Work Text:
Paris, 2010
After an eight-hour flight across the Atlantic, Ziva was exhausted, although she would never admit that out loud. She prided herself on endurance, on pushing through discomfort without complaint. They were there for a mission, and one she should’ve been grateful to take part in.
But traveling with Tony DiNozzo was a different kind of challenge.
He couldn’t sit still. Not for five minutes.
From the moment they boarded, he’d been a whirlwind of motion and commentary—about the airline food ("How is this pasta both overcooked and under-seasoned?"), the passengers around them ("Guy in 12C is definitely hiding something"), the view out the window ("Do you think that’s Ireland or just a cloud shaped like Ireland?"); and her headache only grew.
At first, she ignored him. It was best to get lost in her reading and pretend what he said didn’t matter. But he continued to interrupt her train of thought (“I think I missed my calling. I should’ve been a flight attendant. Imagine where I could go. Literally”) and she switched to earbuds. Again, he nudged her arm moments later, speaking nonsense. Nothing worked. He was relentless. But that wasn’t even the worst part.
No. The worst part was being reminded every time she looked at him—there were only the two of them there.
And that was something she couldn’t ignore.
Ziva couldn’t explain it. But ever since she’d returned to NCIS, DiNozzo looked more like a man than he ever had. He’d upgraded his suits, pairing them with light-colored shirts that showed surprisingly good taste. His face was always clean-shaven, no trace of stubble. The sharp jawline, that same boyish smile under his unmistakably American nose… Ziva realized, suddenly, what had changed—Tony looked comfortable. Comfortable in his own skin, no longer rattled by the impossible task of leading within Gibbs’ team or chasing some impractical dream he could never quite reach. Ziva would never call him the model of a well-ordered life, but he had something new.
He looked confident.
And maybe that was why she caught herself staring at him so often.
In his sharp gray suit, fussing with that unnecessarily fancy watch, Tony was hard to ignore—especially now, when she was trying so hard to stay focused. An overseas mission was hardly the right time to indulge the thrill she still so clearly felt every time he looked back at her.
Maybe that’s why Ziva felt exhausted.
It was nearly impossible to concentrate with Tony reminding her every thirty seconds that they were alone—and headed to a place such as France.
Such as Paris.
The City of Love.
It wasn’t exactly dangerous. No, not dangerous—inevitable. That unspoken thing between them had always lingered, just beneath the surface. Simmering. Neither of them acknowledged it aloud, but both knew it was real. And now, they were alone. In a foreign country. No oversight. No rules. No one to witness anything that might unfold. It was too easy. Too tempting.
If the moment came, it would happen.
Tony stared at her just as much. His glances lingered, the secret dancing in his smile. And Ziva knew, she just knew—this was a man who would do everything in his power to get to her.
He wouldn’t let an opportunity like this pass him by.
The thrill in Ziva’s stomach was impossible to ignore. It left her flustered, reaching to smooth her clothes just to give her hands (and her thoughts) something to do. The tension had already been sky high when they boarded the plane. Tony had helped her with the bags, and she’d barely masked her surprise. She wasn’t used to men in her life being gentle, not like that.
Tony DiNozzo was an enigma. Her mind could never quite keep up with him—his shifts in tone, the way he moved from careless to sincere without warning. Her heart kept reacting before she could stop it, beating faster out of nowhere.
It was the last thing she wanted to feel for any man.
But this—whatever this was—she wanted it.
She wanted him to happen.
She remembered what it had been like—a summer of sleepless nights and bitter coffee. Of shared glances, breathless silences, and a rhythm they had perfected together. He had learned her. Her wants, her weaknesses, her pace. He knew where to touch, how to move, what made her come undone.
He had known everything.
And every time Tony’s eyes met hers now, it was as if he remembered it all. Every moment under tangled sheets, and every sigh she gave him. He smiled like she reminded him.
He looked at her like he still knew.
When Ziva opened the door to their hotel room, the soft click echoed into a modest, unassuming space. The room was small, with beige walls that felt a little too plain, and a faint scent of cleaning products still lingering in the air. Against the far wall stood a single queen-sized bed, neatly made with crisp white sheets and a simple navy-blue comforter folded at the foot. Her heartbeat dropped at the sight of it. Behind her, Tony let out a loud, unrestrained laugh. The sound bounced off the walls. She didn’t turn around. She didn’t have to. She could already picture the look on his face—eyes lit with mischief and a kind of elated satisfaction, as if the universe itself had conspired in his favor.
“You know what the Romans used to say,” he joked. “We’re not wired for solo sleeping arrangements.”
Fighting the urge to flee, Ziva met Tony’s eyes—playful, sparking with the unspoken—and felt her pulse skyrocket, the thrill now cranked to its highest setting. He dropped their bags with a muffled thud. They both turned their attention to the bed again. The carpet around it was burgundy red.
“It is only one night,” she said. But there wasn’t anything simple about that. “I think we can manage.”
A blatant lie. Ziva couldn’t even manage the butterflies inside her chest, springing quickly to life.
Tony’s expression was so filled with meaning that she kept blushing, her cheeks growing hot.
“Right,” he said. “What side do you want?”
And the way his voice sounded so hoarse brought shivers to her skin. Ziva’s gaze roamed, going from his square shoulders to his Adam’s apple, to the dimples of his smile.
“Does it matter?” she asked.
And it did not. His eyes darkened. They both knew.
They wouldn’t be sleeping tonight.
Paris, 2025
“Did you know—and this may sound like I’m doing that thing I do, but I’m not, I promise—that the first time I ever kissed a girl, I was listening to an old radio just like this one? It wasn’t old at the time. And it was Frankie Valli. Can’t Take My Eyes Off You.”
Despite the confession, there was nothing innocent in Tony’s eyes. Ziva saw the sharpness beneath the charm—the clever glint in his gaze she’d always recognized. As soft music floated from the old radio he’d just turned on, the mood shifted. This wasn’t random. It was deliberate, calculated. Tony spoke in riddles to get what he wanted, and she’d always followed his lead. She liked that kind of dance.
Now, the forgotten Chinese takeout sat cooling on the coffee table, and her pulse was racing. She blushed at how close he was, Tony’s breath warm against her cheek.
And she let herself smile, already knowing where this was heading.
He must have known, too. Ever since she was young, he’d been the one weakness she couldn’t outrun. No matter how far she ran or how much strength she built, he was the exception—the one man who could still break through. When he hinted that he wanted her, she didn’t resist. She only prepared to let him in.
Every time they shared a bed, sleep was only optional.
It felt ironic, then, how they always seemed to circle back to Paris. Even now, sitting this close to him in her therapist’s guest room, the dinner they shared now empty boxes on the table, it lingered between them, unspoken. Ziva made a mental note to bring it up with Dr. Lang later. Somehow.
“I don’t want to ignore the thing that’s right in front of me,” Tony said.
His eyes held hers with such intensity that it sent a jolt down her spine. His knee brushed against hers, and Ziva felt herself leaning in, unconsciously seeking his touch. He didn’t look away. There was no hesitation, no mask—just open, quiet certainty.
That kind of honesty dulled her senses.
She wanted it. She had wanted him for days now.
Who knows? You’ve both changed.
Maybe growth was possible. Maybe they could learn from their mistakes, make their own rules, and build a life where order wasn’t so far out of reach. But even as the thought came, she knew it wasn’t entirely true.
Some things would never change.
This. Whatever it was between them—the chemistry, the invisible alchemy—they couldn’t escape it. It had been there since the day he first looked at her. And it would always be there, every time they shared a room.
“Then don’t,” Ziva said.
And it was enough. The only permission he needed.
Tony leaned in, his eyes locked on hers, watching, waiting, to see if she would pull away at the last second. When he kissed her, it was soft. Barely there. More a whisper of contact than a real kiss. Just the faintest brush of lips, as if he was asking a question, not making a move. Ziva thought he was being romantic on purpose, slowing down just when she needed him to speed up. But then his hand caught the edge of her zip-up sweater and tugged her toward him—and she understood then he wasn’t holding back at all.
Tony’s tongue met hers almost instantly, deepening the kiss without hesitation. It overwhelmed her senses, pulling her under. Ziva’s eyes fluttered shut, and she let herself get lost in him.
She didn’t see when he’d managed to unzip her sweater—only realized it was gone when he was already slipping it off her shoulders. His own sweater followed, hitting the floor with a soft thud. Ziva barely registered it all, her focus narrowed to the feel of him, her hands gripping his back as her thoughts blurred. He was the best kisser she’d ever known. And it was far too easy to want more.
His arms wrapped around her, and his hand found the nape of her neck. His fingers slipped into her hair, drawing her closer, and Ziva met his kiss, letting him guide the rhythm between them. It washed over her—how long she had wished for this. This—this man, overwhelming her senses and sharpening them a thousandfold. An entire lifetime. Decades spent in silence, wishing for a kiss just like this. Her heart thundered, breath catching in her throat. Tony finally pulled back, laughing, almost like a weight had been lifted. The sound made her heart stumble.
His eyes sparkled, a boyish smile dancing on his face.
She loved him. She had loved him for a very, very long time.
And when she let him spin her around, pressing her into the couch and into his world, Ziva laughed, surprised by how right it felt to surrender—just like all the many times before.
Paris, 2010
On top of the mattress, his whole body was pressed against hers, his weight grounding rather than overwhelming. Tony had wandering hands. They roamed, moving from her shoulders to her waist, then sliding down to hook her thigh around him, the sound leaving her throat when he did that shameless, even to her own ears.
She could still taste the lingering sweetness of red wine every time his tongue brushed against hers. The half-empty bottle sat forgotten in the corner of the room, two plastic cups discarded on the floor. They’d grabbed a quick bite at the little café at the corner, but it was his idea to cross the street and buy the cheapest wine they could find. Laughter came easily once they started drinking. Then laughter turned into a spontaneous walk by the Seine. It was so, so easy to be captivated by him, by the romantic night, she found it almost cruel. And when the elevator doors slid shut and he held her in that heavy, deliberate gaze, it was her hand that pulled him in first.
Ziva knew there was an urgency to it. There was a certain fragility in how easily the lines between them blurred once they were alone. But tonight… Tonight was different. The moment carried too much weight. They only had one night. And as their hands clutched at each other’s clothes, breaths mingling between kisses, she realized she needed to quiet the rush of nerves before it pulled her under.
This wouldn’t be a whole summer of heat. This would only be one night.
Flashes of a stone-cold cell and the smell of burning skin came back to her in a blur. Ziva inhaled sharply, unable to stop the memory from breaking through. On top of her, Tony seemed not to have noticed it, his mouth still pressed onto hers, and his knee opening her legs. But beneath him, Ziva stilled—suddenly aware that this would be the first time after…
Well, after…
“Hey,” she began, but Tony’s mouth was on hers again, his tongue leaving no room for words. Her thoughts blurred almost instantly. He really was an excellent kisser. As he pressed her down, his grip around her waist tightened. It wasn’t until she heard the sound of her own heavy breathing that Ziva pushed gently against his shoulder, urging him to stop.
“Hey, could you—”
“Hm?” Tony blinked slowly, his pupils so wide they nearly swallowed the green in his eyes. He glanced down at her, lips swollen from their kiss. She imagined she didn’t look much different.
“Could you give me a minute?” Ziva asked, her voice unsteady and breathless. When she pushed at his shoulder again, Tony pulled back, a flicker of concern tightening his expression.
Shit. She hadn’t meant to ruin it.
But her heart was pounding, and deep down, Ziva was terrified. If they kept going, she might fall apart right in front of him.
And that wasn’t how she wanted the night to go.
“Uh—Sure.”
She watched as Tony shifted to the side, moving off of her. He adjusted the front of his pants, looking slightly embarrassed. But as Ziva turned away, muttering a quick “Thank you” before hurrying to the bathroom, it was she who felt the weight of shame—hot and all-consuming, burning through her to the core.
She pressed her back against the bathroom door the moment it closed, needing something solid behind her. Her breath hitched, shallow and uneven. It always happened like this, when her guard dropped without warning. One second, she was fine, and the next her body was reacting to things that weren’t even there.
Her memory betrayed her. Again.
She wasn’t in that cell. She wasn’t tied down. No one was hurting her. She had survived. She had walked out of that nightmare while others didn’t. She was standing. Breathing. Whole.
So why did it still feel like she wasn’t?
Why did her mind keep dragging her back when all she wanted was one quiet, simple night?
Was it the wine? The room? Tony’s hands on her—gentle, not threatening—and yet somehow, that had unraveled her even faster?
Ziva sighed and pressed the back of her head to the door. She hated how quickly the fear came. How quickly she still folded.
She just wanted to feel normal.
But there was nothing normal about being sent on a suicide mission by her own father. Nothing normal about the months spent in darkness, tortured so often she began to lose track of what was real and what her mind invented to survive. Nothing normal about the panic that seized her now, when the hands she’d secretly dreamed of for years finally touched her—tracing skin she barely recognized as her own.
Scars. There were so many new scars.
Ziva opened her eyes and caught her reflection in the mirror. Her face was pale, her pupils wide. Then her gaze dropped to her shoulder, where the edge of a thin scar peeked out beneath her shirt. Instinctively, she tugged the fabric higher. The thought of Tony seeing them made her stomach twist. He’d look at her differently. Pity, curiosity—anything but what she wanted.
She ran cold water over her hands, forcing her breathing to even out. One breath. Then another. She could do this. She could be fine.
She could be normal, couldn’t she? This was the night she’d been dreaming of. She needed to be fine.
By the time she turned off the tap, her heartbeat had slowed. Her reflection looked steadier. Ziva straightened her shirt, making sure every mark was covered, and practiced a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. Then she unlocked the door and stepped back into the bedroom.
The room was dim, washed in silver and gold. Moonlight filtered through the thin drapes, softening the edges of everything, while the bedside lamp cast a warm orange glow across the walls. Tony lay sprawled on the bed, shoes kicked off. His hair was disheveled, but he still looked handsome. He always looked handsome to her.
But when his eyes met hers again, something in them shifted. They were too honest. It was as if he knew.
Knew what had just happened. Knew she’d wanted to run.
Ziva took a cautious step closer, already regretting that she’d pulled away in the first place. The warmth between them, the way his hands had felt on her… it had been good. Safe, even. But now that she’d stopped it, there was no slipping back into it like nothing happened.
Still, she wasn’t going to let him see it. Not the fear. The weakness.
The damage she hadn’t fully repaired.
She kept reminding herself: she wasn’t broken. She had survived.
So she stood at the edge of the bed, motionless, trying to steady herself while pretending she didn’t need to.
“Ziva,” called Tony. He stretched a hand toward her, one leg falling to the side. “Come here.”
For a moment, she wondered if there was anything she could do to stop it—the chain of moments she was certain would follow. Clothes would come off quickly. He would make it clear that something had happened. Something had changed her. Somalia had become a crossroad in her life story. And she wouldn’t be able to speak about it. Still, she knew they would end up there anyway. They always did. And somehow, the familiarity of that thought steadied her. She knew this man. His rhythm, his warmth, the way he touched her in the dark.
So when Tony lifted his hand again and motioned for her, Ziva took another careful step forward.
She couldn’t tell what he was thinking. But then Tony gave a small, almost imperceptible smile—just the corner of his mouth—and she froze again.
“Closer,” he asked.
It took Ziva a moment to move. She walked toward him, swallowing down the anxiety building in her throat. When she was just within reach, Tony’s hand closed gently around her wrist, and Ziva inhaled sharply. He looked at her.
His green eyes were soft and open, so full of something she couldn’t name that her mouth parted slightly in response.
This wasn’t just want. It wasn’t hunger.
She had been wrong. He had never looked at her like this before. It was as if he couldn’t believe she was really standing in front of him, and somehow, that alone was enough. In that moment, Ziva understood. He would stop if she asked him to. No matter how much he wanted her, he would let go. It was there in his eyes. Something quiet and steady.
It reminded her of the way he looked at her when he found her, in the middle of nowhere.
This was not casual. No matter how they had tried to pretend otherwise, there was nothing light in his gaze.
This was a quiet understanding that he knew. He knew what was happening between them.
She didn’t know how to make sense of it.
Tony raised her wrist to his lips and kissed it, slow and careful. Ziva watched him, breathless. He continued placing soft kisses along her arm, then stood to press one against her collarbone. There was no judgment in his touch. No need to comment on what had just happened. No attempt to joke it away. She hadn’t expected that, but he kept surprising her.
Tony kissed her shoulder again, slower this time, until her eyes fluttered shut and his face rested in the curve of her neck.
“You’re beautiful,” he whispered.
Then he lifted her chin with a gentle touch and pressed his lips to hers, soft and patient. And her heartbeat thundered, sharp and fast, like lightning striking under her skin.
She wanted to tell him he was beautiful, too. She wanted to say that she needed him, that she needed this night to happen. She wanted to let him know that something in her chest was breaking open the moment he pulled her gently onto the bed again and settled above her. She wanted him to know that she felt it too—whatever this was. That it had never been casual.
But instead, she let him touch her.
And for now, that was enough.
Paris, 2025
Tony's hand dove between Ziva's thighs before she could even unzip her jeans. His fingers pressed firmly against the seams, and she gasped, her breath coming in heavy pants as she gripped his shoulders tightly, nails digging into his skin. He held the back of her head with his free hand, cradling her so she wouldn't smack it against the couch armrest. All while his fingertips rubbed slow, insistent circles over the denim, teasing her clit through the fabric until she started squirming beneath him.
God. She had missed this—the considerate, demanding way he searched for her pleasure first, and it had always been like this. Tony pressed his face into the crook of her neck, lips dragging kisses along her collarbone, nipping at the skin until she shivered. The musky scent of him enveloped her, making her head spin. Ziva’s fingers tangled in his hair, tugging lightly to urge him on, a silent plea for more, and he responded instantly, pulling back with a growl to scoop her up.
Her legs wrapped tight around his waist, and he carried her across the room. As she clung to him, breathless laughter bubbled out when he stumbled slightly, nearly dumping her onto the mattress in his haste. He caught himself, lowering her with just enough control to make her bounce once before he followed her down, his body pinning hers to the soft sheets, his bulge throbbing against her thigh as he claimed her mouth in a deep, hungry kiss.
He kept rubbing himself against her, and it was impossible to keep from voicing her thrill. Ziva was already turned on due to hours of heavy staring and him silently undressing her with his eyes. When Tony did it for real—pulling down her jeans impatiently, followed hastily by his own—she shifted restlessly on the mattress, sensitive to every inch of anticipation, before he even began touching her.
A surprised gasp escaped her when he pulled her by the legs to the middle of the bed. Tony bit down on his lower lip, tongue poking his cheek. He was still wearing his underwear, but had a different opinion about hers. Her black bra was gone so quickly that Ziva didn’t even see where it landed, only that Tony had tossed it aside.
His mouth was on hers before she could complain. As he pinned her down, Ziva could feel his boner, hard and obvious, while he kissed her, tongue invading her mouth and making her head spin. The contrast of how soft his tongue felt against how hard he was nearly overwhelmed her, and when Ziva let out a breathy moan to show him how good it felt, Tony only grunted, grinding against her in response.
It was different this time. It wasn’t that the moment didn’t matter, but they had grown. They had matured, lived through enough, to understand that moments like this were rare and deserved a bit of lightness. They didn’t need to overthink it. They could let themselves have fun.
The lights were on, and she didn’t think to turn them off. He already knew everything about her. All the scars and all the history, branding her skin and making her whole. And when Tony looked at her with that familiar glint of mischief in his eyes, Ziva giggled, just before he leaned down to kiss her neck, her shoulder, and then her chest.
His mouth left a trail of kisses down her sternum, soft and lingering, and Ziva’s fingers threaded through his short hair. When he reached her belly button, she was already heaving, knowing exactly where this would lead. There was no moving on from arousal such as this.
Tony had a thing for going slow—he’d always done. It drove her crazy more often than not, but every time she thought about it the next day, it was that moment that stayed with her. The way he stretched her desire until it felt like it would burst from her chest, soft kisses turning into low growls and teeth grazing skin.
Tony gently pushed her thighs open, then pressed a kiss to the old tattoo on its inner side. The gesture was so familiar, so intimate, that Ziva was hit with a wave of déjà vu. His fingers toyed with the fabric of her lingerie, and Ziva’s toes curled, mind already dizzy with arousal. He knew how to do this. She remembered it well.
Pulling her pelvis up, Tony skilfully took them off, thumbs grazing the sides of her hips. Ziva’s mouth hung open, breathing coming out in soft moans, as he looked at her from between her legs, a place where he’d been so many times. Green eyes stared at her, wanting to know how she’d react. Teeth grazed the creases of her thighs, never quite reaching where she wanted, and Ziva knew he would do that until she asked him to stop. His tongue left a trail wherever his mouth touched, and Ziva could feel herself growing wet. It was so easy. It had always been so, so easy.
With his free hand, Tony intertwined their fingers, and she held on tighter. She ached to guide his head exactly where she wanted, but Tony held back, deliberately slow. He left soft kisses between her thighs. She breathed out his name, eyes closed shut in concentration.
So when he pulled back the hood of her clit, exposing the bud he instantly took between his lips, Ziva let out a loud moan, her pulse quickening. Her eyes rolled back as a gasp escaped her, body arching against the mattress. The intensity caught her off guard. Tony made no ceremony in start sucking it, tongue making slow circles while his nose buried itself in the mound of her pelvis. She felt a rush of heat rise in her chest. He moved with maddening slowness, building pressure little by little—but still managing to drive her out of her mind.
“Fuck,” Ziva breathed out in a moan. “You’re good at this.”
She bit her lip, fighting to keep her composure and not give in too quickly. His lips didn’t move from their place, so she felt rather than saw the deep vibration of his laughter. Surprised by his boldness, Ziva lifted her gaze, captivated by the playful spark in Tony’s eyes.
“Stop laughing,” she said, though a smile was also tugging at her lips.
“I’m not… It’s just funny. Don’t you think it’s funny?” Tony replied. Then he had the nerve to suck her clit again, making her stare at him, completely cross-eyed.
Ziva let out a heavy sigh. God.
This was maddening.
“Not right now, I don’t,” she snapped back, biting her words.
He hummed, drifting off for a moment as he did—sucking her, adding pressure, slurping at her rapidly building ecstasy. She was swept away again by the expert rhythm of him, each slow drag unraveling her until all she could do was sigh, rocking her hips against his mouth.
“The first time you told me that, we were here,” Tony interrupted again. Ziva’s gaze turned glassy as she struggled to hold on to a thought, locking eyes with him—impossible, with his mouth still there.
“In my therapist’s guest room?” she asked, breathless.
He laughed. “Imagine that. No.” Another kiss. Sucking. “In Paris. You told me—”
Paris, 2010
“Fuck. You’re good at this.”
Ziva exhaled softly, her fingers weaving into his hair. She wasn’t used to men like this—drawing it out, focused on her instead of chasing their own release. But Tony’s focus never wavered, with his face buried between her legs and mouth skilfully driving her crazy. His strong shoulders held her firmly in place, and she marveled at the gentle curves of his biceps as they hooked securely around her thighs. Ziva trashed on the mattress, feeling so aroused, her skin was tingling.
She remembered Tony being a good lover. Those months he spent slipping into her apartment had proven that well enough. An entire summer of exploring each other had taught her that he paid attention, learned what she liked, and worked to perfect it. But this… this was different. She didn’t remember him being this good. Maybe he’d had other lovers since then. She certainly had. But now, he tasted her like he needed to. Like it was the only thing he’d wished for tonight, the only thing that mattered.
This was something else.
“What?” he asked, raising his head with a laugh. “What was that? I didn’t catch it—say it again?”
“Oh, shut up.”
Her annoyance was cut short by his tongue meeting her bundle of nerves again. Wet. Making it wetter. He slurped on it, taking it between his lips.
“Shutting up.” And the warm brush of his words against her skin sent a shiver through her, her eyes fluttering closed.
Tony knew how to give her pleasure. He made slow circles around it, then changed it out of the blue by sucking her clit until she was moaning, louder and louder. He was good at it—massaging it with his tongue. He was so good, if he kept doing that, she would come. Ziva knew that she would come, with his mouth… wetting, humming against it, tempting it. It wouldn’t be long until that mountain was climbed, until the pressure building inside her body exploded into little, fractured stars.
“You’re excellent at this,” Ziva admitted, breath coming so fast, her lips were dry.
He chuckled low, his mouth never leaving her skin. “Good to know exactly how you want it,” said Tony. “I’ll remember that.”
Paris, 2025
“When was that?”
It wasn’t that Ziva was fully conscious to be asking him that. She did so with her eyes closed, her lower lip caught between her teeth to keep from screaming in an apartment that was not hers. Her fingers disheveled his hair, the other hand twisting in the sheets beneath her. Tony’s tongue swirled over her clit, and she moaned loudly, but the words had escaped her before they could be contained.
“I don’t know. 2009–2010?” Tony’s voice rumbled low against her pelvic bone. She felt the vibration before she registered the words. “We shared a bed. Remember? There was only the bed.”
One bed.
Oh. Paris.
Ziva breathed out heavily. The year sounded right, though the memory came in fragments—red wine, the city lights, and the weight of his arm draped across her as they stirred awake in the middle of the night. An accidental walk along the Seine, his body looping playfully around every lamppost they passed. Giggling, and lingering glances. A pounding headache from jet lag, and his head between her thighs. Heavy breaths and moaning. The dream ending as soon as sunlight spilled in.
The first time he kissed her like he meant it.
The first time that she knew.
“By the time we finally passed out, it was nearly morning. And we lost the flight. I had to—”
“Oh, that.” Ziva cut him off too quickly, instinctively. Her tone was flat, but her mind raced. She hadn’t thought about that night in years. Had pushed it down into the file of things she didn't touch, didn't want to unpack. It was too precious, too fragile. They didn’t speak about it for months after it happened.
“—I had to book us a new one.”
“You what?”
That caught her. She stopped, rewinding his words in her mind. Gripping his chin, Ziva tilted his face up to meet her gaze. Realizing the truth had finally landed after fifteen years, Tony watched her, clearly enjoying the moment.
“I booked us another flight,” he said. “I bought us new tickets for the next one available.”
Ziva blinked, slowly. That wasn’t what she remembered. Not exactly.
“You bought us tickets? I thought it had been cancelled.” Her voice rose without meaning to. “McGee called us to say it had been cancelled.”
She remembered McGee's voice crackling through her phone, saying something about a mechanical delay. She remembered assuming that the decision had been made for them. There was a witness. They were there to escort a case witness, which meant he hadn’t just rebooked their tickets. He would have had to reschedule the entire security detail, rearrange protocols, and move everything. All in one morning. And she hadn’t known, hadn’t even thought to ask.
How could she have missed this?
Tony gave a half-smile, but there was something tired underneath it.
“You really underestimate just how far a man will go for the woman he wants.”
Ziva’s breath caught. She hated how easily he said things like that, how carelessly he threw them out, only to act like they meant nothing later. Or maybe they did mean something, and that was even worse. Tony stared at her, his gaze unwavering, while her heart raced, struggling to grasp why any man could be so gentle with her without feeling the need to show off. It bewildered her—how someone so outwardly extravagant could be so quietly caring beneath it all.
“You…” Ziva’s thumb caressed his cheek. “You never told me any of that.”
And why hadn’t he? Why let her believe it was just bad luck?
He glanced away, and something in her chest tightened. Then he gave a quiet laugh, like he’d just shared a secret with himself she would never quite reach, and pressed a soft kiss to her inner thigh. When his eyes met hers again, there was a glint in them, sharp and playful. Trouble.
“Well,” Tony said, changing the subject. “But I remember distinctly you telling me to go—”
Paris, 2010
“Faster.”
Ziva’s eyes clamped shut, a breathless sound escaping her lips as her hands clutched at his hair. Tony’s fingers were curved deep inside of her, pumping in and out in slow madness, while his palm pressed and rubbed her swollen clit, making her hips buck wildly under his touch. She dripped with arousal, the wet sounds of his fingers echoing through her core, as his mouth roamed insistent over her collarbone, up her throat, along her jawline, each press of his lips stealing her breath away.
She was wet. Moaning and sighing, struggling to keep any control as he crooked his fingers upward inside her, hitting that textured spot that sent waves of pleasure through her—the kind she had been silently dreaming of the whole night. But Tony was slow. He kept it slow and deliberate, and soon she was writhing on the bed, desperate for him to stop the teasing buildup.
So Ziva started moaning—louder, clearer, making short sounds of pleading as she tried to break through Tony's armor. At first, he did respond, speeding his rhythm when she bit his lower lip. He rubbed her clit faster. She thrashed and moaned, tugging at his short hair, and he almost gave in, her hips grinding against his hand. Yes. She let him know. He moaned as well, breathing into the kiss. But just as the rush of energy was about to ripple through her, he stopped and gave her folds a few gentle slaps, pulling her back from the edge.
Ziva let out a protesting sound and hit him in the chest. Tony only chuckled, his laughter low and warm.
“No,” Tony said, then inserted both fingers inside her again. He didn’t let her speak. His mouth captured hers, the press of it firm enough to chase the protest from her mind. His hand stayed slow, torturously patient, driving her to the edge until she moved against him, restless. It was all too much—and not nearly enough.
“No?” she got out, breaking the kiss, though her defiance came weak and breathless.
“Not yet. Patience is a virtue few can—”
Ziva silenced Tony's words by wrapping her hand around his cock, feeling it rigid against her palm. He was still wearing his underwear, but the shape of it bulged underneath the fabric. He sucked in a sharp breath, hissing through clenched teeth. Fuck. As their lips crashed together again, moans blended in the air between them, and Ziva squeezed it. The raw need in his sounds drove her to roll her hips harder into his grip, and Tony hooked his fingers deeper inside her, curling them to stroke the right spot. Realizing he had no intention of stopping, Ziva shifted tactics, deciding to play the long game.
She slipped her hand into his boxers, her fingers encircling the base of his shaft. It glided effortlessly in her grasp as she squeezed and kneaded it, starting with light pressure before delivering firm strokes that pulled a guttural grunt from his throat. Her thumb and forefinger formed a tight ring around his head, twisting gently at the tip, then she trailed her fingertips lightly along the veined underside, pumping his full length with deliberate rhythm.
Their gazes locked, unbroken and intense. Tony's eyes were hooded as he watched her, a possessive glint as he continued. There was a masculinity in the way he didn’t yield. His fingers plunged into her wetness, stretching her, while his thumb circled her clit in firm presses. Ziva's breath hitched, her lower lip caught between her teeth as she fought the building ache. He withdrew his fingers just long enough to smear her arousal over her swollen clit, rubbing faster now, sending jolts of heat through her core. She gasped, mouth falling open in a ragged moan, her hand tightening on his cock. Tony groaned in response, the sound deep and restrained, his hips bucking forward to fuck into her fist as she jerked him off with steady pulls. The friction drove her crazy, short breaths turning into louder moans.
Her thighs quivered, muscles tensing as the pressure coiled tighter in her belly. She was right on the edge, ready to shatter.
She was going to come.
“Tony,” Ziva pressed, the coil inside her core growing tight. He rubbed her clit, wetness making it slippery.
When Tony’s fingers slipped from their spot, Ziva nearly lunged at him. But he only pulled away to strip off his remaining clothes, tossing his boxer briefs aside with haste. As he stopped in front of her, staring, taking his time, her gaze devoured him—tracing the broad planes of his chest, the defined ridges of his shoulders, down to the dark trail of hair arrowing toward his groin. His cock stood rigid, the tip slick with pre-cum, jerking as he moved. Tony let her stare for just a heartbeat before he descended on her again, his body covering hers completely.
His solid weight pressed her into the mattress, pinning her down as he captured her mouth in a deep, devouring kiss, his hands cradling her face. Ziva surrendered to it, her body writhing beneath him, desperate for contact, craving the drag of skin on skin to push her over the brink.
She burned for that climax, her core clenching emptily. Her fingers wrapped firmly around the thick base of his cock, angling it to rub along her soaked folds, and Tony sucked in a harsh breath, hissing against her lips. His hand slid up to her throat, fingers encircling it with a light, teasing pressure. Even that soft grip made her arch, a throaty moan escaping as her vision blurred, her clit pulsing under the thrill. She craved more of it, the edge of control he held.
With his hand still on her neck, she smacked his cockhead against her swollen entrance, the wet slap echoing her need. It would be effortless to notch him inside, to feel him stretch her full—Ziva teetered on the verge of doing it herself. But Tony took over, sliding his shaft through her slickness, the veined underside grinding hard against her throbbing clit. Her thighs trembled uncontrollably, the tension winding unbearably tight, and she nearly begged him to fuck her right then.
“Please,” she said. Moaning.
She needed friction. She needed to feel full. Ziva's moans spilled out endlessly, her lips parching from the ragged breaths escaping her. She sensed his rigid cock sliding against her swollen clit, and she clamped her thighs shut, trapping his shaft between them. It felt so good, she wondered if she would come just from that. Tony hissed sharply at the pressure, his fingers tightening around her throat without thought, sending Ziva's vision blurring with ecstasy. It overwhelmed her—and he hadn't even started.
It was a slippery mess. Everything was slick and drenched. Her arousal slicked her inner thighs, and Tony shifted, planting one knee on the bed as he leaned over her body. He released her throat to trail kisses down her chest, capturing her nipple between his teeth. Ziva's fingers tangled in his short hair while his tongue swirled around the hardened peak, flicking it. His hand returned to her core in an instant, inserting two fingers deep inside. Ziva nearly screamed as he thrust them in a fast rhythm this time, her soaked folds squelching obscenely with each plunge. Her legs lifted instinctively, knees bending, and she clutched his hair tighter, struggling to steady her quivering thighs.
She spotted the hunger in his expression as her hand fumbled blindly for his cock, wrapping around its length. Tony's pupils blew wide, and he bit down on his lower lip. The involuntary jerk of his hips toward her grip made Ziva squeeze harder, stroking him with firm pulls.
It was very easy then to twist her body where he half-stood at the bed's edge and draw his cock into her mouth.
Tony groaned, a deep, guttural rumble that ignited her own moan vibrating around him. The head of his cock nudged the back of her throat, and she sucked hard, cheeks hollowing as she took him deeper. His free hand knotted in her hair, gripping tight, guiding her, while the other continued pumping inside her core at breakneck speed. Ziva fought the urge to cry out, the lewd slaps of his fingers against her wetness filling the room. The simultaneous moans, getting louder. She matched his pace with her mouth, bobbing her head urgently. Tony bucked again, driving into her throat.
When she glanced up, eyes hazy with lust and humming around his shaft, she caught his face twisted in concentration, teeth sinking into his bottom lip.
"Fuck," he rasped, fucking her throat with shallow thrusts. "Zi..."
He kept thrusting into her mouth, the head of his cock bulging against the inside of her cheeks. Ziva worked him—pulling back to slurp along his length while her tongue swirled around the tip. She kept trying to concentrate, but it was a rapidly overwhelming madness: the sheer intensity of his fingers pumping in and out of her was making her thighs quiver. Her eyes crossed in bliss, and soon her mouth barely clung to his cock, lips only brushing the swollen head.
She was moaning too much to suck him properly while he ravaged her like that.
Tony's fingers were filthy, spreading her until she wanted to scream. Ziva felt her heartbeat racing, pounding in her throat. Both her legs hovered in the air, trembling, all of her fully exposed and at his command. And it would be naive to think he would show an intention of easing up. Tony smeared her slickness over her clit, rubbing it in rapid circles that set her skin ablaze, and just as she squeezed her eyes shut, the coil inside her tightening unbearably, he drove his fingers back in deep, the heel of his palm grinding against it, hitting the textured spot within her walls, fucking her hard with his whole hand.
Ziva shattered into orgasm, his cock slipping from her lips as her chin glistened with drool, lost in the rush of Tony's one hand pressing down on her abdomen while the other stretched her open, his palm's base rubbing her clit. Stars exploded behind her eyelids, her ragged breaths cutting short so the only noise was the obscene squelch of her soaked entrance and his fingers still slamming into it. She went quiet, breathless, as she bucked through the crashing waves of ecstasy.
When she pried her eyes open at last, she found that Tony was watching her intently, his gaze pitch-black and jaw locked tight. As her eyes met his, Ziva felt his cock jerking against her lips. She gasped for air, moaning softly, and pressed a kiss to the side of it, signaling just how incredible it felt. Incredible. The throbbing heat from her core was still pulsing. Her inner thighs were spasming. Ziva doubted she'd ever been this wet before.
“I need you to fuck me.”
Her voice came out hoarse, the words rough as she tried to steady herself. Tony’s expression was shadowed, his eyes dark. She wondered how long he had been waiting for her to say that. She didn’t know why, but it seemed like he was. He kept still, staring at her, until he made a low, broken sound, almost a whimper, and pulled his hand back. Tony shook his head, disbelief flickering across his face before a faint, fleeting smile appeared and vanished again.
Then he leaned in, and Ziva’s hand rose instinctively to tangle in his short hair. She half expected him to take advantage of her vulnerability—her breathless state, sprawled across the mattress—but he didn’t. Instead, he kissed her. Simply, naturally.
Tony’s mouth was soft, his tongue slow and sure. He pressed his weight over her like before, steady and grounding. She could feel him everywhere: his warmth, his scent, the rhythm of his breathing. It surrounded her, sparking something deep inside. One of his knees slid beneath her thigh, urging her open, and she wrapped her legs around his hips. Tony murmured his approval, his hand cupping her face as their lips met again. Ziva melted beneath him, weightless, lost in the feeling of him.
When he drew back, their foreheads rested together. For a moment, they stayed like that, legs tangled, sheets rumpled, his hand resting on her waist. Moonlight filtered through the blinds, tracing pale lines across their skin. Their breaths mingled, the silence heavy with something neither dared to name, as if one word might break it.
He began to move against her, and Ziva let out a quiet moan. Yes. This was easier. Easier than speaking, easier than facing what they both knew they couldn’t have. The rightness of it against the ache of knowing it couldn’t last.
She felt the tension build again, slow and steady. Pulling him closer, she slid one arm around his shoulders while her other hand found his, their fingers intertwining.
Tony kissed her deeply, lifting their joined hands above her head.
“Say it again,” the words fell into her mouth, his lips brushing hers.
Ziva could feel her wetness, soaking her thighs as Tony's hips ground against her in a steady, building rhythm. Her inner walls clenched desperately around emptiness. With her eyes closed, she savored the press of his forehead against hers, their breaths mingling, soft moans overlaying. She whimpered, wanting to feel more of him, and felt safe enough to say it. That she wanted it. She wanted everything.
"I want you deep inside me."
Paris, 2025
Tony grunted low when he pushed into her, stretching her tight walls inch by inch. She squirmed beneath him, gasping at the sudden, overwhelming fullness. It felt amazing, finally, to get to this—his hips rocking forward carefully, thrusting slow and steady, giving her time to adjust to him. Their faces hovered inches apart, breaths shared in the intimate space between them. He peppered her cheeks and jaw with soft kisses, his tenderness washing over her as she kept her eyes closed, lost in the sensation.
Ziva whimpered, her fingers digging into his back muscles, holding on tight. Tony drove into her with deliberate slowness, each slide of his cock dragging against her inner folds building agonizing pleasure, more teasing than any frantic pace could be. She savored the closeness of that position, bodies pressed flush together, mouths connected. They'd shared rougher, wilder nights over the years, but this let her see every flicker of desire in his eyes, feel his lips graze hers in matching hunger, and it seemed like he was all around. Enveloping her, inside her, above her.
All around. Surrounding her.
She hooked her legs around his waist, locking her ankles to pull him deeper, and Tony rumbled a deep sound of approval, murmuring praises against her skin. He picked up the rhythm just a fraction, hips snapping a touch quicker but still measured. He took his time, relishing the raw connection of burying himself inside her. Yes, the pure act of fucking her like this, of claiming her with care. He captured her mouth in a deep kiss, and Ziva was suddenly overcome with the impulse to nurture him back, to cradle him as he did her. One hand slid to the nape of his neck, fingers threading through his hair, while she freed their intertwined ones to press her palm flat against his lower back, urging him on.
His tongue slipped into her mouth in a lazy exploration, mirroring the certainty of his enjoyment, and she drew him closer, arms encircling his broad shoulders, pulling their chests together. Tony's fingers splayed over her waist, squeezing the soft flesh there, and Ziva could only arch into him, marveling at the perfection.
The consistent thrusts, their muffled moans blending in the quiet room, and the unbreakable bond between them—strong, rare, enduring—taunt as ever.
Still glowing, uniting them in the dark.
Ziva's teeth grazed Tony's lower lip, tugging it gently before releasing, and he drew back just enough to search her face. Her eyelids felt heavy, her cheeks flushed, and her lips parted to the heat building between them. A soft, affectionate chuckle rumbled from his chest, his gaze locking onto hers as he shifted his hips, picking up speed. His cock slammed into her harder now, each thrust pounding deeper, rougher, jolting her body against the sheets.
Almost immediately, Ziva's mouth dropped open in a wide 'O' shape, a moan spilling out as her eyes crossed from the sheer, overwhelming intensity. Blindly, her hands cupped his face, thumbs brushing his stubbled jaw, and she held him while he fucked her into the mattress. Tony laughed again, low and husky, when another loud whimper escaped her, her body arching up to meet his rhythm.
One of his hands slid from her waist to the sensitive spot under her knee, hooking there and pressing her leg back toward her chest. He did the same with the other, folding her thighs up and wide, the stretch pulling her even tighter. Ziva nearly screamed at the exposure, the way it opened her up completely, but it dissolved into a throaty cry as he kept driving into her without pause. She thrashed beneath him, hips bucking, moaning, desperate, but his solid weight pinned her down, keeping her legs splayed in the air, knees nearly touching her shoulders. The angle let him go impossibly deep, and it sent electric tingles racing all across her skin. That tight coil in her core suddenly wound tighter, heat coiling low in her belly, and it threatened to snap as her inner walls clenched greedily around him.
Tony's eyes never left her face, drinking in every gasp, every flutter of her lashes, every desperate twist of her features of her unraveling. He thrust in and out with powerful strokes, savoring it. Ziva's heart hammered in her chest, pulse thundering in her ears, her thighs going slack and numb from the strain, but her arousal only surged, fresh wetness coating his cock and dripping down to soak the bed.
She moaned his name sharply, voice breaking on the edge of release, her nails scraping down his back as she clung to him, teetering right on the brink of ecstasy.
A deep groan tore from his throat, and Tony crushed his mouth to hers, lips smashing together in a messy, satisfied kiss, tongues tangling briefly before he pulled away. “God. I love…” The words hung unfinished in the air, his breath ragged against her skin, and everything seemed to pause for a heartbeat. He eased back slightly, their gazes colliding even as his hips never faltered.
Ziva stared up at him, her green eyes wide and sparkling with a mix of surprise and emotion, chest heaving, caught off guard by the vulnerability cracking through.
And she knew. She had known it for a long time.
It felt as inevitable as the city itself, pulling them back and marking their story. As inevitable as the certainty that, in the dark, their hands would seek each other, fingers brushing the knots of the string that united them until they clashed together. As inevitable as the fact that they always found each other—again and again.
She saw it cross his face before any words were spoken.
But they had never needed words. Not once.
Paris, 2010
“I love…”
With both her hands above her head, her fingers threaded into his, Ziva froze, staring at him. She felt drunk—dizzy, lightheaded—caught in the green of his eyes from this close.
There was nowhere to run, nowhere to hide, when Tony hovered above her, his expression a fragile mix of hesitation and devotion.
It wasn’t entirely surprising—she had seen it before. In the worry he tried to mask on the plane ride home from the desert. In the lingering glances after each joke, watching her reaction to every word. Tonight, with his gaze so open, unguarded, so honest, she couldn’t even pretend it wasn’t there. With the warmth of the wine on their tongues amplifying the quiet tension, the unknown between them unfolded without either of their permission.
She already knew what he was thinking.
You. It was on the tip of his tongue.
Tony drew a slow breath, his mouth slightly parted as he looked at her. And Ziva wasn’t ready. She simply wasn’t ready to hear what he might say, to watch the shape of a future they could never have begin to unfold the moment those words left his lips. It wasn’t the time, nor the place, for an accidental confession. He couldn’t. Paris had become her beautiful haven—the perfect snow globe resting still on the mantle of her mind, with the two lovers trapped inside. Always holding hands, always truthful in the dark, but forever sealed away from whatever could be. So beautiful, she couldn’t touch it.
She wasn’t ready.
Ziva caught his face in her hands and kissed him, stopping the words before they could ruin everything. It wasn’t just that she wanted the moment to last; it was that the feeling itself scared her—the recklessness, the wanting, the dangerous pull to stay inside that perfect snow globe where nothing ever broke, and nothing ever had to end.
And he let her. He kissed her back, letting her guide them.
In an instant, Tony's tongue invaded Ziva's mouth, and he returned to thrust into her. She continued to moan, forcing her mind to return to the moment before it was too late. The darkness was still there—so it was safe. To love him. In secret. His strong arms encircled her, guiding them into a slow spin on the bed. Ziva's wild curls cascaded over them both, tangling as they shifted positions.
"Lie on your side," Tony murmured, gently tugging her waist closer.
She complied, rolling onto her side and bunching the pillow beneath her head. Tony pressed in behind her, his hard body molding to hers. Ziva arched her back, inviting him to spoon her. His hands clamped onto her hips immediately, his lips finding the rapid beat at her throat. Thrilled, her pulse racing, Ziva's eyelids drifted shut, a soft sigh escaping her.
Yes. She melted into his embrace, letting his warmth envelop her. One of his biceps slid across her chest, capturing both her wrists in a firm hold above her breasts. Yes. His free hand skimmed down the curve of her thigh, fingers digging in until he hooked her knee and pulled her leg wider, spreading her open for him.
He was inside her again in one smooth motion. Ziva gasped, her moan vibrating through her as his grip on her wrists tightened, pinning her in place. Tony's other hand dug into her waist, pulling her back onto him harder. He sucked at her neck, his nose brushing her jawline, drawing her into the rhythm. A sharp nip at her shoulder made her breath hitch, and Tony growled low in his throat, his hips snapping forward faster, pounding into her.
She opened her eyes, breathless.
And what she saw made her chest grow tight.
Tony's lips trailed fire—across the back of Ziva's shoulder, up the curve of her neck, along the edge of her jaw—whispering quiet praises as he moved. Ziva stayed still, breathless, hardly believing what was happening. The words she wanted to say stayed stuck in her throat. She couldn’t even blink.
There, beside the bed, was a small window. And beyond its thin pane of glass stretched a star-filled sky, the lights of the city spilling into the room. The room was dark, so every fraction of light was visible. Ziva could see their faint reflections on the glass, just glimmers of motion, like starlight trying to find its way inside.
She watched, mesmerized, as Tony's arm banded around her torso, his other hand prying her thigh wider, his cock sliding into her with steady, rhythmic thrusts. Their legs knotted together, bodies locked in urgent motion. Her breath hitched, eyes wide and unblinking, heart pounding as Tony pressed kisses to her neck and buried himself inside her again, stretching her.
“Look,” Ziva breathed, gesturing toward the glass.
Tony's eyes followed her gaze, tracing the path to their mirrored forms.
“Ah. Beautiful.” He nipped at her shoulder, his hips rolling forward. She was witnessing it all. Heat bloomed across Ziva's cheeks.
”I can see the moon from here,” she said, voice trembling.
“Ziva. Take a look at you.”
Their fingers laced together, palms pressing as if drawn by instinct, his hand so near hers in the dim light. Tony was gentle to find the pulse at her throat, sucking, kissing, and her lips parted in a moan. In the reflection, she caught the echo of her own face—flushed, eyes half-lidded with desire—staring back. The deep vibration of his chuckle rumbled against her back before she spotted his grin in the glass. He flashed that dazzling smile, the one that lit up everything, and eased his free hand between her thighs. Ziva's spine bowed toward him, her body arching before his fingers even found their place.
It was suddenly too much—Tony's steady thrusts, so gentle and unyielding that every slowdown tricked her into thinking it might end, only for him to go back in. Ziva exhaled sharply into the pillow, clinging to the fraying edges of her restraint, but it was already slipping away. She felt his finger curl under her chin, tilting her face toward his, and their mouths found each other, just as his hand dipped between her legs again, his fingers tracing slow, deliberate circles over her clit. The sensation ripped a near-scream from her throat, but she clamped down on his tongue instead, need spilling out.
And she could tell Tony was unraveling too, his breath coming out in harsh gasps, and grunts vibrating from deep in his chest with each drive of his hips. Ziva pulled away from the kiss, her eyes seeking his in the dimness, and found those dark pools flecked with starlight reflections. His biceps flexed around her, his entire frame enveloping her like a shield, and in that moment, safety washed over her. She felt safe enough to let go, crying out his name as her orgasm crashed over her, legs shaking while waves of bliss shattered through her like exploding stars.
Her back bowed sharply against him, and Tony's voice washed over—”You're so fucking beautiful”—his words fueling the fire. She couldn't bear to glance at their reflection now, too lost in the intensity, so she locked onto his gaze instead, drowning.
And it felt right. For the first time in months, it felt right—to be there, tangled with him, exchanging sloppy, breathless kisses in the safety of the dark.
Tony shattered moments later with a few erratic thrusts and resting his forehead on her cheek. Ziva's arm snaked around from the front, cupping his face, drawing him closer as he buried his nose in the curve of her neck, struggling to breathe. And her own chest rose and fell in ragged heaves, every inch of her skin tingling with overheated sensitivity, slick with sweat.
Ziva’s gaze drifted back to the window, and she caught herself mesmerized by what she saw reflected there—Tony kissing the side of her face. Her own eyes soft and content. Their legs tangled together. Beyond the glass, the stars glimmered faintly over Paris—the city sealed inside a snow globe.
When he slipped out of her, gently, slowly, it felt like the moment had passed before she could truly hold onto it.
Two lovers, trapped inside.
And yet she was happy. A quiet, expanding joy filled her chest, dulling the bittersweet edge of knowing this was a one-time thing. Even if they saw each other again back in Washington, it would never be like this, never this simple, this free. The pull between wanting to stay in that room forever, loving him, and needing to step back into the light nearly overwhelmed her. She looked away from their reflection.
Tony laughed softly, his breath warm against her skin as he pressed quick kisses to her face. She couldn’t help but laugh, too. They had always been good at that—at knowing what the other felt without saying a single word.
“Be right back,” he said, and went to the bathroom. Probably to get rid of the condom.
She hummed in acknowledgement, too weak to form words. Tony leaned back toward her and kissed her, slowly, lingering. They shared the same breath. Ziva shifted on the bed, turning to face him. When his tongue brushed lazily against her lips, coaxing her mouth open again, she let out a quiet laugh and pushed him away. They needed a break. Otherwise, it would start all over again.
It was always like this.
Tony let her go, amusement flickering in his eyes. “Don’t run,” he said softly, watching her.
She held his gaze, wondering if he felt it too. That this was temporary. That they were living in borrowed hours. That they only had moments together. She wondered if they were going to sleep at all that night. She wondered if he knew that, in any other life, she would have held onto him and never let go. She would have fought for it—if it weren’t impossible. If it weren’t forbidden.
“I won’t,” Ziva said, though she wasn’t sure it was true.
Tony smiled faintly, pressed one last kiss to the corner of her mouth, and pulled back, rising to go.
And she watched him, his back disappearing around the corner until she heard the faint click of the bathroom door closing.
Alone again, the weight of her thoughts settled over her. Ziva breathed in, then out, and closed her eyes. Her fingers brushed her lips, still warm from his kiss. She wanted to relax. The sheets were soft, inviting, but she couldn’t. In the dark, all she could see were his eyes, filled with that unbearable honesty.
I love you.
Guilt rushed in. Her eyes flew open, fixing on the ceiling. Maybe they shouldn’t have done it. Maybe it had been a mistake. A night out of place, far from home, on foreign ground, and in the middle of a mission, for heaven’s sake. There had been no sense of responsibility. They were there for work, not this. And deep down, she knew.
She just knew… that this would change them. There was no going back from it.
They’d trapped themselves. Doomed themselves with it. The hidden truth neither dared to speak.
Ziva turned onto her side, her gaze drifting back to the window. She curled up beneath the sheets, waiting for him to return. Outside, the city lights glimmered across short buildings, each window holding a different life. The dark sky stretched endlessly, scattered with stars. Paris, and all its magic.
And in the reflection on the glass, she saw her own face. In love with a man she could never have.
Paris, 2025
When Tony returned, he slipped into bed behind her, but Ziva shifted, turning so she could hold him too.
She looked at him and saw a smile spread across his face, his eyes bright with the quiet thrill of what they’d just done. Ziva had known, the moment he kissed her with the radio still playing, that it would lead to this—his name echoing through an apartment that wasn’t theirs—and she laughed softly, warmed by the simple grace of being here with him. After all this time, they’d only gotten better. Better at holding on and letting go. Better at knowing what the other needed. Better at enjoying what they had.
Now, she felt it as a certainty: life would always find a way to pull them back together. She knew it in her bones. They tended to return to each other, to the same space, the same touch, if only to say what they couldn’t put into words. And she couldn’t fault them for it. After everything, it was a gift to still have this—to have him still.
Ziva knew things were more fragile now, that the mere existence of their child made every decision more complicated. But it would be a lie to say she didn’t crave this with every cell in her body. It felt right. To be in his arms, to laugh, to hold this moment close and accept all the messy, beautiful possibilities that came with it.
And for once, she wasn’t afraid.
She trusted life enough to believe she would have him in the end. Otherwise, it wasn’t yet the end. Without it, none of it would make sense. She would have this—the magic only they could create, the bond that had always pulled them back together—again. But this time… she would fight for it. As soon as she had it, she’d hold on with claws and teeth, with every part of her that had ever learned how to survive. And this changed things.
Ziva wasn’t afraid.
Tony kissed the top of her head and settled in beside her, draping an arm over her shoulders. Ziva rested her head on his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his breathing. His heartbeat was strong beneath her ear, a grounding echo. When he turned on the small television across from the room, she only realized it when a burst of laughter rumbled through his body, shaking her head where it rested against him.
Lifting her gaze to see what he was watching, Ziva let out a soft laugh. On the screen, a couple was holding each other on an airport tarmac, their faces so recognizable in black and white.
She’d never seen the whole film, only fragments. Some even with him.
“Just so you know,” Tony said with a quiet chuckle, “you’ve ruined Casablanca for me. And that’s not easy to do.”
Ziva’s mouth curved into a smile. The low murmur of the actors’ voices filled the room. She had seen this bit enough times to know it was them saying goodbye, sharing a final kiss before she left. He stayed behind in Casablanca while she boarded the plane.
It was so much like them that her chest ached. She understood why he thought the movie was ruined. And a challenging feat indeed, considering who he was.
“We’ll always have Paris,” Ziva said. The line she had carried with her for years.
Tony laughed, surprised. She looked up to see the sound fade into a smile that lingered on his face. His eyes found hers, soft with understanding, as though the meaning of her words had just settled in.
He pulled her closer, his hand coming up to frame her face.
“True,” Tony said softly, and kissed her.
The sound of the movie hummed in the background as they stayed like that—warm in each other’s arms, safe, and for once, unlike every time before, unafraid.
Paris, 2010
Ziva’s heart tightened at the image of morning light spilling into the small room, the first rays of dawn brushing across the bed. They had already been up, maybe half an hour before the sun had even risen. McGee had called to inform them that their flight was cancelled due to a mechanical error, and that they would board the next available one. It wasn’t that the news fractured the magic of spending a night together, but when she turned down the call and looked at him, Tony was already watching her. Quietly, waiting to see what she would do.
She had kissed him nearly immediately, holding onto what was left of their time.
Heavy breaths had given way to soft moans, and when their hands found each other again, Ziva felt tears prick at her eyes. It seemed too good to be true, to happen only once. If she could, she would hold onto it forever.
Yet even in the warmth, there was a familiar sting of guilt. The thought of clinging to a love that couldn’t be hers made her stomach twist. This wasn’t who she was—dreaming of pleasure in a mission, surrendering to some fleeting desire.
This couldn’t happen again. No good would come out of it.
Now, Tony kissed the top of her head, his body solid beneath her, and she rested her head on his chest. Ziva stared at the ceiling, the thin rays of sunlight threading through the window. She cursed her past self, cursed the bottle of Merlot they had shared, cursed life itself, as the morning began, shattering the dream they had held so briefly.
It was as if he could read her mind, because Tony inhaled deeply, his hand brushing against and squeezing the side of her arm.
“We’ll always have Paris,” he said softly, and kissed her hair.
It confused her how perfectly the words fit, though they felt too poetic to have come from him. Ziva frowned, lifting her face to his.
“What?”
A faint smile curved Tony’s lips as he met her eyes. He held her gaze a moment longer than necessary, as if seeing something she couldn’t quite place.
“It’s from Casablanca,” he said. “Bogart and Bergman.”
But she didn’t recognize the reference. Maybe it was too early, maybe the jet lag was still clawing at her, or the remnants of cheap wine clouding her mind. At her silence, he shifted, sliding from beneath her.
“Hm. I’ll hop in the shower,” he said. “See if there’s somewhere nearby to grab a bite before we have to head out.”
And Ziva watched, a little numb, as he stood, pausing to plant a quick kiss on her lips.
“See if you can rest a little,” Tony added, playful. “We didn’t sleep much.”
From the hour the sun was meant to rise, she knew there wasn’t much time left.
“We will need to leave, soon,” she mumbled, tired, although it was true. Her limbs suddenly felt heavy, the exhaustion she’d been holding at bay finally pressing down.
“Soon,” was Tony’s reply. And then he turned, leaving for the shower, disappearing from view.
The coldness of his absence hit immediately. And something told Ziva that had been the end of it.
Of Paris. The City of Love.
We’ll always have Paris.
Ziva breathed in and out, curling beneath the covers, resting her head on the soft pillow, forcing her mind to quiet. And, thinking of him, she let her eyes flutter closed, surrendering to sleep.
Beside her, the bed was empty.
But there was no couch in the room.
Paris, 2025
When she woke, he was still there.
Ziva’s eyes struggled with the morning light streaming through the floor-to-ceiling windows. For a few seconds, she didn’t recognize her surroundings, then she realized they were in Dr. Lang’s guest room, in his apartment. In Paris. Not home, but it certainly felt like it, with Tony’s soft breath brushing her cheek, heavy with sleep.
Beneath her, his solid body wrapped around hers. They faced each other, her head tucked under his chin. His embrace was a cocoon of warmth, making her feel at home in a way few places could.
She stirred, pulling back slightly. Flashes of the night before crossed her mind, and she felt herself blush, cheeks growing warm at the memories.
Their fingers intertwined, pulled above her head.
Giggles in the dark, then whispers and moans.
Her gaze drifted around the room. She thought briefly about thanking her therapist for the hospitality, then let the notion slide, knowing any explanation would be impossible. Her gaze landed on the couch, where, in the end, they didn’t stay long.
And Ziva grinned, pleased with the irony of it.
At her slight movement, Tony’s arms tightened around her, and even in his sleep, it seemed like it was his way of holding onto her. A quiet insistence, a refusal to let go.
Outside, Paris stirred to life. Inside, they silently ignored it—Martine, Jonah, and the complicated plan of deceiving arm dealers—all irrelevant after everything that had happened. Clothes from the night before were scattered over the couch.
In his slumber, Tony pulled her closer, urging her to close her eyes too, and she did, letting the warmth and quiet hold her. But before that, Ziva stretched, pressing a gentle kiss to his cheek.
In silent love and gratitude.