His lips thin down to nothing but a slim, pale line when she turns up to see him, and the tremor in his hands becomes more the fault of his frayed nerves and the effort it takes not to drop the gloves and hastily tuck any stray split ends of blond showing below his visor, rather than just the cold. He won't say another word, he promises himself, not if the snow piles up so high outside that their cabin collapses in and crushes him the way it threatens each time a particularly brutal burst of wind buffets the walls from outside. The storm could last forever, and even that wouldn't be long enough for him to regather his courage, after this.

Her smile does him no better, small and bright and almost ecstatic in the strangest way - frayed nerves become shot in record time, and when he nods, slowly, to her thanks, it's nearly on par with an out of body experience, his mind far away and floating in the surreality of it all. Not even his most optimistic picture of coming home could compare to the reality of seeing Tifa smile at him that way - and no hypothetical disappointment comes close to the way it feels to remember she doesn't have the slightest idea who he is. The certainty that he'll never see that look, again, if she finds out.

His hands aren't even passing warm, now, without what paltry little heat remained caught by thick, worn leather, but they're easier to run over her bare shoulders, like this, and in short order, he almost feels a little warmer, too. Sick and terrified and halfway to being numb to it all, but focused and determined, now, as well.

He makes a noncommittal sound of assent when she apologizes, and words aren't in it; the weather'll be the least of his concerns, unless she turns him out into the blizzard.