Nell stepped out of the SUV, her boots crunching on gravel as she adjusted the strap of her bag. The sun hit her like a wall—brilliant, dry, and far too bright for someone who had just gotten off a redeye flight. She slid her sunglasses on with one hand, squinting toward the low buildings of Camp Pendleton stretching ahead.
She hadn't been back in L.A. for more than an hour. Her suitcase was still in Deeks' trunk. But ops didn't pause for jet lag or delayed flights—and when Hetty called, you didn't get a grace period.
Deeks stepped around from the driver's side, casual as ever in jeans and boots, eyes scanning the base like he half-expected trouble and half-hoped for it.
"Not exactly the 'welcome back' banner and cupcakes you were hoping for, huh?" he said, flashing that surfer-detective grin.
Nell laughed lightly, pushing her tangled travel hair behind one ear. "I don't even know what day it is."
"Oh, it's 'welcome to chaos' day," Deeks replied. "Callen's undercover—Gunnery Sergeant Steele. Very hoo-rah, very 'yes sir, no ma'am', all biceps and intensity. You'll see."
Nell opened her mouth to respond, but then she heard it—the low, throaty rumble of a military jeep approaching.
She turned, raising a hand against the glare despite her sunglasses. Dust rose in the jeep's wake, the heat shimmer blurring the edges of the figure behind the wheel. But the second he came into focus, she felt it—a flutter in her stomach. A subtle tightening in her chest.
Callen.
Except… not Callen. Not exactly.
He pulled the jeep to a clean stop and stepped out with the calm confidence of a man completely at home in this role. He wore a regulation Marine combat uniform, sleeves tight around forearms corded with muscle. His sunglasses hid his eyes, but the faint smirk on his lips—barely-there, like an inside joke—was all him.
And suddenly, Deeks' earlier words echoed in her head: "All biceps and intensity."
No kidding.
Callen looked like something off a military recruitment poster. His dog tags glinted against the khaki of his shirt, sleeves rolled just high enough to expose solid forearms, the lines of muscle obvious even in the heat-hardened fabric. His cap shaded his face, but not enough to hide the sharp jawline or the cocky smirk tugging at one corner of his mouth.
And the sunglasses—oh, those sunglasses. Classic aviators, reflecting the dusty road behind them, hiding his eyes but not the spark of something teasing beneath.
Nell felt it before she could stop it—a tiny flutter low in her stomach, completely involuntary.
Butterflies.
Great.
She reminded herself to breathe.
"Ma'am," he said crisply, his voice a deeper register than usual—gravelly, commanding. "Gunnery Sergeant Steele. I'm your escort to the comms facility."
The way he stood there—spine straight, chest broad, completely owning the space—was a little unfair. He wasn't even trying, and still… the man looked like he could carry her, her laptop, and a rogue nation-state on his back if he had to.
Nell swallowed and nodded, trying not to let the slight blush creeping up her neck give her away.
Callen—no, Steele—stepped forward and reached for her bag.
"I've got it."
She instinctively tightened her grip. "I'm good, thanks."
He didn't argue. Just arched a brow, smirked like he knew exactly what kind of effect the uniform was having on her, then gently plucked the strap from her shoulder anyway.
He was really in character. No flicker of recognition, no warmth—just that calm, assertive tone. She knew Callen was good undercover… but this was something else. He wasn't playing the part. He was the part.
Then he held out the his hand to help her climb into the high seat of the jeep.
There was a beat.
Just a second too long.
She looked at his hand, then at him. The uniform. The sunglasses. The damn jawline. And her heart—traitor that it was—did another little flutter. Not a lot. Just enough to be annoying.
She placed her hand in his.
His grip was warm and steady, and before she could process it, he was helping her up with effortless strength.
Deeks leaned against the SUV, watching the exchange with a lazy grin.
"Don't mind me," he called. "Just third wheeling it again."
Callen didn't even glance back. He climbed into the driver's seat, eyes forward, jaw tight, one hand on the gearshift.
The jeep lurched forward, and they drove in silence down the dusty road, the wind tugging at her hair and her thoughts still racing to catch up. She tried to focus on the op, on the case, but her gaze kept drifting—to the firm set of his jaw, the way his uniform hugged his shoulders, the absolute ease with which he moved in this role.
He was calm, composed, lethal beneath the surface—and completely in control. And for a second, Nell wondered if the butterflies in her stomach had packed a few friends.
After a while, her voice finally cut through the silence, soft and dry:
"Cammo suits you."
For a moment, he didn't respond.
But then, the corner of his mouth ticked up, just enough to make her stomach flip again.
Still staring straight ahead, he muttered just loud enough to hear:
"I was about to say the same about your sunglasses."
Nell turned toward the road, biting back a smile.
Damn him.