She's not wrong — he's probably getting more out of this drink than she is, if only because it's a crutch for him. Something to do with his hands, a kind of social safety net. A grounding, familiar touchstone to fall back on while he wraps his head around the fact that something's happening here.

"Hope you're okay with cheap whiskey, then, because the mini-bar's running a little light on Piña Colada and Snickers."

He closes the door behind her, and gently locks it. Goes about the slow, methodical process of uncorking a bottle of whiskey and pouring a finger into two glasses. He holds one out to her, and then settles in — not in a chair or on the bed, but rather perching gently on the lip of the small wooden table, some half-measure between standing and sitting, his body language open — but a little reserved. He's willing, but it's probably clear he doesn't intend to take the reins here.

It's been a while. Saying he isn't confident isn't really accurate, he's plenty confident in himself, in his technique, in this whole process. The hook-up game. He's got it on lock.

He's just not confident that he deserves it, he's not confident she should want this. An ounce or two of hesitation lingers. Given enough time, without her energy there to balance it out, he'd probably wind up talking himself out of it like he always does. He needs a hand getting out of his own head.