He tapped the lid to his pen against his lips, his brow deeply furrowed.

Writing was not something Tony typically enjoyed. In highschool, he had done everything in his power to get out of writing papers.

In his younger years, he hadn't been above paying a geek to write the analytical paper of that week's Thomas Hardy assigned reading. Hell, he was lucky he even managed to read the Cliff's Notes for the book, let alone write a paper.

In college it wasn't much of an issue – hence the major in Phys Ed.

But it was still there. His reports took forever. His hunt-and-peck typing style didn't help speed the process along any, either.

Case-report time was McGee's favorite part of the day; at 90 Words per minute, he was always finished long before Tony. Tony could tease him about many things, but McGee definitely held the upper-hand in typing and the man enjoyed his prowess, a silent smirk the only gloating Tony ever saw.

Ziva, on the other hand, had no problem gloating. Of course, her celebration of finishing first usually came in the form of tormenting Tony. Her favorite game was to come read over his shoulder, her breath warm in his ear.

Case-reports were easy; who got killed, what the investigation entailed, and finally, the all important 'who done it.' Typing exactly what happened in concise sentences was something Tony enjoyed.

Writing a letter to someone he was falling for? Not that easy.

Tuesday night is my favorite night.

He looked down at his paper and rolled his eyes. Understatement of the year, DiNozzo. You've gotta tell the girl more than that, he thought.

When I was younger, I used to look forward to Friday nights.

There was either a football game to play or a party to go to where all the hot chicks were wearing short skirts. Lots of my buds to hang around with & lots of fun, rowdy behavior that would make you roll your eyes at our immaturity.

Friday nights meant no school the next day. It meant no work the next day- plenty of time to sleep off my hangover.

I guess it may sound dumb, but its been years since I looked forward to Friday nights. There's still a game to watch or the occasional drink with Abs, McGeek & the Boss, but Fridays aren't what they used to be.

No more bars with hot co-eds singing bad Karaoke after one too many beers.

No more late night after-game parties when my football team slaughters the competition.

I don't know when things shifted, Zi, but for the first time that I can remember, I have one place I want to be on Friday- at the gym on the treadmill, so that when Tuesday night comes, I'll be able to finally kick your ass.

I spend all week waiting for the one night I get to relax and be myself.

I spend all week waiting for one night I get to spend with my best friend.

Tuesday night is my favorite night.


PS: Thanks for making this weekend an exception to the rule – it was the best Friday I've had in a very long time.

Tony re-read, deciding that any other changes would make him pull out his hair. This was honest. This was true. This was the person she brought out in him.

And it scared the crap out of him.

How did he let her get so close? How did he let her into his life, and – if he was honest with himself- into his heart? When did she become his conscience? When did he start to worry for her more than himself?

He groaned, leaning back in his chair and let his eyes come to rest on her desk.

She wouldn't be in for another ten minutes – 0630 every morning. He set his watch by her.

He stood and crossed the aisle, tucking his note underneath the vase- where she would certainly see it.

The look on her face as she read it would tell him everything he needed to know.

When he had given her the yellow roses, they had gone home the same night. He remembered feeling a little stung that she hadn't displayed them longer.

But of course, this was Ziva- personal life was personal & drawing attention to herself was not her modus operandi.

This bouquet of roses sat in the same place. A beautiful crystal vase catching the light as streamed in the double-paned, seeming to reflect a sparkle up to the roses.

The Red Roses.

He had looked it up himself this time.

Red Roses: Courage. Beauty. Respect. Passion. I love you.