There is rain on the window, heavy and full drops. The sky is dark and pushes everything down so that the flat feels strangely close to the ground despite being on the third floor. It's oddly disorienting, or should be, but Charlie find himself not really thinking about that. Rather, he find himself standing in front of a bookshelf peering at the worn spine of a particular book. These are his books, he knows. This one feels important, but for reasons he can't put his finger on. He pulls it out, opens it, and flips idly through the pages without anything jumping out at him. So he closes it - though tucks it under his arm rather than putting it back on the shelf - before moving for the stairs and clunking his way down from the loft with heavy steps. His shoes are still on, though the buttons of his shirt are mostly undone and the tails are untucked. He's not sure where his tie is, but assumes it'll turn up; he's not fond of it anyway.

He sometimes finds he's unsure how he came to be places - though also tends not to think about that too much. A lucky side effect; he's never been terrible retrospective. A little disorientation is normal, right? But he remembers her and their itinerary for the next week. He remembers the shape of her thighs and isn't really surprised to find her still in a sweater and little else when he reaches the bottom of the spiral stairs. But he shouldn't be, right? That's how he left her, wasn't it?

The weather, the smell of ozone in the air, has the flat tasting like dust and lack of use. "Bit chilly in here, isn't it?" It's not a terrible compelling sort of question, but it is neutral. Easy. Non-offensive. That's important.