He doesn't like intruding, doesn't want to push himself into her personal space or pull her out of it. But he knows her well enough to know that if he doesn't poke a little that she won't come out, at all, unless there's an emergency.

And that's no way to live.

He starts setting out food. A bowl, to pour chips into. Salad. Cold sausages. Pastries. Fruit. Napkins, and a plate for each of them.

"First few weeks after I was recovered from the ice, I couldn't stand the cold," he says conversationally. "I'm still not good with it."