The door opens almost on cue, their eyes meeting just as the lock slides away with a click. He steps away a bit, incapable - and unwilling - to keep the smirk off his face. It's been a lovely evening, truth be told. The food has been acceptable (French cuisine isn't his favourite, but neither is it ever a wrong choice), the company quite better than anything he's had for at least a good couple of years. Maybe more. He doesn't want to think too carefully about that, though, or he may end up feeling like a loser. Won't do.

Instead, he steps into the still-dark apartment and starts slipping out of his coat, trying to gauge the outline of the interior despite the shadows leaving everything pretty much neutral. White walls, he thinks, looking around. Clearly. Frames - pictures on the walls. He takes a moment to guess whether or not it'll be art when the light comes on. For some reason, he doesn't think Claude would be the type to have a Goya or whatever the fuck hanging in the hallway as the first thing you see, stepping inside. But he's been surprised before.