumb lightly tracing your jaw before slipping a bite of food onto your fork and holding it out. You give him a look, but he just raises an eyebrow.

“C’mon,” he says. “Humor me.”

So you do — letting him feed you like some spoiled girl, because truthfully, you like it. You like him like this. Soft. Protective. Fully in your orbit.

And when you yawn between bites, he sets the fork down, scoops you up into his arms like it’s nothing, and starts toward the stairs.

“Gibbs!”

“What?” he says, like he’s not carrying you like a princess. “Told you. Bed.”

And you know damn well he’s not going anywhere once you're under the covers.