log ✫ 'til the siren come calling, calling.
Technically, Hasi acknowledges, using your awesome witch powers to figure out whether or not someone is home is cheating. Given that the person in question is a homicide investigator with a busy schedule and a tendency to do inexplicable things, though, she feels like appearing at Bellamy's flat's doorstep at a quarter before ten PM is not the worst thing in the world, and, in fact, could go very well for her. And for him, of course, although she's not sure what he thinks.
She's been sending her letters, but it didn't escape her that he hasn't sent any back. Whatever is going on with this relationship, expressiveness in the verbal sense is not it--but she remembers last time they saw each other, and physically speaking, things were very communicative. If only that were the only means of discussion needed.
She's almost dressed for the weather in dark thigh-high tights, a blood-red dress with cap sleeves, strings of white pearl necklaces around her throat, and well-fitted, black leather thigh-high boots (not quite as high as the tights); the heels are a bit towering, but it's not icy out yet. Besides, she has an image to maintain, and she tugs her white coat around herself a little more firmly to stave off any hint of autumn chill. Probably she should have worn gloves and a scarf. Oh, well.
Doorbell has been rung. Now all she has to do is wait.