Coy isn't really her style, not without some ulterior motive. The kind he learned to enjoy during that brief spell when an innocent look from under her lashes lead to encounters in elevators and carousel carts that he wouldn't have even considered without those feminine wiles. So he knows enough to be aware that he should be suspicious now, except that she knocked him back so recently and so hard that it feels like asking to be kicked while he's down.

She's grateful. It's nicer than a lot of the other emotions she's directed his way lately. He takes the glass and smiles around a sip.

"They didn't need me at the hospital," he explains, making his rush over here sound like a casual stroll to save her feeling like the damsel, "we can turn the TV on until it's over."

A glance at the wine as the flavour has a moment to sit on his palate, then he raises his eyebrows, "Is this Chianti?"