It was past midnight when the two of you finally left the bar, the city humming around you in a blur of traffic lights and distant laughter. Your heels clicked unevenly against the sidewalk as you clung to Simon’s arm, buzzed from both the drinks and the way he’d looked at you all night like you were the only woman in the world.

“Remind me,” you muttered, wincing as you stepped off the curb, “why I thought these heels were a good idea?”

Simon gave you a side glance, his mouth curving into a small grin beneath the soft glow of the streetlight. “Because they make your legs look insane. Don’t mean you had to suffer for it, love.”

You let out a dramatic sigh, stopping for a moment to lean against him. “I can’t walk anymore. I swear, my feet are protesting.”

Without warning, Simon bent down, one arm sliding behind your knees, the other behind your back.

“Simon—” you started, but before you could finish, he scooped you up effortlessly, lifting you bridal style like you weighed nothing at all.

“Oi,” he said, adjusting his grip as he started walking again, “can’t have my girl limping home like she just came outta combat.”

You laughed, arms winding around his neck. “You’re ridiculous.”

“You say that like it’s a bad thing.” His military cadence still slipped through his words, rough around the edges, but warm. “I’ll carry you the whole damn way if I have to. That’s part of the job description, innit?”