Gibbs opened his eyes, and sleepily decided he was still dreaming. Sunlight leaked in past the drawn blinds, casting shafts of ethereal light across the silent bedroom. Gibbs was pleasantly warm under a thin sheet, and as moments passed he slowly remembered that the time was metered by breaths that were not his own. He rolled over onto his side, wrapping a long arm around the body next to him. His face ended up somewhere in a forest of soft black hair. Inhaling deeply, Gibbs smiled. He had missed these mornings—warm skin and solid bodies replacing memories of her absence, his loneliness. He had missed her more than he would ever say aloud. Ziva sighed, a soft hum of comfort purring in her throat as she shifted back, leaning into him. His lips found her shoulder through her hair and pressed a kiss to her neck.

"Morning," she blurred sleepily, not opening her eyes. Gibbs remembered how tired Shannon had been during her pregnancy before he'd been deployed; he had often come home after his duty shift to find her sacked out on the couch. The same exhaustion seemed to hit Ziva like a freight train. She, who slept on a hair trigger, now slept like a log long past her customary pre-dawn internal wake-up call. It also amped her snoring up to an eleven, but this morning it was blissfully quiet as she slowly worked her way up to the land of the living.

Or not. Her breathing evened out again, her brief encounter with wakefulness swiftly fading as she pressed against him, seeking his warmth. Gibbs shifted until his palm lay flat against the smooth curve of her belly. He imagined he could feel the tiny heartbeat it contained. Tears burned against his eyelids. A dream, he thought. Even I couldn't dream something like this. Ziva's hand covered his, as though sensing the shifting mood.

"I missed you," she said, repeating the words she'd offered six months ago in Kabul. Her eyes finally opened, not without effort. She blinked laboriously, stretching the sleep from her lids. She gave his hand a reassuring squeeze.

"Missed you too." They hadn't spoken of her journey. Gibbs could admit to himself that he was curious, if not about the places she'd visited, then for the reasons she chose them. He wondered if she had remained in Israel, or if she had chased her past into Europe. He asked her about her time in Afghanistan with the girls. He would not ask her about before, unless she chose to share it with him.

Ziva rolled in his arms to face him, one leg tucking itself between his knees. "What do you want to do today?"

"You've got lunch with Abby," he reminded her.

Ziva's answering smirk was mulish. "You're right. What was I thinking? It will take all weekend, we—"she broke into a fit of giggles, squirming to avoid his fingers poking her sides, digging into her sensitive, never-admitted-to ticklish spots. "Ack! Okay, okay!" He relented, and they both relaxed against the pillows.

There was silence for a bit, then—"How about the paint store?"

Ziva blinked. "The paint store? What for?"

"Figured we could start looking at colors for the baby's room." Gibbs paused, sensing a shift when Ziva did not respond. "Ziver?"

"I like that idea," she said softly. She nodded. "Yes. Just us?"

"Just us." Abby had repeatedly offered her services in every way possible—if the woman had her druthers, she'd be in the guest room now, just to keep an eye on things. While Gibbs was grateful for the offer of help, especially when a case kept him late or out of phone contact, both he and Ziva remained firm that some things would be done on their own.

"Jethro?" Gibbs hummed an acknowledgement. "I've been wanting to ask you…"

"Ask me what?"

"Would you build a crib? As you did for Amira?"

Gibbs smiled. "I already have the design sketched out. I can show—"

"No," Ziva said quickly, but gently. "Don't show me."

"Want it to be a surprise?"

"It's not that, exactly. I…" She paused, gathering her thoughts. "I don't want my reaction to influence you. It should be as you envision it. So one day our child will look back on it and see nothing but you in the carvings."

Outside, a lonely songbird called. Down the street a car door slammed, signs of an active day that had yet to penetrate their sanctuary. "I think I understand," Gibbs said. She rolled over, and placed a warm callused hand on his bare chest. "It'll be waiting for both of you when you come home from the hospital."

"Thank you," she murmured softly. Her lips brushed his, ghostly and fleeting. He caught her there, framing her face in his hands and planting his lips more firmly. She returned it easily, granting him the physical surety of her presence. She was no ghost, no imagined figure. Her heart thudded tangibly, her pulse flickering to the touch as his lips trailed down her neck. He felt it stutter, then quicken as her breath hitched in response.

"The paint can wait another hour."

Ziva's eyes lit with something feral and alluring. "Agreed," came her hungry growl. It was more than the expected hour before they found their way back out of the sheets.