The ops center was quiet, the hum of tech filling the space as Nell sat in front of her screens—doing her best to focus, and failing miserably. She'd been monitoring Callen and Sam all day on their latest undercover assignment: embedded at a local fire station, posing as seasoned firefighters to get close to a suspected arsonist targeting city-owned buildings.
She should have been focused on comms, checking logs, flagging inconsistencies in the background checks of the station's personnel. Instead, her gaze kept drifting to the live feed from the button cam Sam was wearing, his postion giving Nell a full view of Callen.
Because —like most women on the planet, Nell wasn't immune to the very specific, unfairly potent visual of a man in turnout gear. And Callen in full firefighter kit, soot-streaked and pulling off that calm, capable swagger like he actually ran into burning buildings for a living?
It was a problem.
A big, broad-shouldered, square-jawed, hose-hauling problem.
She dragged her focus back to the screen for what had to be the fifth time in two minutes, muttering under her breath, "Get it together, Nell…"
—
Later, when Sam called her to swing by the boatshed—said they'd found something she needed to take a look at—she didn't think much of it. She expected casual post-op debrief vibes. A flash drive. Maybe a folder or two. No surprises.
She was wrong.
The moment she stepped inside, she spotted him across the room—Callen, still in his turnout gear. Jacket unzipped just enough to show the dark T-shirt beneath, gloves hanging from one strap, helmet on the table next to him. Dust-smudged and absolutely not helping her get a grip on her professionalism.
Nell swallowed hard, her brain stuttering for half a second before she forced herself to walk in like her thoughts weren't currently melting into a puddle of inappropriate admiration.
Callen turned at the sound of the door. "Hey," he greeted casually, nodding toward a laptop on the table with a flash drive plugged in. "Got something for you. Take a look?"
"Sure," she said, her voice higher than she meant it to be. She cleared her throat and crossed the room, sliding into the chair without looking at him again.
She started typing, focusing hard on the screen.
Too hard.
Callen moved behind her, one hand bracing on the back of her chair, the other resting on the table beside her. He leaned in slightly, watching over her shoulder as the files opened.
The scent of smoke and soap clung to him, and she had to blink a few times to focus on the data.
She shifted awkwardly in the chair, trying not to lean into him—or noticeably away.
Callen chuckled, low and quiet, and leaned a little closer. "You alright?"
She didn't look at him. "Fine," she said, definitely not fine.
"Uh-huh," he murmured, clearly unconvinced, the amusement threading into his tone.
Nell narrowed her eyes at the screen, doing her best to ignore the fact that her pulse had officially abandoned reason.
Data. Focus on the data. Not the fireman watching you work like it's no big deal.
Too late.
Whatever intel was on that flash drive? It was going to take her twice as long to analyze.
Callen didn't say anything else, but he stayed close, quiet, a flicker of a smile playing at his lips.
And Nell kept typing, cheeks flushed and heart racing—and very aware of exactly how much trouble she was in.