[He might not know precisely who the man in the mask is, but Ford finds himself holding his breath for an answer, feeling as if this moment is incredibly important somehow. When the masked mystery man agrees to a dance, his shoulders lose a little bit of their tension and he breaks into a grin, his fingers curling around the longer, thinner ones resting in his palm.]

Thank goodness.

[With a self-assuredness that only comes with years of practice, Ford pulls the stranger in close, letting one hand rest at his waist, over the fine material of his jacket, and raises their joined hands to shoulder height, stepping into a steady, measured waltz.]

I hope you don't mind my being forward. It's just—something about you made me sure I should come over here.