He stands outside the door for a moment, glancing back out along the corridor. He wonders for a second if she might not have come up. He'd understand if she changed her mind. But that possibility is quickly disproved when he hears movement inside and the door opening.
Standing tall, he takes his hands from his pockets, and pulls the bottle from out of its place in his jacket.
"Still cold," he tells her with a smile. "Got them to get me one from the fridge."
He can see that she's reapplied her lipstick, smell the renewed perfume, but then that's hardly unusual. Women, he's found, always seem to get the most nervous about the way they look when it's the most obvious he likes them. Strange, that.
Stepping into the room, he glances around. Not too bad a room, especially for a Travelodge. A bit cold but they'd soon fix that. He looks around, no glasses, but a couple of mugs. He frowns a moment before stepping and turning into the bathroom, pulling out two small plastic cups wrapped in a plastic bag.
"These'll do," he says, setting them out before shrugging out of his leather jacket. Underneath, he's wearing a faded baggy t-shirt with David Bowie emblazoned on it. He has a necklace around his neck, and the rolled up sleeves show the muscles of his arms.
Reaching for the bottle of wine, he twists the cap (luckily it doesn't have a cork), and pours some into each of the plastic cups.
"You get comfy," he tells her. "I'm just going to grab a towel." His hair is dripping wet, and his feet practically squelching in his shoes, so quickly he disappears and emerges a moment later, boots tugged off and throw to the side and a towel around his neck which he rubs his hair with.
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Standing tall, he takes his hands from his pockets, and pulls the bottle from out of its place in his jacket.
"Still cold," he tells her with a smile. "Got them to get me one from the fridge."
He can see that she's reapplied her lipstick, smell the renewed perfume, but then that's hardly unusual. Women, he's found, always seem to get the most nervous about the way they look when it's the most obvious he likes them. Strange, that.
Stepping into the room, he glances around. Not too bad a room, especially for a Travelodge. A bit cold but they'd soon fix that. He looks around, no glasses, but a couple of mugs. He frowns a moment before stepping and turning into the bathroom, pulling out two small plastic cups wrapped in a plastic bag.
"These'll do," he says, setting them out before shrugging out of his leather jacket. Underneath, he's wearing a faded baggy t-shirt with David Bowie emblazoned on it. He has a necklace around his neck, and the rolled up sleeves show the muscles of his arms.
Reaching for the bottle of wine, he twists the cap (luckily it doesn't have a cork), and pours some into each of the plastic cups.
"You get comfy," he tells her. "I'm just going to grab a towel." His hair is dripping wet, and his feet practically squelching in his shoes, so quickly he disappears and emerges a moment later, boots tugged off and throw to the side and a towel around his neck which he rubs his hair with.