He was silent as he entered through doorway into the room, sending a flurry of thoughts through Bella's mind. Was he... upset? Afraid? Nervous, just like she was? Probably, she thought. She'd been the keeping him on a leash for the past two months—who knew what sort of explanations he'd contrived in the time between their scarce letters.

As soon as she clicked the door shut, she turned and pinned her back to it, her hands finding their way to the poorly-sanded wood. For a minute, no words left her mouth. All she could do is stare at him like some sort of madwoman, her gaze locked on his for moments at a time before it flickered down to every detail of his outfit from head to toe. It was only after an appropriately awkward silence passed that she found her voice.

But—of course—it wasn't what she'd wanted to come out.

"I brought, uh—whiskey. Do you want some?" she asked, her cheeks turning pink as they stood alone... in the small room... with a bed right there, as if it was calling for her to be the whore everyone accused her of being. Could she do this without breaking down? Could she do this without making a fool of herself?

Of course not. She was Annabelle Scrimgeour.

"I think, we should, um—talk. I think we should talk before we drink. Before I drink, at least."

---