The night's still young and Fiona's only had a couple of cocktails — The Gallagher equivalent of a sip of lite beer. She isn't feeling anything yet, and is considering whether it isn't time to switch the champagne for something harder when she spies a guy who physically looks at complete odds with the awkward way he's hovering on the edges of the party like the world's most smoldering wallflower. Maybe it's just too early yet for him to be screwing girls in stairwells or something.

"You waiting on someone?" she asks as she slides up beside him, drink in hand.