[There's definitely more to the story than that, but he can tell that she doesn't want to talk about it, so he leaves it there. Sitting back up, he reaches out to touch one of her hands that grips the hot cup, her skin still feeling icy despite the warmth of the glass.]

Your hands are like ice. Here.

[He reaches to press both his hands over the top of hers, letting the hot mug and the warmth from his own hands warm hers.]

The cold has always been one of our greatest foes in Snezhnaya- one can never be too complacent or they'll find themselves freezing to death in its grip. Or, in your case, freezing their fingers off.

[He should have lent her his gloves, but he didn't think about it before she left. Lesson learned.]