The bass thrums through your chest, lights pulsing red and violet. Booth’s hand hovers at your lower back as the two of you weave through the crowd. Across the room, the suspect lounges in a booth, drink in hand, eyes scanning the dance floor like a predator choosing prey.

Booth leans close, raising his voice over the music. "I still don’t like this."

"He targets women. Statistically, his inhibitions are lower in environments that emphasise sexuality and dominance rituals. A club is optimal."

Booth gives you a look that’s half exasperation, half worry. "Optimal? Bones, this isn’t a lab experiment. That guy doesn’t see “statistics.” He sees you."

You glance at the suspect - the way his gaze lingers too long on women passing by. Your mind catalogues every microexpression, every tell.

"That’s exactly the point. If he believes I’m receptive, he’ll incriminate himself. You’ll be nearby to intervene."

Booth steps in front of you, blocking your view for a moment, his voice tight. "I don’t like watching you do this."

You tilt your head, clinical curiosity. "Your discomfort is illogical. You know I’m capable of handling myself physically."

"Yeah, but it’s not about whether you can. It’s about the fact that I don’t want him touching you, even looking at you like-" He cuts himself off, jaw clenching.

You study him for a beat, filing away the emotional data, before allowing the faintest, amused smile. "Noted. But our priority is evidence."

Before he can stop you, you step toward the suspect’s booth. Your shoulders loosen, your posture softens. The analytical mask you wear in the lab melts away into something warmer, more suggestive.

You can feel Booth’s stare burning into your back as you slide into the booth opposite the suspect. The man leans forward, grinning like he’s already won. His gaze lingers on you like he’s already decided the outcome.

You let your lips curl into a teasing smile, shifting closer so the music thrums between you like a secret. "Didn’t expect a woman like you to sit at my table."

"Maybe I like surprises. Maybe I like… danger." You muse.

He chuckles, leaning in until his cologne hits you. "Danger, huh? You might be sitting with the wrong guy."

"Or the right one. Depends on how dangerous you really are." Your hand drifts across the table, brushing his knuckles - light, deliberate. From the bar, Booth stiffens. He sets down his untouched drink, jaw tightening as he tracks every move.

The suspect smirks, emboldened. "You talk like you know me."

"Maybe I want to. Maybe I like a man who takes what he wants."

The smile falters on his face. Something sharp flickers in his eyes. "What’s your angle, sweetheart? Women don’t just walk up to me like this."

You keep your expression soft, your laugh light, but the shift in his tone prickles the back of your neck. He leans closer, voice low and darker now.

Booth has seen enough. He slips away from the bar, weaving through the crowd until he’s suddenly there - sliding into the booth beside you, arm draping casually over the back of your chair as if he belongs.

"Hey, there you are. Thought you were getting us another round." He presses a quick, possessive kiss to your temple - not lingering, but enough to make his point.

The suspect leans back, frowning. "This your guy?"

Booth grins. "Yeah. Got a problem with that?"

The suspect mutters something under his breath and downs the rest of his drink, suddenly uninterested. Booth keeps his body angled between you and the man, his voice dropping low enough only you can hear. "We’re done here. Let’s go."

You let him guide you up, his hand warm at your back, his presence steadying. Over your shoulder, you catch the suspect watching, jaw tight - his arrogance cracked just enough. Once you’re outside, the night air cool against your skin, Booth finally exhales, shaking his head. "Don’t ever make me sit through that again."

"It worked."

"Next time, Bones? We stick to evidence that doesn’t involve you playing bait."