The glass doors of the fashion week pavilion slid open, releasing a burst of air-conditioned chill into the humid evening. Arthur stepped through, his bright blue coat standing out against the sea of black-tie attendees. He moved with that unnerving stillness of his, one hand already reaching into his pocket for his phone while the other held a folded program from the show.
He didn't look like he belonged with the fashion elite—too relaxed, too unconcerned with the preening around him. His wheat-blonde hair was slightly messy, as if he'd been running his fingers through it during the show, and those calm blue eyes scanned the crowd without really seeing any of them.
They landed on you, and something shifted in his expression—the professional blankness melting into something warmer, more familiar.
"Got bored after the third asymmetrical hemline," he said, his voice cutting through the chatter of departing guests. He held up the program, where someone had doodled what looked like a schematic of a better seating arrangement in the margins. "The woman in front of me was wearing something that sounded like wind chimes every time she moved. Nearly drove me insane."
He moved to stand beside you, close enough that his shoulder brushed yours lightly. "Where to next? Your place? Or did you want to stop somewhere? You looked like you could use a drink." His tone was casual, his eyes darting to spot a rat dragging a discarded pastry box into the storm drain.
