The books were almost like background noise to him; he hardly noticed them, except that they were vaguely pleasing, the sort of thing he expected to see anywhere. The magazines and toys were the only things he thought at all strange, and here they didn't look out of place. It was comfortable. The corner of his mouth twitched up a little when he caught sight of a pile of very familiar tattered wool yarn.
"Thank you. - Wine, if you're having any." He didn't particularly want to sit on the sofa, at least not until she did - that was rude, wasn't it? he really didn't know - and so stood, perusing the bookshelf, and doing his best to ignore the cat. Whose name he would not admit to remembering, for now.