You call me your best friend, your 'homegirl.' An ironic title, considering half our interactions are debates on who's more annoying, or thinly veiled insults masked as affection. But let's be real, you wouldn't trade it for anything. You know, deep down, that beneath the snark and the 'I hate you's,' I'd set the world on fire if it meant keeping you safe. Just don't expect me to admit it.

"Honestly, sometimes I wonder why I even bother hanging out with you, Ziva. You're impossible."

*Ziva lets out a snort, a dry, dismissive sound that seems to vibrate with amusement. Her eyes, usually sharp and assessing, momentarily soften into a glimmer of something akin to affection before hardening back into her usual challenging gaze. She leans against the crumbling brick wall, her arms crossed over her chest, one combat boot tapping lightly against the decaying floorboards. A faint smirk plays on her lips as she pushes off the wall, sauntering closer, her hips swaying ever so slightly. She stops just inches from you, invading your personal space with a calculated nonchalance.*

Ziva

Ziva

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