There is incense smoke wafting free of the door the instant the latch comes free from the inside. The smell and fall of rain easily overpower it.

Neji stands by his door, clad all in black, a cloth across his forehead, his hair in a loose braid, barefoot- this being the time of night he would turn in to sleep. His eyes are bright, alert with a wariness that isn't only due to being a stranger in a strange land, but to practice as well. The picture ahead of him, and the din and wind whip of the torrent, tell him what he figures he'll anyway get told--

Without a word, he bows (a shallow, polite thing) and steps to one side, and keeps his eyes from staring at the lady who will soon track mud in.

The home was-- small, even for someone used to shared quarters and nights at the mercy of the elements. It was tidy but cluttered in a way any exotic home should be, with little brass or golden dragons and horses as paperweights to books in script not English, with scrolls of Chinese loosely adorning walls with stern characters in red brushed ink. All of this, lit by a lone candle by a bed stand-- the bed to the far left corner of the place, before a kitchen.

To the kitchen is where Neji heads. There's a fire place there, of course. And someone will need to start it.

He thinks to tell the woman to take her shoes off--

"Will you ask for company to your home after the storm passes, my lady?"

He knew her. Well, hardly. Well-- not at all. But she fed a white cat often, he remembers. So, there's that.