/lit/ - Literature

This is a continuation of what I started in another thread. I'm taking the advice to "just write", so I'm not thinking about it too much; overthinking is something i know I suffer from regularly

Although it was three a.m., in a pretty quiet part of the city, footsteps followed down to the single lit house on the road. The house spilled orange out of its windows into the black outside, almost giving an illusion of heat in the cold of the night. When the walker drew close enough, the door opened silently and a woman stood in its archway. Upon recognising the face of the man who approached, she stepped aside to let him in.
“Hi,” she said. You’re early, she thought. The man and the woman were the kind of friends that were friendly enough to hold a conversation, but not quite friendly enough to start one. As such, the man took quite an amount of time to hang up his coat on the banister, so as to slightly shorten the discomfort of the silence in the entryway.
As he took his hands off the coat, he paused before he put them down by his sides (do I look natural with me hands here? What do I even do with my hands normally?) and followed the woman into the living room she'd walked in to. He sat down; not too close but not so far as to make the situation more uncomfortable.
There was a weird couple seconds of silence. He decided to open his mouth to speak, but what came out was the sound of bone on wood, not vocal cords: there was a knock at the door. He felt saved in much the same way the school bell saves a student preparing to be scolded by their teacher.
"I'll get it," she said, and got up to walk back out of the room to the door.