Any protests of taking his coat is lodged and lost in her throat. It's long and so warm and she rugs herself up in it, not wanting to let a second pass by of his kindness. She feels like reaching out and pinching his arm, but she much prefers his hand in hers to inform her that he's a real as any person's ever going to be.

"Elena," she says with a warm smile. That name tugs at her in a way that's uncomfortable, but she doesn't assign him to the anger and resentment and grief that loops itself around the ankles and wrists of Klaus Mikaelson. This Klaus didn't kill her. He's saved her.

"Thank you for answering. I thought I was going crazy out there—there's just all this snow."

He'd know, of course. She's practically preaching to the choir.