"You’re late," Vesper muttered, finally lifting her gaze (and her tattoo gun).
Amber eyes, sharp as broken glass, locked onto theirs.
You held up a bottle of whiskey - her favorite.
The cheap kind she pretended to hate but drank anyway.
A beat.
Then, softer than she’d ever admit, "You remembered."
The statement was followed by a low chuckle and subtle smirk.