He's very good at being a scoundrel--she'll give him that, at least. And a rather generous one, at that, letting her take the bottle back for the first sip. She can still feel the ghost of his fingers over her skin, nearly as weighted as his gaze upon her. Everything he's done since knocking at the door has had a new studiousness to it, as if he's decided that if this is going to happen, he's going to do it with absolute purpose.

"I'm guessing you don't have any cups in that pocket," she says, but the fact that they're drinking like scoundrels isn't really a deterrent. She brings the bottle to her lips and tips it back with the sort of precision that might suggest this isn't her first time stuck somewhere without stemmed glasses. After a pull, she offers it back to Han, her tongue flicking out to catch an errant drop of wine at the corner of her mouth.