He let her go reluctantly, willing to give her those few moments to herself if it meant she would be in a better headspace. He watched her back, studying her outfit. He wasn't sure if her clothes had already been so worn off if her scrap with Walter had been enough to tear the hem of her pants. When she turned back to him, his eyes flew to hers and his cheeks flushed, not because he'd been ogling her but because he was afraid that that's what it looked like.

"Good," he replied, taking a step towards her before coming to a halt at her suggestion. He glanced down at his own outfit—bed robe, white shirt, ankle-length trousers. He looked back up at her, a single brow raised in question, and then let his robe drop the floor without a second thought. "I was more worried about the blood honestly," he quipped, flashing her a smile that didn't quite meet his eyes. It only stayed there a moment before his lips dipped back into a straight line, his worry too much to keep any sort of banter going.

His trousers would do, but she was right, at least about the shirt—the blood would be impossible to get off, and more than that, anyone who saw them would see the blood with ease. He turned and moved towards the armoire, discarding the shirt along the way. It only took a moment to find a darker shirt, and he tugged it on, for once not caring how wrinkled it was. "Better?" he asked, gesturing down to himself.

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