??? ????? ??? ????? ?? ???? ? A Collection of One-shots

Now playing: "The Only Exception" by Paramore

The gala was loud with conversation and the hum of a string quartet playing something elegant and forgettable. (Y/N) wasn't much for these events—not because she didn't belong, but because she'd never quite enjoyed the pretense of it all. MI6's annual gala was a place for high-ranking officials, operatives, and government figures to dress in their finest, sip expensive drinks, and pretend they weren't constantly walking the edge of life and death.

She exhaled, swirling the champagne in her glass as she scanned the room.

Then she saw him.

James Bond stood near the bar, looking as comfortable as ever in a black tuxedo, a whiskey glass loose in his grip. He wasn't talking to anyone, just watching the room with that ever-calculating gaze, the one that made it seem like he was always one step ahead of everyone else.

Their eyes met.

It lasted only a second, but it was enough for the corner of his mouth to twitch into the faintest hint of a smirk.

She rolled her eyes, turning her attention back to the conversation she was pretending to listen to.

Then, suddenly—

"Dance with me."

(Y/N) nearly jumped at the voice at her side. She turned to find Bond standing there, hand extended, the picture of ease.

She raised a brow. "Since when do you dance?"

"Since now," he replied smoothly.

She hesitated. "I'm not really in the mood."

He tilted his head, studying her. "That sounds like an excuse."

She sighed. "Why are you so determined?"

"Because you're going to say yes," he said, eyes twinkling. "And because I want to."

She hated how easy it was for him to disarm her—not with charm, not even with flirtation, but with that steady, self-assured presence of his.

Against her better judgment, she set her glass down. "Fine. But I swear, if you step on my foot—"

"I'd never."

He took her hand, leading her onto the dance floor just as the music shifted to something slow, something softer.

The moment he placed his hand on her waist, she felt it—the strange mix of resistance and inevitability. She had fought against this, against him, against whatever this was for months. They'd been on a few missions together, spent time in the same circles, but she had never let it become something else.

James Bond was a complication she didn't need. 

And yet, here she was, letting him guide her across the floor with the kind of grace that surprised her.

"You're good at this," she admitted.

"I adapt," he said, ever smug.

She huffed a quiet laugh. "Of course you do."

They moved in unspoken rhythm, the world narrowing until it was just the two of them.

"I don't get you," she murmured after a moment.

"Most people don't."

She shook her head. "You could have danced with anyone tonight. Why me?"

His grip on her waist tightened ever so slightly. "Because you don't pretend."