Phonos swallows and refuses to allow his eyes to wander from her face. The peripheral sight of what she's wearing is enough. He wonders if the crimson was an intentional choice, the color of blood gliding over her pale skin with a perfection few things can emulate. He stiffly offers the bottle, then glides forward past her as instructed, pausing not a full yard into the door and stopping there to turn and regard her. His expression is neutral, deliberately so, masking the extreme discomfort he feels - and the primal desire for her that seemingly continues to grow while he works to subconsciously beat it away.

"I said that I would come," he replies plainly. It's almost an insult to suggest he might not, even though he knows there's truth in the sentiment. Still, he follows her without complaint, eyes glancing about. He's seen her apartment on a handful of occasions before, but there's something new about it this time, unwanted notions of how and where they could engage in their base instincts flashing through his mind.

He forces his attention back to her and finds he's already frustrated, both sexually and with her endeavor at small talk. Murder can be remarkably patient at times; other times, he is immediate and without thought. Right now, he finds it difficult to be his normal self and all the more angry for it.

"Why here?" He asks, keeping his voice and expression even in spite of the myriad of moods and thoughts devouring him.