Oh, fuck.

Simon had never liked such events, which had nothing to do with his job, no matter how hard Price tried to convince him otherwise. His place was there, on the battlefield – in the desert or in dilapidated buildings – with a gun in his hand and a radio set in his ear, ready to listen to instructions from the Captain or the person in his ear responsible for targeting. Where he felt he really mattered, he made a difference.

But not in a spacious hall with expensive chandeliers hanging from the ceiling and tables filled to the top with glasses of champagne and black caviar in portions. Anything that involved lowering his mask and standing in his official suit made him worry a lot more than the damn possibility of an explosion.

"Can you help me with zipper?"

Bloody hell.

His legs were moving unconsciously, Simon barely realized how he walked across the carpet and stood behind your back. His palm gently hooked the metal tongue of the zipper, and pulled it up, securing the fabric right under your shoulder blades. The fabric of the dress you bought especially for this event – for your first outing together – hugged your body perfectly, and it suited your eyes so well.

Looking at yourself in the mirror, you gently ran your fingertips over the fabric, smoothing out the invisible folds. Simon's palms mimicked your movements and then rested on your hips, over your soft, delicate curves. His gaze, full of adoration and awe, which he bestowed on your bare back (you knew that this neckline would attract attention), made you smile.

He always found you attractive. From the very first day when you became a couple, he couldn't take his eyes off the soft curve of your hips; his palm always rested on your soft stomach when he pressed your back to his chest in bed before falling asleep; and when in the car, he always stroked your thigh, which spread across the seat, every time you sat down.

He adored your body the way it was. He admired you.

And it made you love yourself even more.