The warm California sun dipped low on the horizon, casting long golden shadows across the nearly empty street. The day had wound down, most of the team already gone, the building behind her settling into its usual quiet hum. Nell stepped through the wooden doors, bag slung over her shoulder, her steps light as she made her way toward the sidewalk.
She was just turning toward her car when an unmistakable sound cut through the stillness—a low, throaty growl echoing down the block. She paused, head tilting as the sound grew louder, more deliberate.
A moment later, a black and chrome Harley rumbled into view, the classic lines gleaming under the fading light. The rider wore worn blue jeans, a black biker jacket, open-face helmet, and mirrored aviators that caught the last glint of sun.
Nell laughed and shook her head before he even stopped. "I think you're enjoying this latest undercover assignment a little too much."
The Harley rolled to a smooth stop beside her. The rider pulled off his helmet with the telltale smirk of one Special Agent G. Callen.
"You think so?" he asked, tone light, but his eyes held that familiar glint.
"I know so," Nell replied, arching an eyebrow. "You're two tattoos and a bar fight away from making this your full-time thing."
Callen shrugged, completely unbothered. "If the leather fits."
And it did. Too well. The jacket, the casual swagger, the easy confidence—Callen wore this alias like a second skin. And God help her, it worked on her. Her heart raced a little faster, her breath catching slightly in her chest when he smiled at her that way.
But Nell knew it wasn't real. Not really.
It was the biker. The reckless charm. The smirk and swagger and suggestion of danger that was just distant enough to be safe. It was the alias that made her feel this way. She told herself that more than once.
Because if it were just Callen—no cover, no persona, no mission—he wouldn't be this loose, this open. This flirtatious. He wouldn't be showing up like this just for her. He was playing a part, and she was smart enough to know the difference between fiction and fact.
Still… when he held her gaze, she felt it. That quiet flicker of something that felt dangerously real.
Callen reached behind him and pulled out a second helmet, holding it out casually. "Wanna go for a spin?"
Nell eyed the helmet, then him, folding her arms across her chest. "Doesn't this violate Hetty's 'work hard, play safe' rule?"
Callen's smirk deepened into something a little more mischievous. "I'm still on the clock," he said, pausing just long enough for the line to land before adding, "Don't worry. I'll keep you safe."
She glanced between him and the helmet, pretending to deliberate, making him wait just long enough for it to be a game. Her lips curved into a slow grin. If he could play, then so could she. It wasn't real, anyway. Just Callen having fun with his current alias.
It didn't have to mean anything.
"What the hell."
She slid the helmet on, adjusted the strap with practiced ease, and climbed onto the back of the bike. Her arms wrapped around him, settling low at his waist, her cheek brushing briefly against the back of his shoulder.
"Comfortable back there?" he asked, voice teasing through the roar of the engine.
Nell didn't answer.
Instead, she simply tightened her grip around his waist, her arms slipping just a little closer, more secure. Callen felt it—the quiet confidence of her trust—not flashy, not loud. Just there.
He let a small smile pull at the corner of his mouth, then pulled his helmet back on.
With a smooth twist of the throttle, the Harley rolled forward, tires humming against the pavement as they took off into the fading light. The city blurred past them, golden hour wrapping around their silhouettes like something out of a dream.
Nell leaned into him, letting herself feel the wind, the freedom, the thrum of the engine beneath them.
Just this once, she let herself pretend that the way her chest lifted when he was near wasn't all because of the leather and the lie.
Just this once… she let it feel real.