You can leave your shoes on the rack.
Harlan glanced down at his feet, then back up to Roslyn with an eyebrow quirked as if to say you've got to be joking. He had been, anyway. After a brief moment of pause that made it clear that she hadn't been, he flicked open the laces of his leather boots with his wand and stepped carefully out, placing them where indicated. The fear of mismatched socks, for Harlan and all of his obsessive compulsions, wasn't viable. Though, he was feeling more vulnerable than before, standing there like a teenager just in from the pitch.
As they made their way through the home, Harlan found himself verging curiosity and playing it safe. While a part of him wanted to get his bearings, get a good look around, the better part of him knew better than to look too hard. Thankfully, the library appeared clear and he wouldn't have to wade through small talk with strangers. How would they even explain why they were there? He couldn't, anyway.
Harlan watched as Ros sunk into an armchair, but paused to take a look around for himself instead of following suit. The socks were enough of a step, he wasn't prepared to wrap himself in a blanket just yet— he didn't know her all that well, not really. Studying a shelf of books, he ran his fingers gently over their spines as he tilted to read their titles. And impressive collection.
At her voice, he paused, then eventually glanced back over his shoulder to her. "That's alright," He decided. It had been surprising, to say the least, but he hadn't held onto her moment of temperament for long. Harlan was the last person to throw stones when it came to such things. "Taking your work frustration out on me, I see..." He clicked his tongue with something of a smile, hoping by then she'd caught on to his sense of humor.
"Do you mind?" He gestured to the decanter before grabbing a couple of glasses in one hand. Ros looked like she could use one and he was sobering up.