He's followed me up here, and I'm not sure if I'm surprised or not.

"Hnn. Chilly." Even my afghan isn't enough, quite, and the bugle trumpet thing - for which I've been working on inventing names - is becoming painfully cold against my fingertips.

My nose tells me what he's got in his hand; I don't need to glance up. The compulsion to say something can just as easily be spent on idiotic small talk as an argument, and the former's far simpler. "You got food. That's good."