Nell was just trying to maintain the perimeter. That was all. Keep civilians back, keep the evidence clean, stay out of LAPD's way as much as possible—simple tasks made instantly more complicated by a group of loud, overdressed young women who were taking selfies ten feet from the crime scene tape.

They clustered together in a swirl of perfume, glitter, and shrill laughter—heels clicking, oversized sunglasses glinting in the sun, phones held high as they duck-faced and pouted like it was a red carpet.

Nell sighed, tightening her jaw as she stepped toward them, her tone clipped but professional. "This is an active crime scene. I'm going to need you to step back behind the barrier."

One of the women—tall, tanned, chewing gum with open disdain—gave her a once-over. "And what are you supposed to be, the mascot?"

The rest of the group snorted with laughter. Another girl chimed in, her voice dripping with fake sweetness. "Aw, look, she's like a little cosplay cop."

"Bet she's wearing heels under those pants," someone else muttered, loud enough for Nell to hear.

Nell gave them one tight smile, unimpressed, and raised her badge. "Special Agent Jones, NCIS. And this is your last warning—move back."

The mockery froze for a beat. Then a blonde in an aggressively sparkly crop top cocked a hip and crossed her arms. "NCIS? Isn't that, like, the Navy? Why are you even here? This isn't a boat."

Nell didn't even blink. "We also handle federal crimes on land. Shocking, I know."

"Ooh," one of the others cooed sarcastically. "She's got sass."

"Yeah," the blonde muttered. "Little ginger bitch thinks she's a big deal."

And then, without warning, she launched the cup in her hand.

An extra-large iced coffee—whipped cream and all—sailed through the air like a missile. Nell didn't flinch fast enough.

The cup exploded against her chest, soaking her shirt in freezing liquid, sticky caramel dripping down her front and ice cubes scattering at her feet.

"Oh, you did not just—" Nell choked out, shocked.

Her body stiffened from the cold and humiliation, breath catching in her throat.

The entire block seemed to pause.

And then—

"HEY!"

Callen's voice rang out sharp and furious across the sidewalk. He was already moving, jogging toward her with fire in his eyes. "You want to do your damn job?" he barked at the nearest LAPD officer.

Nell, still dripping coffee, muttered under her breath as she wiped at her neck. "Okay. This is officially the worst perimeter detail in history."

Callen reached her, anger still thrumming under his skin. He scanned her quickly, eyes narrowing at the sight of her soaked shirt and coffee splashed face.

"You okay?" he asked low.

"Cold. Sticky. Considering a new career," Nell replied through gritted teeth, then she paused before lifting her gaze to meet his. "She called me a ginger bitch."

Callen's expression darkened. He knew how much that particular phrase stung. Nell rarely let things get to her—but that one always did.

"I heard," he murmured, gently, his hand brushing her arm as he guided her toward their SUV. "Come on. Let's get you cleaned up. I can have them arrested, you know."

She gave a breath of a laugh. "Tempting. But they'd just livestream it and turn it into some trending injustice. 'Feds assault influencers.' I'd go viral for all the wrong reasons."

At the SUV, Callen popped the back and rummaged through the emergency stash while Nell peeled at her soaked shirt, wincing as the fabric stuck. When he turned, towel in hand, she was down to a black tank top—wet and clinging.

"Here," he said, handing it over.

She took it with a muttered "thanks," wiping at her arms and neck with quick, irritated swipes.

He turned back to the trunk, pulled out one of his jackets—a dark navy one, soft from wear, clean, and held it out.

She took it with a grateful sigh, then hesitated. "Turn around."

He raised a brow, playfully. "What, no trust?"

"Callen," she warned, but there was a spark behind it.

Grinning, he turned away, palms up in surrender. "Respectfully averting my gaze."

She peeled off the soaked tank top with a quiet wince and pulled on his jacket. It was far too big, sleeves flopping past her hands, but it smelled like him—like clean cotton, sun, and trace gun oil.

"God, I look like a kid playing dress-up."

"You look good," he said, quieter now. Sincere.

She looked up at him, something unreadable flickering in her eyes. Then he stepped closer, gently lifting the towel again.

"You missed a spot."

He stepped in close and reached up, dabbing gently at her face. His touch was careful—deliberate, even—and she stilled as he brushed just beneath her cheekbone, then along her jawline, then up to her temple.

For a moment, the street noise faded. Her breath caught, just slightly.

"You do this for all the agents who get frappé'd on duty?" she murmured, voice quieter.

He met her eyes, gaze steady, his hand still against her cheek.

"Only you," he said softly.

And for a moment, neither of them looked away.