He's curious, of course, but also interested in her now less-than-dressed frame pressing warmly into his. The blanket has joined most of her her clothing on the floor by now, stirred blood doing something to fend off the chill in the air. Later, he'll fuss with the stove in the corner, clean down the layer of water that inevitably gathers on the inside surface of the window, maybe find food.

For now, his sense of hospitality is limited to answering kisses, and small contented sounds as she touches his hair, leans against him. Ties and sashes come loose, fabric tugging, relaxing.

"I could be better," is not a self-reflection but a suggestion. His hands skimming down her back, her hips, capturing her in another kiss in his drawing them both for the bed.