I reached behind again, pulling up the zipper and winced when it brushed against the cut on my finger.

That was my fifth attempt.

There was a knock on the dressing room door, and Chloe called from the other side.

"Maeve, you've been in there for fifteen minutes, do you need a hand?"

I sighed, dropping my numb limbs on my sides. A fucking paper cut couldn't hurt so bad. I wasn't that weak.

"I'm fine, Chloe. Just trying on each one." Lie. I was still stuck on the first dress.

A blood red, meshed ball gown, that was brushing the floor even though I was in five-inch pencil heels. As much as the zipper was giving me a hard time, I couldn't not admire the beautiful piece of art clinging to my body. Its sleeves fell from my shoulders and began at the pit of my arms, blooming into meshed balloon sleeves that covered all the way down to my wrists. Its deep color complimented my skin, and I loved it. Only if the zipper decided to help me out and stick up to its place, I could let go off the shoulders which were basically falling apart without support.

I took a look at the paper cut, and painfully noticed it was close to bleeding. The last thing I wanted was to get blood on this $5000 gown. That was not even the last thing I wanted.

Chloe had been more than generous with the details of the party, and that all the close friend's and family's outfits were sponsored by her parent's. Although, I highly doubted that was true. Or maybe they would return the dresses and suits after the party.

Did that mean I was going to wear a rented gown?

I closed my eyes and shook my head in disapproval. They could probably afford this. After all, who even threw ball parties these days? It was like a high class, over the top, too wealthy to care a damn kind of thing. But this gown, it was too pretty to reject.

The corners of my lips drew down as I already planned a farewell with the gown, once I'd have to return it to Chloe.

There was a knock again, and before she spoke, I cut her off.

"Yes, please come in. I could really use some help right now."

I brought my thumb up to my lips and sucked at the reddened cut. Paper-cuts hurt like a bitch. I would happily get stabbed rather than getting one of these again. There was another knock when I accidently sucked too hard on my finger, and winced.

"Owe, goddamn it!"

The door creaked open behind me as soon as I hissed, and footsteps followed in closely after, before the door shut again. A little blood pushed out through the crack on my finger, and I tsked at it.

My day just got even better.

"This finger is giving me a hard time." I told Chloe, and brought the finger back to my lips. "Could you help me with-" my eyes met a pair of sky-blue eyes. "-the zipper?"

They didn't belong to Chloe.

Ian stared at me through the mirror, posture stiff, eyes narrowed. He looked...mad.

Why is he mad?

When I followed his gaze, I realized he was staring at my finger. My other hand tightened at the neck of my dress, holding it pressed to my chest. Ian's gaze moved, away from the mirror, over my back and down, heading south. And then trailed up.

There was no touch. He was not even close enough so I could feel the heat of his body.

But his eyes, I could feel them; grazing the skin on my bare back, caressing my spine, and kissing my shoulder. Everywhere his eyes touched me, it left a tingling in its wake.

I gulped and found my voice, but it was barely a whisper. "Ian-"

"Chloe is in the dressing room. Trying on her gowns. Left me in charge outside your door." He cut to the point, voice void of anything that I could point out, not sparing any question unanswered.

Now I felt it. The heat. Again, not of his body, but of his words, penetrating the surface of my skin and sinking into my bones. Suddenly, the spacious dressing room was too confining. Too close.

He was too close.

Ian took four brief steps forward, his eyes still glued on my skin which was bare open till the low of my back, where the zipper was stuck. He tilted his head, hands carefully reaching forward, and took another step toward me. I could feel his breath on my neck, warm, unsteady. Like my own.

"Let's see what we can do about this." He breathed the words on my back, between my shoulder blades, and took the zipper between his fingers. I suppressed a sigh when his finger slipped under the dress and rested against my skin.

Warm. So warm.

I needed to tell him to stop or I'd lose my mind, but my voice was lost. Again.

He pulled the zipper up with-what I assumed was-hardly any effort. It didn't move.

Once.

Twice.

Again.

Every time he pulled, his finger slid a centimeter deeper into the dress, warming up the patch of skin his finger skimmed, but the zipper remained where it was. My breathing quickened, then slowed down, stopped, and repeated. Ian was panting behind me too, like the zipper was taking all of his energy to move an inch.

"It's stuck." He muttered, softly.

It's not. I wanted to say.

Ian breathed deeply as I watched through the mirror, and his head ducked forward, nose brushing the hairline on the nape of my neck. I sucked in another sharp breath.

"It's difficult," his words bounced back against my hair in a huff of breath. "It's more difficult than I thought."

A vague feeling weighed down in my stomach that he was not talking about the zipper. And another feeling agreed with him. It was difficult. So difficult that breathing was harder rather than natural.

His fingers left the zipper, and carefully slid through the dress, around my waist, gripping my sides for support. He leaned onto me, forehead pressed against my shoulder, fingers digging into my skin as a strangled sound left his lips.

"Please, Maeve."

I had no idea why it made sense, but it sounded like something I would say too. One of my hands left the dress and reached forward, palm pressing against the mirror. He was completely leaning on me, his weight pushing me forward, but his grip on my sides was keeping me fixed in place. Where he wanted me.

"What are you doing to me, Maeve?" The words hardly reached my ears, where my heart was beating erratically right now, and my other hand travelled to his on my waist, not caring when the fabric started slipping down my shoulder.

As much as I wanted to respond, I had no answer to his question.

Ian squeezed my sides, and I felt his nose burying into my hair. He inhaled deeply, leaving the hair on my nape to stand in attention, and involuntarily, I flushed.

For the first time in a long while, I let the heat crawl up my face and display the effect he had on me. I blushed. Although, I doubted he could see it. I had this sudden urge to turn around, throw my arms around him and pull him into me.

He was close, but not close enough.

"You smell so good." His appreciative voice rose from just beneath my ear. "As good as I remember."

As good as I remember.

My eyes peeled open, and all I saw was his dark head, dipped into the junction where my shoulder joined my neck.

As good as I remember. What did he remember?

My lips parted, and I said it. I almost said it.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Ian flinched behind me, and my hand loosened around his to quickly pick up the front of the dress, which had completely slipped down my chest. But he didn't make any attempts to move.

My heart was hammering against my rib cage, haunting to jump out. I was trying to make sense of what he'd just said, who was behind the door, and what the fuck we were doing, all at the same time. My hand holding both of our weights against the mirror trembled, almost turning numb. But before we could crash forward, Ian slowly lifted his weight off me, moving back just enough so he could lift his face.

He didn't lift his eyes.

His hand slid back to where they started; at the zipper. Effortlessly, he pulled it up in one swift tug, as if it was never stuck, and my breath hitched as the dress clutched my chest and waist in its tight confines.

His hands fell down to my hips and rested there. My pulse in my throat, blood singing in my ears. I wanted to ask him what he meant by that. Did he remember? Did he recognize me?

Knock. Knock.

"Maeve, you still in there?" Chloe's voice broke through the haze of dizziness his proximity was inventing around me.

"Yes," was out of my mouth before I knew it.

"Okay, I'll be waiting at the counter. I've picked a dress for me, and I'm waiting to see yours. Come soon alright?"

I stared at Ian through the mirror, gauging his expression, trying to point out if I had the same effect on him, as he did on me. The sound of footsteps faded away, but he still didn't look up.

So, I willed myself to talk, gulping down the questions and catching onto the first phrase that surfaced my wrecked brain.

"You have a thing for brunettes then?" I meant to crack it as a joke, but my tone betrayed me, coming out frail and unsteady.

Ian raised his head, but before his eyes, I saw his smile. A small smile. A smile that said he wasn't regretting that it wasn't Chloe who entered inside. Although I did expect this reaction from him, what he said next had my heart crawling back up my throat.

"I didn't." His eyes burned into mine. "Not until recently."