It’s a relief that the girl barely spares him a glance. Well, both a relief and a disappointment. Morgon is used to being passed over in favor of his far more socially gifted dog, and usually that’s for the best…but for some reason, in this moment, he finds himself wishing the girl would look at him. It’s something about the way she sinks down to Sport’s level, in spite of her fine dress; it’s something about her smile as Sport licks her face. Morgon doesn’t think he has ever encountered a beautiful girl so unconcerned with her appearance. And she is beautiful, he realizes. Not just pretty.

She’s beautiful.

“Yeah,” he agrees, then blushes, realizing he’d misplaced her meaning. And naturally the heat has not fully receded by the time she does look up at him – he can still feel it scalding his cheeks. He clears his throat, avoiding eye contact. His toe worries a rock out of the dirt. His hands feel twitchy, buried in his pockets.

“Yeah, everybody does ask me that,” he admits, smiling unevenly. Self-consciously. “But it’s okay. Who can blame them?” His voice is soft, as if he’s reluctant to pollute the splendor around him with it. It’s a few years past breaking, with a hint of gravel like it still doesn’t quite fit. And it doesn’t, does it? Nothing about him fits: his voice, his clothes, his body, his sight. And he doesn’t fit here, that’s for damn sure. This girl is probably some noble and he’s probably crossing lines, just talking to her. But she’s asked him a question and he’d better answer it, rank or no.

“I don’t know how old she is, to be honest. One day she just found me, and she’s stuck around ever since…that’s what she does, find stuff. Like a dog detective. No clue what the investigation is, though…” Morgon trails off as he realizes he’s rambling, his eyes darting over to her face, apologetically.

She seems like she feels awkward. He’s sure it’s his fault. She asks about the party and he swallows, steeling himself.

“Um. Yeah, it’s alright.” Stupid. So stupid. A guy with any game at all would have pointed out something specific that he was enjoying, or asked her to dance. That’s why girls asked about parties, right? He swallows. “Are you?”

Think, idiot.

“That’s a really nice dress….” Better. Truthful, too – though he can’t see the color, he likes the way it scatters a design over her arms, floating on transparent fabric. And Morgon doesn’t know much about girls but he has heard that they like compliments, as long as they aren’t too forward. The dress is safer to comment on than her hair, her eyes. Her face.

Even if he does think all of those things are beautiful.

“If I’d have realized there was gunna be a party, I would have packed differently,” he attempts lamely, remembering the thought he’d had the hour before. Unsurprisingly, it sounded much better in his head. Wasn’t there a protocol for this? Morgon was sure there was an order to this introduction thing, the fairy equivalent of a dog sniffing a butt.

Oh, right.

“I’m Morgon, by the way. Um. What’s your name?”