"Why did you just lie to McGee?"

"Why did you lie to Nora?"

We walk along the cobblestone street; each taking in the sights and sounds of Paris. Checking into the hotel was quick and painless. We had dropped off our bags; Ziva shaking her head as we set out for some fine French fare.

I stopped. There it was – the place to eat.

Cafe de Deux Moulins.

"This is where you want to eat?"

"Oui. It's where Amelie works."

"Who is Amelie?"

"Just a girl who took pleasure in the simple things in life. Unlucky in love. Until she found a box of childhood treasures. . . She sets out to return it, and along the way finding friends, information and of course, love. What we should take away from this movie, Miss Dah-veed, is that miraculous details of life occur every moment."

"I should know by now that things always circle back to the movies."

"As they should."

The next morning I wake up and turn my head to the left. Just as I though, she is there and snoring lightly. Automatically, I feel a smile forming on my face. She does that to me.

As we left the restaurant last night, the air was still warm and the street lanterns cast just enough light so I could catch Ziva eyes glistening; trying to figure out what she was feeling, if anything. Without thinking, I reached for her hand. She accepted this semi-romantic gesture with no comment. As if it were a natural occurrence or as if she would be expecting it. Either way, this night would go down in the books. No expectations. No disappointments.

We continue to wander aimlessly between the shops, the boutiques and other restaurants. Not letting go of each other, we pause to gaze in the windows; laughing at some of the displays and drooling over the pastries. I gently remind her that tomorrow we are going sightseeing. She disagrees. We shall see how this plays out.

We reach a junction; left brings us back to the hotel, while taking a right will loop us around for a second time, eventually leading us back to the hotel. I just stand there for a moment, before turning and looking at Ziva. I continue in this exaggerated silence. Whatever I say won't matter. I've been trying to tell her things for four fucking years - simple things; like the truth, what I'm actually thinking about her and how that fits in my world and my job, personally. It has to, right?

I instinctively turn left. I'm sick of walking in circles. She takes the same stride I do – complimentary. (Like somehow she was hoping I'd chose this.) As we enter the hotel, I take notice of everyone around me, I guess I'm used to it. I have no doubt Ziva is doing the same. Not that anyone is there who would know us, it almost begs the question – what else can get away with?

We ride the elevator up to our floor. Still silent. Still holding hands. Still much being left unsaid.

In our room, we go our separate ways in preparation for bed and for what tomorrow brings.

I finish before her and jump in bed. If she complains, I can just whine about my back. She comes out of the bathroom. Her eyes dart between the couch and the bed with the added bonus of company. I pat her side of the bed. She laughs as if she just realized how ludicrous it was to think she would take the couch.

She reaches over and grabs my hand. (Because it just wasn't enough holding it all night.) She brings my hand to her lips and kisses it. In that second, a wildfire of electricity burns throughout my body. It's an entirely different experience from before when I thought I lost her. I can't go down that road again. The worst fucking three months of my life. Thinking about it still fires me up. I feel her lips kiss my hand again. My thought process is once again re-wired.

I untangle my hand from hers, again. As I gaze into her eyes, I gently reach up to brush some stray hairs from her face and tuck them behind her ear. Once again, she moves her head and ends up kissing my palm. Another jolt. She shimmies closer to me, leaving about an inch between us. For Ziva, that's a lot. She lacks concern for personal space.

"Tony." She mutters, breathlessly.

"Ziva." I retort back.

"What are you thinking about?"

"You. Me. This hotel room. Paris. Tomorrow."

She looks me in the eyes and whisper, "Let's make it memorable." Her lips land on mine.

I wake up again thinking about the previous night. Since, Ziva has already left to coordinate with the passenger we are escorting back to the U.S. I can't really fault her for leaving me here. I know we broke a rule, I know this night may be the chance we have. I am not going to regret it. I am not share it because honestly, it's not about anybody else.

I finish packing my bag and get ready for the day. I have more sights to see before I meet up with Ziva. I find her sitting outside a cafe enjoying her morning coffee and croissant. She is glowing, maybe it's way the sunlight bounces off the buildings and the streets or maybe it's me. (I'm going with that.)

"Why are you in such a pleasant mood? What's wrong with you?"

"I slept well last night, didn't you?. . . You certainly looked comfy enough."

Ziva tilts her head to side and her lips form a slight smile. Almost as if she doesn't want to give anything way. Telling me with her eyes that "Yes, I slept fine. You know this because you were lying next me, holding me in your arms."

She stands up indicating we should stop talking about this and that it is time to head to the embassy. I snap a few more pictures and climb on the vespa. Ziva climbs on, wraps her around my stomach and holds on a little tighter than she should.

The journey home begins. There will be no turning back. Forward progression, or the lack there of, may be the source of previous separations– the unwillingness to change, to grow, to share. Maybe it was choosing the wrong person but you sometimes don't figure that until it's over. Maybe you find the find the right person but it may take you time to figure that out too.

I go through my photos of Paris. The printouts are usually better than having to squint looking at them on the camera. Re-checking the pictures I took realize that Ducky was right. The pictures outside the Louvre don't capture the essence of what's inside. Then, I find it. My favorite picture, one that isn't soulless or analytical.

Whether pictures are printed in black and white or in color, there is always a touch of gray.