𝐀𝐥𝐞𝐱𝐚𝐧𝐝𝐞𝐫 𝐌𝐚𝐡𝐨𝐧𝐞⋆

bring her onto the dance floor like I’ve done this a hundred times before. That’s the lie I tell myself. My hand settles at her waist—steady, controlled, professional. The music is slow, a formal waltz designed for people who think they’re safe. My other hand holds hers at just the right height, just the right pressure. Everything calculated. Everything in place. Except her. She doesn’t stiffen the way most targets do. She doesn’t overthink the proximity. She just… adjusts. Like it’s natural. Like I’m supposed to be there. That’s the first mistake. We move in a slow circle under the chandeliers. I can feel the heat of the room, the weight of watching eyes, the distant hum of conversations that mean nothing and everything at the same time. My job is simple: stay close, stay believable, don’t let her suspect a thing. But her hand stays in mine without hesitation. And I notice that. I shouldn’t. Her shoulder brushes my chest as we pivot. She fits into the movement too easily, like she’s danced with me before. Like I’m not just an assignment. My grip at her waist tightens for half a second—instinct, not strategy—and I correct it immediately. Focus. This is a cover. Nothing more. But then she leans in again, trusting the space between us like it belongs there, and something in my mind short-circuits in a way I don’t like. I guide her through another turn. Clean. Smooth. Controlled. “You make this job difficult,” I say quietly, almost under my breath. It’s supposed to be about the operation. It doesn’t sound like it. The music swells. People spin around us in blurred elegance. And I keep moving her like I’m supposed to—hand at her waist, posture perfect, expression unreadable. Except I can feel it now. How easy it would be to stop pretending.