It happens on a Wednesday.

Tony isn't really sure what happens before that.

Everything is blurry, half-remembered; the pressing of a case file in his hand, in a dark room; Gibbs's smirk and McGee's familiar exasperated look; Ziva's hand making shadows in the silent elevator.

He isn't entirely sure of what happens after, either.

(Gibbs and McGee stay behind.)

At times, he wonders – if it was them –

He can never finish the thought, somehow.

They're in Italy and it reminds him of Paris, for some reason. There is wind in his hair, it's sunny and this is exactly like a movie.

He tells her this without telling her, and instead of rolling her eyes, she smiles.

(And in this moment, he lives forever.)

It's too much.

The only evidence is in an airlock – a room with only one way out, all metal and only enough space for twenty people.

This time, it's Ziva and not him who makes the expected inappropriate comment, and he just stares at her, because –

Because he'd thought he'd have to wait forever before she'd let her old self out again.

He wonders, as the minutes tick by into hours, if McGee and Gibbs are thinking of them.

And it's totally stupid, but he can feel the heat of Gibbs's stare, two thousand miles away, on him, watching him. Protecting him.

He debates telling Ziva this, but he knows that she knows that he knows.

At 11:32 pm, they find something.

Tony has his back to her, and he's saying something about Palmer's bachelor party – he can't remember – but stops when he hears Ziva make a choked noise.

"What is it, Agent Dah-veed?" he mocks.

She says nothing but his name, and even then, he's praying before she fully explains – and he knows before she tells him – and in his mind he imagines this is all a dream –

There's a moment of pure, shocked silence in which they don't breathe.

"How long?"

"Two minutes and twenty seconds."

It's not enough time.

He remembers the most perfect day ever.

It's a weekend, in his mind it's Sunday – and there is no case. They're all playing marbles in Gibbs's basement.

Gibbs doesn't join, of course. He sips bourbon and watches from the back.

He remembers laughter, and light, and fingers clattering with glass on a dusty floor.

Ziva tries to disarm the bomb.

Her fingers are steady, her breathing even.

He wonders how she can be so calm.

He's banging on the door, the window, yelling for help, but he's forgotten the room's soundproof.

Fine. There must be another way out.

He backtracks and skims the room for a hidden exit, but there are none. They'd already covered every inch looking for evidence.

Something inside him freezes.

She gives up disarming it the same moment he quits looking for a way out.

No words need to be said.

And he's not sure if it's the adrenaline or not, but in this moment he is hyperaware of everything.

Metal. Glass. Dust. Light. Eyes.

(And in this moment, he lives forever.)

His first impression of her: he thought she was an innocent, telling him about her dead sister and Mossad when she barely knew him.

He remembers warm rain and cold pizza.

And then the heartbreaking look in her eyes, and he realized how wrong he was.

Fifty-eight seconds

They stare at each other through red and blue wiring, and the seconds that tick by too fast make his head spin.

But he doesn't look away.

"I always knew it was you," Ziva whispers, "but I thought there would be more time."

There are tears in her eyes.

He can't breathe.

Nineteen seconds

And finally he tells her, and his hands are gripping hers so tightly, and this is so like a movie whose name he can't remember it's not even funny, and his heartbeat is too fast, it's the only thing he can hear, and the pressure of her hand is the only thing that's keeping him from passing out, and now her eyes are black and wide, so black he can't see his reflection in them anymore –

(And in this moment, he lives forever.)

One second

Nothing is inevitable, she'd said once.

He only truly understands now.