The air in Ops was cool, steady. Machines hummed around her, monitors glowed soft blue, and data scrolled across the screens in neat columns. Nell Jones was a machine herself—focused, calm, precise. Her fingers moved confidently over the keyboard, coordinating logistics, directing feeds, maintaining a seamless flow of intel for the team in the field.
"Sam, confirm position?" she asked, adjusting her headset slightly.
"Perched. Eyes on the hangar," came Sam's voice through comms. "Callen's on the move."
She switched to camera three.
The image loaded, bright and clean: a private naval airstrip on the edge of San Diego County, a clear blue sky hanging low over a long stretch of runway. The doors of a sleek gray hangar began to slide open, metal grinding back slow and steady.
And then Callen stepped out.
Nell's breath held.
It shouldn't have. She was trained for this. Composure was part of the job. But there was something about this entrance—about him—that bypassed all her professionalism like it was nothing.
He wore a dark navy flight suit, zipped just low enough to reveal the fitted white t-shirt beneath. Military patches adorned his arms, his gait was loose and confident, and the dog tags hanging from his neck caught the sunlight just once before disappearing under the collar. Aviators shaded his eyes, though she didn't need to see them to know exactly where they'd be focused—calm, scanning, always calculating.
He looked… ridiculous.
Ridiculous in the kind of way that made it impossible to concentrate. Like a scene lifted straight out of Top Gun—except it was real, and it was Callen, and she could feel her pulse spike just watching him walk.
And the worst part?
He had no idea.
Or at least, she didn't think he did.
Maybe it was all just another role to him—another identity to wear like armor, another job to carry out with that effortless cool he wore so well. Maybe he didn't realize the effect he had walking out of that hangar like he'd been born to wear that suit. Or maybe he did know, but it didn't matter to him—not in the way it mattered to her right now, as her breath returned shallow and her heart pounded just a little too fast.
Did he have any idea what he looked like?
What he was doing to her from 40 miles away?
Nell shook herself, forced her eyes back to the control panel. But she still watched him from the corner of her eye as he crossed the tarmac, boots solid, every step measured and grounded. He paused beside the parked jet, took off the sunglasses in one smooth motion, and handed them off to a hangar tech.
Then—just for a second—he looked toward the camera.
Right at it.
Right at her.
She blinked.
It couldn't be intentional. He couldn't possibly know how fast her pulse had gotten, how hard it was to sit there and pretend like this was just another Tuesday op. And yet, the timing was… suspicious.
Her hands moved again, pulling up the approach feed. "Target vehicle approaching. East access road. ETA ninety seconds," she said into comms, her voice steady, even if she didn't feel it.
"Copy," Sam responded.
She didn't speak again, not right away. She just sat there, watching the screen as Callen rolled his shoulders back, stretched out the tension, then fell into an easy, relaxed stance as he waited for the target to arrive.
He looked ready.
Calm. Capable. Like he belonged on that runway, in that uniform, under that sun.
And Nell?
She wasn't sure what she hated more—that he looked so good, or that he probably had no clue.
Either way, it was a problem she wasn't prepared to deal with today.
But she also couldn't stop watching him.