The upscale Los Feliz neighborhood was quiet, all sun-dappled sidewalks and designer landscaping, the kind of place where millionaires wore joggers and multimillionaires stayed invisible. Somewhere behind one of those high hedges, a known cyber arms broker was supposedly hosting a "pet adoption fundraiser" that was really just a cover for a meeting with foreign buyers.
And so, Nell Jones became a dog walker.
She wasn't thrilled.
Callen watched from across the street, leaning against the side of an unmarked vehicle, sunglasses shielding his eyes, earpiece tucked in. He tried—tried—to focus on the house, on the job, on the perimeter.
But then he saw her round the corner.
Five dogs.
No—six. Six very opinionated, differently-sized dogs attached to what looked like an extremely complicated tangle of neon-colored leashes.
Nell was dressed down in blue jeans, a faded blue hoodie that read "Adopt Don't Shop," and an oversized Dodgers cap pulled low over her eyes. A dog treat pouch bounced on her hip with every step. Her sunglasses were large enough to be dramatic, and she looked like every over-caffeinated millennial freelance pet sitter in LA.
Except she wasn't.
She was moving with purpose, eyes scanning. Calm under pressure—even as a particularly spirited Pomeranian tried to take on a Doberman with twice the attitude and three times the teeth.
"Nell," Callen said into comms, smirking, "your pack's falling apart."
"Tell that to Frodo," she muttered, tugging one leash while giving the Pom a firm look. "He has a Napoleon complex and zero chill."
Sam said something but Callen wasn't listening anymore. Not really.
Because she crouched just then—graceful despite the chaos—and started untangling two leashes with quick, deft fingers. The hoodie slipped slightly off one shoulder revealing ivory pale skin. Her lips were moving, murmuring something to calm the jittery golden retriever. And there was this moment—just a second—where the sun hit her profile, soft and natural and a little too perfect for what was supposed to be a routine op.
And Callen felt it. That quiet kick behind his ribs.
He pulled his sunglasses down a notch.
Nell stood up again, tightening her grip on the leashes, clearly annoyed but composed.
"I'm making my approach. These mutts will give me plausible access to the gate-side camera wiring. I just have to look like I'm trying to pick up poop or whatever."
"Need backup?" Callen asked, voice low, casual. Too casual.
"No, I've got it," she replied, then paused. "Unless you're offering to hold the bags."
Sam snorted through comms. "Oh, now I want to see that."
But Callen didn't respond. He was watching again—watching her move, that tight line between awkward and elegant she always walked so well. Watching how naturally she played the role while still being so... unmistakably herself.
This wasn't about the op anymore.
Not really.
And it hit him: she had no idea how good she looked like this. Comfortable. Capable. Doing something completely ridiculous and still managing to run tactical circles around half the team.
Or maybe—just maybe—she did know.
She glanced up suddenly, toward his car. Her sunglasses shifted, and though he couldn't see her eyes, he felt her look right at him.
She raised an eyebrow—just a little.
Then smirked.
And turned back to the house, giving the leashes a short, practiced tug.
Callen shifted, jaw tightening as he watched Nell crouch near the hedged gate. Her hoodie bunched at her back, sunlight brushing warm gold across her shoulder. She looked completely in place and completely out of place all at once, a walking contradiction wrapped in denim and dog fur.
She reached down, casually lifting the back cover of a garden light fixture that wasn't a light at all—just a cleverly concealed cable housing. Her fingers were fast, practiced, sliding in a small wireless uplink while shielding it with the bulk of her treat pouch.
All while a French Bulldog peed on her shoe.
She didn't flinch. Just sighed. Loudly.
"Status?" Sam asked over comms.
"Uplink's live," Nell replied. "And I'm down a sock."
Callen bit back a laugh, clearing his throat as he leaned forward.
"You're doing great," he said, the words slipping out before he could filter them.
There was a pause.
"I didn't realize we were handing out gold stars today," she said lightly, but there was warmth beneath the sarcasm.
He smiled, watching her tug her cap lower as she started to retreat, tugging the dogs back toward the sidewalk. But as she passed the driveway again, she slowed just enough to flick a glance up at the mansion's second floor. The security camera there blinked once, red light fading to black.
"Visual feed's ours," she confirmed.
Callen let out a breath, leaning back in his seat. "Nice work, Nell."
Another pause.
Then, softly: "You always say that like it surprises you."
He didn't respond right away, eyes following her as she turned the corner with her disheveled pack. She was pretending to fight the dogs again—dramatic, armful-of-leashes chaos—but the smile on her face was real. It hit something low in his chest.
"…It doesn't," he finally said. "Not anymore."
Another beat of silence.
"Copy that," she murmured. Quiet. Almost like it mattered.
Callen exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of his neck.
Sam's voice crackled over comms. "Alright you two." He said chuckling. "Let's get back to the part where we stop a weapons deal."
As the comms clicked silent for a moment, he caught one last glimpse of Nell at the far end of the street. She was laughing—something the bulldog had done, maybe. Or the Pomeranian again. But she tossed her head back for just a second, that Dodgers cap almost falling off, and the sound hit his ear through the open comm, unfiltered.
Callen closed his eyes.
Yeah.
She was dangerous like this.