Wide eyes dart up at the voice. They scatter briefly in a momentary panic, as though she is trying to take in all of it at once -- his face, his position, his proximity, the cup that he holds in the space in between them.

For long moments she doesn't respond. The cup steams quietly, the vapor curling into the air.

Then: "Thank you . . ." Her hands reach out to accept the cup. She doesn't drink from it, but the warmth of it is more than welcome, and her fingers twine around the outside as she pulls it closer to herself.

Should she be embarrassed? Concerned? She waits for his next move to declare his motive.