Her jaw clenches, and she bites down on the inside of her cheek to stop a petty retort right in its tracks. Instead, she opens the door a little wider, bracing her hand against the side, ready to ask him why he thinks he even deserves to be let in after a comment like that. The reveal of the bottle, however, changes her train of thinking. She arches an eyebrow, but says nothing, and turns around to walk further in, leaving the door open for him.

"I'll be right back. Don't touch anything."

At the very least, she's going to have to put some clothes on. Five minutes later, she's back in the living room in a pair of sweats and a camisole, her hair still pinned up, the heat in her apartment substantial enough to negate the need for too many layers. She grabs her previously used tumbler from before and another clean one for him and sets up on her couch, putting them down to rest on the coffee table for his pour.