He gently lifted the fabric of the sweatshirt to his nose, inhaling the sweet scent that still clung to it. He couldn't place the aroma, but he knew it was wonderful, the kind of thing you expect to smell on a seashore at the crack of dawn. It was a light smell and it wafted through his body, causing his muscles to go lax.

You're being creepy, Tim scolded himself. Normal, well-adjusted gentlemen didn't take it upon themselves to smell clothing that had recently been worn by beautiful women, even if the clothing in question had been theirs in the first place. He shouldn't be relishing her scent, no matter how delicious it may be; he should just throw them in the washer and expunge the scent and sweat…and her.

She had been so cold, shivering from the soaking they had both endured. Despite her cheeky joke about finally being clean, Tim could tell that she hadn't enjoyed their forced dip in the fountain anymore than he had. He'd felt awful that he couldn't do anything. Offering her his suit jacket would have been useless as it was as soaked as the clothing she was already wearing. He'd cranked up the heat in the Sedan, but even that did little to help. While he was thinking about the warm, dry clothing he had stored at NCIS (for just such an occasion) the only thing to which Ziva had to look forward was a reception from her new co-workers that would be even colder than her current body temperature. He felt for the Mossad officer (the newbie, as he took pride in calling her). It was hard enough being the fresh meat in the world of law enforcement; being a foreigner whose sibling had murdered the woman whose place you were taking made it that much worse. People didn't want to trust her; to trust her was akin to trusting Ari.

Maybe Tim was as gullible and as naïve as others seemed to think he was, but he did trust Ziva. She had never given him reason not to. And she was now on their team so there no reason to be uncivil to her.

"I've got some extra sweats," he told her as they pulled in to the Navy Yard. "They might be a bit big on you, but you're welcome to borrow them."

"But then you will be cold," she murmured without looking at him.

It was true, he thought as he looked down at his soaked clothing. He thought back to when he was a child and would run out to play in the rain. His mother would scold him from the open doorway of their home, so he would quickly run back inside, drenched to the core. He would then change into warm, dry clothing, revealing in their comfort. This was much like that, only he would get no comfort from the cold. "It's okay," he assured her, "I've dealt with worse. Besides, I'm sure you're used to a warmer climate and the NCIS building can sometimes feel like a walk-in freezer."

She brushed a piece of her sopping wet hair behind her ear. She had noticed the frigid temperature of the building. It had been cold enough dry; she could only imagine how horrid it would be while wet. "In that case I would love to borrow your other clothing. Thank you, McGee."

Something about the way she said his name—not condescending or teasing; just straight-forward—sent a tiny chill down his spine. Her voice was quite attractive, he found; smooth and sultry.

He'd dug the dry sweatshirt and sweatpants from his bag and placed them in Ziva's shivering, grateful grasp. She thanked him again before going off to find a place in which to change; Tim went off to the bathroom to try and wring as much water as he could from his suit. It was drier than it had been, though now it was beginning to wrinkle.

As he peeled the soaking clothing from his skin, Tim couldn't help but imagine the Israeli woman doing the same. He immediately felt ashamed for having such thoughts about the woman. She was his co-worker, after all.

When she re-entered the bullpen donning his sweats, he felt his heart begin to pound within his chest. Even while wearing shapeless sweats that were too big for her, she looked quite divine. With every step she took he thought about the fabric brushing against her thighs...her breasts…her nether regions. Now that she had worn them (and they had touched her in places of which he could only dream) could he ever wear them without thinking about her? It would make his visits to the gym very awkward.

She'd worn the sweats only a short while. The day had ended and she'd insisted on wearing her clothes (still not quite dry) home. So she had returned the leant clothing to him, leaving him to decide how to proceed.

He looked down into the empty washing machine. One wash would rid the sweats of Ziva's smell, but he knew that no amount of washes could ever rid them of her. Every time he slipped them on, he would think of her. Every time they touched his legs, he would think about them brushing gently against hers.

They were forever tainted, but not in a bad way.

With a heavy sigh, Tim folded the clothing and dropped them back into his laundry bag; they landed with a graceful plop. He heaved it over his shoulder and left the laundry room. Tomorrow he would drop the sweats off at the local Goodwill, rid himself of the lustful thoughts altogether.

The thought of her wearing his clothing, though; that he could never rid.