A/N: I listened to Billy Currington on the way to work and then I wrote this because the Tilted Kilt, or as I like to call it, The Crooked Plaid Skirt, is a hotbed of fanfiction ideas, and my muse just goes buckwild when I'm on the clock. It's pleasant to be back in the Jibbs oneshot/drabble/NOT Mishpokhe world, even for a moment.

Sometimes, she sighed.

It was a very particular, nuanced, intimate sigh that he knew and that he liked to hear; it was a sigh that belonged to her that could not be produced or replicated by any other redhead—or woman for that matter—in his world. It was a sigh that, unbeknownst to her, she single-handedly owned.

Of course there were the typical irritated sighs; the huffs of frustration and the wordless utterances of anger or despair or mild disappointment—but everyone could sigh in those ways; the sound of those sighs were similar and boring; ordinary and bland.

Apart from those unremarkable, common sighs, there was a particular way that Jenny sighed sometimes that spoke volumes and left him feeling triumphant and content, smug and humbled, all at the same time—it was inexplicable and impossible to put into words the timbre and cadence of this little noise she made, but he knew it and ached to hear it all the same.

It would escape her lips at predictable moments, and sometimes at unpredictable moments.

She would touch his hand in a silent second, and sigh, and he'd look at her and accidentally catch her eye and know instantly that she was happy or that she felt good. He might hear it after he'd just made her laugh, or sometimes after he'd watched her cry and then comforted her in his own odd way. She would sigh after her first sip of bourbon post harrowing day at the Navy Yard, or he would hear it out of the blue while he worked on the boat, only to look over and discover her half-asleep while she watched him work.

She sighed like that once or twice after finding safety from a violent or terrifying situation; when they'd escaped a barrage of bullets in Paris, and she'd just stumbled into him, her lips against his neck, and sighed that sigh in relief and in weakness. She sighed when she saw him safe again after a brutal hostage situation in London, and the sound had put the light back into her hollow, scared eyes.

He heard it sometimes when she was breathless on top of him or writhing under him, slipping past her lips amidst moans and whimpers; it set fire to his blood and nerves to feel it against his lips when they lay tangled in sheets and sweat, or whispering against his shoulder while she lay, sated and sleepy, next to him.

It had been hell to spend six years without hearing that damn woman's captivating little sigh, and it was soothing to hear it now; it was a balm that healed the wounds she'd left when she had left.

Gibbs grit his teeth, moving his arm slightly, silently and gruffly annoyed by his obsession with her sighing, and he tried to gently extricate his wrist from behind Jenny's neck; his muscles were tingling, asleep under the weight of her head.

Her brow furrowed lightly, her lips moved, and she shifted, too, her body sliding against his, curling ever closer to her side; her feet tangled into his and her hair and cheek brushed his biceps.

In her sleep, she sighed that sigh.

And he smirked, because he knew it meant he was doing something right.

"Must be doin' something right, I just heard you sigh, lean into my kiss..." -Billy Currington; 'Must Be Doin' Something Right'
You haven't heard the beauty of this song until you've heard it live.
-Alexandra