If his blush was obvious, maybe his grimace is, too - though, with any luck, she'll take it as entirely the fault of moving again, wounded, after sitting so still for so long. His bandages are practically frozen stiff, and it's not as if it doesn't hurt him, to push back up to his feet and stagger over to where she's insisting they sit.

(And, no, it still hasn't occurred to him that there might necessarily be more to this than crouching close in individual huddles, for the moment. Perhaps once there's no rope left at all, to climb down into this veritable ravine he's dug himself - or the both of them, really.

Eventually he'll realize he's already going hand under hand through empty air.)

Settling again, he's at least marginally mollified to find he can still sit on her far side from their paltry source of heat, his tired and iced over mind having elected this the most reasonable plan of action. She's in far more desperate need of the warmth, though, and between the two of them (he and his new counterpart, the equally bulky and uncomfortable-looking wood stove, that is) must be the most strategical and beneficial position. He isn't nearly as cold as she must be, even if he is fearfully so (as the shiver that accompanies the thought seems to verify - standing up lost him a good deal of his meager accumulated warmth, too).

...Not that he would've done any different, had both his feet already been taken with frostbite and his nose and ears going next. Not for that hopeful expression she turns on him without a thought.