The times Hermes had seen Ronnie at her best (special occasions and the like) were all put to shame in recent years. It wasn't a thing he quite understood, but something in him always responded when he saw Ronnie disheveled and half-dressed. It suited her, he supposed. His minor blank stare disappeared when she spoke and he raised his eyebrows (and chin) to meet her question with the utmost attention.
He smiled, softly. "You're-" lovely, a mess, his inspiration, "working hard lately. Or so I've heard. That deserves a bit of a treat," he cleared his throat and wet his lips before walking forward to set down the wine. "But this isn't such a big deal, is it?" She'd raided his cellar before, after all. It was merely a token of... er, something. "Do you have trousers nearby, Veronica?" he asked (with very little seriousness in his tone). He'd tried, at least. "Did I wake you?" She had that puffy-eyed look that she always had when she'd been woken suddenly. He'd seen it during numerous summers and when they'd been cramped in a tent for nearly a year together. It was one of the few things he remembered fondly about the latter experience (Ronnie - or any of them - sleeping).
He moved to sit and his eyes traveled back over the lanky redhead's feet and legs. Those old socks. He smirked and his eyes raised to meet hers, but he didn't speak again.