Johanna is a woman who sleeps heavily or little and lightly, with no comfortable in between. Tonight, he is fortunate, because it is cold enough that it keeps her from settling and she hears him at her door. She debates leaving him, she is just this side of annoyed with him, but it is too cold to entertain that thought.

A moment passes before the wooden door is cracked open and she reaches out and fists a hand in his clothing. She hauls him inside and slams the door in his wake--the whole of it an attempt to keep from losing the heat.

It is very warm inside her home. In the dark it would have been a challenge to see the steam rising from the roof, but inside the heat is heavy, almost stifling in its humidity. It smells strongly of juniper. The sounds of the stills and their boiling flames are loud enough to drown out the creaking waterwheel as it rattles on its axle. There is a low orange light that fills both the distillery and the small apartment, from the flames burning beneath the copper tubes and the candles she had lit.

"Idiot," she accuses and at once sets about looking him over, making sure none of him is turning blue or black. That he is infinitely more familiar with cold than she is hardly worthy of note. "What are you doing outside? You want to catch your death?"