Just getting back into the routine; people. I have eight hours of choreography tomorrow and five on Sunday = probably no updates. But, I promise, next weekend I will be posting a new chapter of Sweetest Mistake. I've just been sooo busy lately. Two dance competitions coming up; one in Dallas and one in NYC. Pumped!

This one shot is actually a combo of two different ones in my writing spiral. Enjoy!

Disclaimer: Nope...not owning it. I don't think the average middle schooler owns NCIS...:(

The words are like a sudden sandstorm in the vast desert. Unstoppable, unseen, yet carefully thought about in the deep recesses of their minds; because it's a given it's going to happen sometime. The confrontation. The battle.

Once the words are there, you can't take them back, they'll learn. It is impossible to rewrite time. Actions that were made.

The deep breath, only minutes prior, the catch in the silence, had been the calm before the happening. That hitched breathing had her green orbs staring worriedly into his faster than a gunshot ever could. She sensed his distress, puzzled at it.

But then; she knew this was coming.

After all, everything had been so taboo. Dinners in Marseille, ever the illicit. No denying how cliche it was when they made love because she could swore she saw stars. He tried to accept the fact that when he looked at her in the Parisian moonlight his breath was taken away. The both try, really, but it's hard to ignore the hard truth that these stolen moments in time, lazy Sunday mornings in bed together, are as flimsy as the sheets in which they lie upon.

No denying how forbidden everything is.

These words were poisonous, in such a delicate situation.

Five syllables ruptured every frayed foundation they'd sought out together, every security they'd latched onto together. Changing lives, even.

Spoken in just above a whisper, lulling with the deep timbre of his voice. These words reach out across the pillow, delving inside her ears and then turning fuzzy, like a bad television channel. She tenses in his grip, her deep crimson curls smelling so sweet and feeling so soft.

She arches one eyebrow, his eyes squint slightly, trying to gauge her like he would a dangerous suspect. He holds his breath, childishly.

Jenny Shepard wouldn't say anything.

Suddenly, he exhales through a clenched jaw, causing the air to whistle past furiously. His blue eyes darkening a bit, unable to mask a bit of the pain. He knows he's surely fucked up, and he can never take it back. He whispers her name thickly against her hair.

She won't look up from the freckle on his bicep.

Finally, the climax came. The moment she responds to his question, but doesn't.

"I love you," she whispers, so unlike anything she'd ever usually say.

The words are spoken numbly. It's their version of 'sorry'.

She turns in his arms, supporting herself with her hands by his head as they kiss. She doesn't want to think now. Feeling is even a little unwelcome. Grinding against his hips as a tired groan forces its way past his lips, she thinks that maybe damn good sex will be the easiest resolution to what she knows is surely the end.

He memorizes every part of her body all over again that night, and they fall asleep with hearts beating so close together you could mistake them for one.

Hours later, she sits at the dresser on the opposite side of the room in their apartment. The sun is just beginning to rise and she knows he'll be up soon.

She cries a bit, knowing she'll never be able to look him in the eye again after the next eight hours. Swallowing hard, she dabs on a bit of lipstick and kisses the envelope.

If she's going to drag this into the mud, she might as well do it thoroughly.

The piece of paper has never felt so heavy, the black inked pages inside weighing down with meaning. Heartbreak.

Jenny tucks it into her shoulder bag along with the plane tickets to Cairo.

She takes one last glance in the mirror.

Deep circles look almost carved onto her pale face, a freckle sneaking up here and there. Her lips are swollen. She wets them, and swears she can still taste him. That man who lies in the bed a few feet from her.

The man who she will leave in eight hours.

Her red hair is frizzy with the morning humidity. She notices a red mark on her neck; a bite mark. If only he knew it would be his last claim to her. Still, it would fade in a few weeks.

Like everything, it ends. She slips back into bed with him, just before he wakes.

Jethro Gibbs is cautious of the woman he cares so deeply about. Of course, he asked her to marry him, and she wouldn't say anything.

Inviting her into the shower, preparing for the flight, he is positive there would be nothing worse than having her say 'no'.

How wrong he would be. Years later, he can't help but wonder why he hadn't seen first sign.