Stretched across the sofa in the main living area with a ledger held aloft, Sol tips his dark head back to see Theo, upside down through the tinted lenses of his glasses. Remaining inverted, Sol lifts his wrist to his eye level. "Seven-thirty," he says, which seems to surprise him, as well - at least judging by the upwards winging of his brows. He pulls the glasses off of his face and sits up, setting aside the ledger to rest his elbows on his knees, long hands lacing together. "I don't have to tell you you're welcome to the cans and the microwave," he says, knowing his friend is plenty enough at ease here to take such a liberty.
As Theo goes about settling in Solomon gets up, strolls over toward the window in sock-clad feet, where he finds himself a cigarette and lights it. He reaches up to scruff his free hand over the back of his shaggy hair, cracks open the window and takes a moment to wrinkle up his generous nose, sniffing for the telltale burnt sugar smell of s'mores before he opens the window the rest of the way. Smoke curls outward, as a bit of a breeze hits Sol's face.
"You don't look like you're bursting with news. How'd it go out there?" It's somewhat of a challenge for Sol not to immediately jump down Theo's throat for updates, but he thinks he's contained himself decently. He doesn't often take more onto his angular shoulders than is his fair share, but the lives of those girls, and the safety of so many others within these walls, has been weighing on him. He's beyond grateful that Theo is back and on the case.