Sport is having the time of her life, and Morgon’s night is, against all odds, improving. The crowd is still there, but it has faded to the background of his awareness, replaced by the girl kneeling before him. Later, it would all seem a bit story-book – meeting an unexpected friend in a beautiful dress, as the last rays of sunshine cast everything in soft light, and the first stars began to twinkle overhead. A little too perfect to be real.

“Maybe,” he answers, unable to detect her blush. “I’ve never asked her to look for something or someone specific. She’s got her own agenda. But she likes you, so maybe she’ll be open to some suggestions.”

By the time she’s admitting her true feelings about the party, Morgon is feeling more at ease. Somehow, he’s found the one person in the hundreds gathered here that is like him – more comfortable talking to Sport than other people. “Yeah, I know exactly what you mean,” he nods. Then, realizing the whole of what she’s said, adds “except you look amazing,” before he can think better of it. His throat goes dry as the Sahara. He clears it with an effort. “I’m the one that looks like he just rolled out of bed.”

Both things are true. Hopefully she’ll focus on the latter – Morgon has always been more comfortable in the realm of self-deprecation than of compliments. And he doesn’t want her to think he’s just some sleezebag trying to pick her up.

She changes the subject, to one that is probably safer but frankly, not a whole lot less awkward. “Is it that obvious?” He looks at her feet, then back up at her face. She backtracks quickly, probably realizing the implications of her question a second after he did, and his expression softens. “No, no, don’t worry about it. Asking where someone is from is definitely in the smalltalk handbook. Which I clearly need a copy of.” He would tell her, he realizes. If pressed, he’d admit he is a refugee, and without going into detail, confess he is alone. She seems trustworthy, somehow. But she does not press – she is polite, or trying to be. They are both fumbling through, really, and it’s all made a lot harder by the setting.

“Evelyn,” he repeats through a shy smile. “It’s, uh, nice to meet you. A fellow wallflower.” A crazy idea occurs to him, then – if he’d been drinking, he would think it a drunken lark. But he’s sober as a preacher and lovely Evelyn is feeling as strange and displaced as he, and he thinks maybe he can provide some relief for both of them.

“This might sound…forward, or creepy,” he laughs at himself, shoving his hands roughly in his pockets, “but do you want to get out of here? Sport could use a walk and I, uh, wouldn’t mind the company.” There’s that blush again, spreading across his cheeks and down his neck. Sport looks between them expectantly, with very wide, hopeful eyes.

“Unless you’d rather stay?”