It was difficult! Balancing her lingering-sticking-aggressive sense of social dread for sharing so much space with his limbs. Balancing it with a desire not to wound him or hurt him or offend him. And when she glanced rightwards she could see that she had failed. Sansa drew breath and shrugged her shoulders tighter. She curled her toes.

"Our...body heat," she whispered the word with such nervousness and guilt, "will have to be enough. In the morning -- when the sun breaks -- we might go looking for a tree? One with little branches. Easy to snap."

Said as a question, now. And not as an imperative slight against what he could provide her. But deep down she understood that there were other young men who would have had a sword at their hip.