<span style="font-family: 'times new roman'">Morgen didn't want to admit that he watched the corridor opening that led to the bathrooms, but he was doing exactly that with a nervous anticipation that both enticed and frightened him. Anything could happen; numerous outcomes could appear the moment one (or more) of the ladies rounded the corner. His cheeks puffed out as he blew out a breath meant to calm himself, and became startled by the waitress who quietly arrived to collect the bill that Morgen paid for out of pocket. He gave her a shifty smile, one bereft of the 'Morgen Magic' that seemed to ooze from his being just minutes earlier. He merely nodded with a bob of his head that betrayed the need for more water, and he took a sip as his gaze returned to the corridor opening.<br/>
<br/>
By all accounts, Morgen should have been the happiest man in Harvard Square. The chances of him walking up the stairs with either his old friends or the scrumptous redhead were particularly high -- astronomically so, in fact. But, the pains from the past lurked deep in his psyche, like a wound that refused to head. Though irrational and unlikely, Morgen struggle to ignore the insecurity that he had every reason to suspect the three women would exit the bathroom together, walk past him without acknowledging him together, exit and return to one of their residence to finish the evening ... together. <br/>
<br/>
<i>Because nothing ever changes</i>, a heinous voice deep within schooled in a Luciferian tone.<br/>
<br/>
The sight of all three women at one caused Morgen's heart to seize in his chest, though it revived when he noticed them approaching and coming to a halt in the form of a wide arc. His face must have been humorous to the trio, as he started star-struck at their union -- all holding hands and (somehow) quite comfortable with one another. <i>What the hell happened in that bathroom?</i> he asked himself. Unsurprised by the connection between Freya and Jourdan's hands, the sight of Saoirse holding Freya's other hand baffled the man as he stood up. They were all, without a doubt, the most gorgeous women in the place; all three of them regarded Morgen with unique yet telling smiles -- eyes meeting his gaze. His own smile grew to one side, a roguish grin that began to accept the reality that their numbers would be <i>four </i>that evening.<br/>
<br/>
From their tacit acceptance of Saoirse, Morgen deduced that is old friends did not require another shot of Lambfell Moar to "loosen up" for the evening; and yet, their drinks sat upon the table waiting for their owners to claim them. Morgen looked toward Freya and Jourdan. "You interested in finishing up here before we head out to have a peek at your loft?" Morgen asked. <br/>
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Saoirse leaned into Morgen's personal space, her painted lips whispering in his ear. "I hope ye can handle yer women better than yer liquor, Mister Morgen," she teased lightly, injecting a Gallic enunciation that sounded more like '<span style="font-size: 12px">MAR</span>gen'. "Cause, unless me maths is off, you've got a handful waiting for you at the end of the walk home."<br/>
<br/>
Morgen's hand automatically raised to hold the side of the Irish girl's waist as he smiled and let the jest pass on by, knowing that he was more than ready to have both women -- three, if Freya wanted some of his action. His eyes felt the blue gravity of Saoirse's beam, yet he found himself turning to watch Jourdan. She seemed amenable to this development, and the quiet, unspoken truth was that however much he wanted to bang the Irish ginger ... a larger part of him wanted to know the sweet embrace of Jourdan's chocolate body and insatiable soul intimately close to his own.<br/>
<br/>
Hefting the minor drawings he's crafted in his sketchbook, Morgen held Saoirse's hand -- not entirely certain how they all would navigate the stair as a four-person chain but willing to try. "Ready when you all are," he said.</span>