A pause, just long enough to let the tension breathe.

“You’ve trained for this,” he continued, his voice low and smooth. “That much is obvious. But I’d be lying if I said I knew who gave the order. Or why you’re aiming at me instead of someone easier.”

The angles of her body - - poised like a sculpture made to strike. She knew the effect she had. She was counting on it.

“It did,” he said, lifting his own glass, the surface of the scotch calm and unmoved. “Though it’s rare a bullet names itself before it’s fired.”

His eyes didn’t linger on the red in her glass, though he noticed it. He had seen too many shades of red on too many nights to be distracted by something as petty as wine. Instead, his gaze moved to her posture. The railing.

“Bond,” he said simply, offering the name like a card on a table. No title. No fuss. Just enough to tell her that he saw the game, and had decided to play.

“I try not to make a habit of it.”

He leans into, closer to her. “Care for a stroll?”

“Only when I’m not wanted.” He says slyly - - yes, Crane. And suddenly Bond’s eyes dart to the man. Like a hunter and its prey, still something he needs to lock down. Not being so. .giddy at a target. He directs his attention back to Evelyn.

| leaving the office and almost screamed “YA HOOO” out loud

The way he looked at a weapon - - beautiful, complicated, and very possibly pointed at him.

They turned again. Not for the dance. For the choice it was hiding.

“. . .then you’ll forgive me for keeping an antidote in my pocket. Just in case. ❞ He pulled back just enough to meet her eyes.

Not aloof. Not mocking.

Just there. Seeing her.

“And if I’m to believe you, Aster. . .that this heart is bare, fragile - - capable of honesty - -“
His lips nearly grazed her temple as he leaned in, breath warm but measured.

“You speak like a woman who’s practiced her poisons. . .but still tastes every drop.”

A pause. The music swelled, and he steered her into a close step - - chest brushing hers, forearms taut in silent balance.

Her body returned to his with the precision of a trap resetting itself. He didn’t miss the falter in her pulse, the flicker behind her eyes before they steeled again.

He raised the arm she’d guided, effortlessly commanding the posture she had teased him toward. And then, voice low, just for her.

The music rose, a crescendo from the dance floor below. Somewhere, the party flirted with climax. But on the mezzanine - - two predators circled silently, each pretending the other had already made the first move.

“Working under that name, I can only assume you want someone to put a bullet in you.”

A beat.

He turned his head slightly, enough to see her in full. “Or maybe you’ve been hoping it’d be me.”

He didn’t look at her right away. Instead, he mirrored her gaze, down toward the swirl of oblivious elegance below.

Then, calmly.

Each step toward her was deliberate, unhurried, like a man threading through shadows rather than people. He stopped beside her, just close enough that their shoulders might brush if either of them breathed too deeply.

He set the untouched champagne glass on the marble balustrade. Not poisoned. Just. . .not the moment.

Bond moved.

A woman who wanted to be seen only after she’d already seen you. No weapons. Of course not. Not unless you counted her eyes, which always seemed to carry the echo of something sharp.

Anita Milph. God help the bureaucrat who approved that alias.

But his eyes flicked, just slightly - - enough to register her: the shape of her, the space she claimed, and the deliberate elegance in that red dress.