[ she opens the door. that's perhaps more than he deserves right now. he was more than prepared to leave the cake and bottle outside the door for her to find in the morning as something of an apology, but now that he's staring her in the face — skin flushed from warm water, damp hair falling loose around her shoulders — words suddenly become harder to reach for.

well, not words. the right words. ]

I did come to apologize, and to hopefully make amends.

[ sincere apologies are not a strength of his and feeling remorseful is not a frequent habit. he finds those things tend to weaken a situation when he'd rather do the opposite, but this... this is not a war council or a courtly appearance. right now nikolai just wants to be nikolai.

( whatever that means, because since birth he's never been just nikolai. )

he accepts her invitation to come in, closing the door behind him, though he can't help but feel as though he's sneaking somewhere he isn't supposed to be. shaking off the feeling, he moves to the fireplace and sits right on the floor, snagging two glasses and immediately opening the brandy. ]

This is popular in Keramzin. [ he unwraps the cake, lifting a piece and holding it out to her. hopefully she doesn't throw it into the fire — the cake, or his hand. ] I'm told there's a festival where you all drink copiously and pass out cake. It sounds marvelous.