Ben/Phasma
Phasma hadn't even intended to go, but that morning she opened her closet to get dressed for the day and a flash of silver greeted her among the simple blacks and whites. It seemed that the decision was made for her. She honestly didn't have the faintest idea of how to move in a dress. The shoes provided an additional learning curve. But after spending a good hour pacing back and forth the length of her room in it she thought she had it down. And she walked down onto the docks with all the poise and dignity of someone who had been doing this their entire life.
She smirked at Ben and plucked the glass out of his hand to take a sip. "I am as perplexed as you are," she said, motioning towards the dress and the impossibly high slit that almost reached her hip. "It's nice to see that you cleaned up a bit," she added with all the soft, teasing irony that the comment deserved. She reached out and brushed a bit of hair away from his face. "You could have had this years ago if you'd just invited me to one of those stupid First Order galas, though." Could he, though? It may have been possible that had Phasma had been to one of them when Brendol Hux was still alive, but she couldn't think of a soul who knew that it was the soldier that walked beside him every day.