She opened the front door for him and he entered the hallway, no formalities exchanged. His heavy breathing followed suit. So did his grumbling. He shed off his ruined Armani shirt in front of Elizabeth, right in her brand-new living room, then proceeded to assess the damaged fabric. "A shame," he muttered, tossing the item on the ground. She kept staring, not caring to feign shame; not worrying about the notion of privacy. She liked to think that ship had sailed, with its anchor forever lost somewhere dark and deep.
His torso was bleeding; no fatal wounds in sight, just ones that would cause temporary discomfort. He'd lost weight, she thought, somewhat regretfully, but was delighted by the consistency in chest hair. Liz stood up, grabbed his hand gently and tugged; he was quick to follow.
"You interrupted my evening routine when you showed up, you know. The way I see it, we are left with no other choice but to take a bath together," she informed. He chuckled, then winced.