Her mind was always on the fast track.
It had been that way since she was a little girl. If she didn't have the proper mental stimulation — or physical, as she learned when she entered adulthood — she would bore too easily.
Which is precisely why taking on the Directors job was something that she took to so naturally. It was busy work, it was fast paced, and it was stimulating in every sense of the word. The demands of the job were just enough to keep up with the speed that her mind always seemed to work at.
Unfortunately, even on what should have been a lazy Sunday morning, she still wasn't able to turn it off.
She had woken just after 6am — a feat for her, and one she would certainly not let pass without having him know she was capable of sleeping past 5 — and had been wide awake since.
He had been left sleeping in his bed, equally as spent as she was from the previous night though not operating on the same internal clock, and she didn't want to wake him.
Her jeans were left discarded just outside his bedroom door, her sweater not far from it on the staircase, and her shoes were yet to be in sight. She picked both up, folding them gently as she made her way down the steps, looking around for her lost footwear as she did.
She tasked herself with cleaning up from the night before: something that would keep her mind and hands busy until a certain marine made his appearance.
The clothes were a start, though she quickly found herself shuffling around the kitchen and organizing the mess they had left from dinner. There were still empty takeout containers on the table and an open bottle of bourbon on the counter.
It's only when she sees the bourbon that she remembers the book on the basement steps.
Of course, by the time she makes her way to the basement to retrieve it, the familiar pang of anxiety has already swept over her as she remembers the job offer all over again.
There's a voice playing in the back of her head that sounds an awful lot like her father:
Tell him.
"Damn it." She mutters to herself, staring at the boat as she does.
Her entire career had been spent at NCIS, and while there were parts of her that would always remain beyond loyal to her agency, she would be lying if she tried to say she didn't want the job.
She wanted the job, and the experience that came with it, and the satisfaction of knowing all her work was paying off, that she was hand picked for the position because she had proved herself worthy of it.
But she wanted him, too.
"Sweatshirt is a bit big on you, Jen."
His voice startled her. Had she really been that deep in her own thoughts that she hadn't heard him? Or was he still just that good? A mix of both, if she really had to guess.
She looks up to where he's standing at the top of the basement steps, before glancing down at herself. She's wearing an old NIS sweatshirt of his and a pair of his sweatpants.
"It's comfortable." She retorts, making her way up the stairs.
"You have clothes here." He counters, stepping aside to let her brush past him.
She sets the book on the table beside her neatly folded clothes, "Yes, from six years ago that probably don't fit me. And it's winter, I'm cold, and these are warm."
"Coulda' stayed in bed," He says, making his way to the coffee pot, "Warm there too."
"There a reason you keep your house so chilly, Jethro?"
He reaches into a cabinet and produces two blue coffee cups, "Was trying to coax you into staying in bed. Next time I'll turn the heat off completely."
She laughs lightly, making her way beside him with a smile, "You could have just asked, Jethro."
He snorts, "You never listen to me."
"True." She agrees, reaching up on her tip toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips.
There's something in the way he looks at her, she decides, that generates such a warm feeling inside her that she's certain she'll never be cold again.
The mere thought of leaving him makes the sensation almost too much for her to bare.
How is she going to tell him?
"Coffee will be ready in," he pauses, looking to the machine, "about ten minutes."
"Hmm," she hums, brushing the back of her hand over his unshaven face. The stubble scratches her skin and it reminds her that all of this is so undeniably real that her heart beats a bit faster at the sensation, "Then I'll be back."
Shes only a few steps away from him before he asks, "Where are you going?"
"Hot shower," she says, glancing over her shoulder with a smirk, "Are you going to join me? Or are you going to stand there and stare at the coffee pot until it does your bidding?"
He's behind her in an instant, looping his arm around her waist and toying with the drawstring of her sweatpants; a wicked grin in his lips that could revile her own.
Later, when they had finally emerged back down to the kitchen, the coffee had sat cold and forgotten.
———
The level of domesticity they had slipped into was something she hadn't experienced with another person.
After their shower — and a fresh pot of coffee — he had retreated to the basement. The door had been left open for her, an invitation that she was welcome to join him during his Sunday routine if she desired. Another one of those simple gestures done by him to show his level of adoration.
She went down periodically, spending varying amounts of time watching him work before inevitably retreated back upstairs.
It was the comfort of being able to navigate their day separately with the knowledge of being able to be with the other at any given moment that was so enjoyable wonderful that she wonders if the novelty will ever truly wear off.
As the saying goes, however, all good things must come to an end.
It was just nearing 8pm when he drives her home, the day spent pleasantly doing nothing other than spending time in varying locations of the household, a new level of relaxation even for her.
Monday was closing in though, and they had to prepare to slip back into their respective roles, starting with her going back to her own house.
The air is crisp and cold around her, a bitter edge to it that cuts right through her coat despite its thickness. The ground was slick, a result of the few days of nice weather melting the snow all for it to freeze over, and he's insistent on walking her into the house under the guise that she could slip.
"You know Jethro," she tells him, rolling her eyes a bit as he tightens his hold around her waist, "If you wanted to walk in with me, you could have just done so. The ice is a nice cover story, though."
He scoffs, a puff of white breath escaping him as a result, "Just trying to be a gentleman."
She rolls her eyes, digging around in her pocket for her keys, "That'll be the day."
He offers her a throaty laugh, a sound she isn't graced with hearing often and it's enough to elicit a smile from her.
"I'll see you bright and early, Director." He teases, gripping her tightly at the waist as she faces him.
She leans forward, pressing herself into him as he kisses her. There's a warmth to him that overtakes her in the cold.
Her mind wanders to the heat of the Californian sun.
The authority the deputy position would hold.
The pride she knows her father would have in her for obtaining the title.
The satisfaction within herself for working so hard to get where she is.
In an instant, it all snaps back to the man in her arms.
"We need to talk about something."