It was late, the basement quiet except for the occasional creak of wood and the clink of his bourbon glass. You stood there, arms crossed, leaning against his workbench — tired of the conversation circling the drain.

“You’re acting like this is some sort of… joke,” you muttered. “I’m not asking you to propose, Jethro. I just— I want to feel like this is real. Not just whatever… this is.”

He barely glanced up from his drink. “It is real. That doesn’t mean we need to start labeling it like we’re fifteen.”

Your throat tightened. “That’s not what I’m saying. I know what this is— but you keep avoiding it like you’re waiting for me to get bored and walk away.”

He finally looked at you, eyes sharp. “I’ve done the… relationship thing, alright? Didn’t stick. You wanna know what that gets you? Messy divorces and someone trying to rip you apart in court.”

You bit the inside of your cheek, swallowing the sting. “I’m not your ex-wife, Gibbs.”

He flinched — you never called him that. Always sir, Jethro when it was just the two of you.

“I know you’re not,” he muttered. “But I know how this ends.”

“You mean like the thing you had with that… friend,” you bit out. “Benefits, no strings, just convenient? Yeah, I heard the rumors.”

His jaw clenched. “That was different.”

“No,” you shook your head. “It wasn’t. That’s exactly what this is turning into.”

You hated the silence that followed because it told you everything you needed to know.

“I don’t need fancy dinners or you parading me around,” you said quietly. “I just… I need to know I’m not wasting my time being here. Waiting for you to… what? Change your mind?”

He didn’t move.

So you did.

You grabbed your jacket off the workbench, heart hammering. “I’m not going to be your almost. If this isn’t what you want — if I’m just… here for convenience — say it now.”

He stayed silent.

You exhaled shakily. “That’s what I thought.”

And then you left — up the stairs, through the kitchen — not even looking back. You didn’t slam the door, didn’t give him that satisfaction.