Sam had been watching Callen all night.
Work parties weren't really his thing. They were loud, chaotic, and usually ended with someone oversharing or spilling something on their dress shirt. But here he was—nursing a beer in the corner of a rented function room, the lights low and the music too loud. He wasn't sure why he came, not really. Habit maybe. Or maybe curiosity.
Because Callen was here.
And Callen never came to these things.
Sam glanced across the room again, and there it was—his answer. The reason Callen had shown up. The reason he hadn't vanished after putting in a polite twenty minutes.
She was out there on the makeshift dance floor, living her best life.
Nell.
She was dancing with Kensi and Eric, moving in a way that couldn't be classified as good by any means—but the sheer joy on her face made it impossible not to smile. Goofy, off-beat, arms flailing with zero rhythm, but all heart. And Kensi was right there with her, mirroring her every move. Eric, bless him, was doing something that might've once resembled the robot.
Sam returned to the table with a round of drinks and slid into his seat just in time to see Nell bounce over, breathless and pink-cheeked, her hair sticking to her temples from all the movement. Her eyes found Callen instantly.
Callen, who'd remained rooted at the table for the last hour, not drinking much, not talking much—just watching, wordlessly handed Nell a bottle of water the second she reached their table, like he'd anticipated the moment. She took it with a wide smile, unscrewed the cap, and took a long drink before nudging his arm playfully.
"You should come dance," she said, still slightly out of breath.
Callen raised his brows, amused but unmoved. "Absolutely not. I don't dance."
Nell narrowed her eyes, tilting her head. "You're no fun," she teased with a grin.
He smirked. "I'm plenty fun. Just not out there," he said, nodding toward the dance floor.
Laughing, Nell rolled her eyes and turned, bouncing back toward Kensi and Eric without a trace of disappointment. Just... light. And maybe a little sparkle.
Sam watched Callen watch her go. Something in his expression softened, just for a second—like the quiet had cracked open a little space for something warmer to creep in.
That was all Sam needed to see.
He took a swig of his beer and leaned back in his chair, watching the dance floor with an almost fond shake of his head.
If Nell Jones could get G. Callen not only to show up to a party—but to stay—and make him think twice about dancing?
Yeah.
She was more than alright in his book.