He starts by swiping off his hat, scattering residual snowflakes and icy drops of water onto the rug. Underneath his hair's a mess, and sweaty, but that—can wait, because something's very wrong here. She's not acting like a stranger, and she's not acting like a fan. Jupe tugs down his scarf, leaning in despite himself—the air of conspiracy's contagious—and spends the next few seconds trying and failing to find something to say.

“Where?” he blurts out at last, fumbling the word. “What're you, where do you know me from? New Year's?” His eyes widen, unblinking, and he twists back and away from her. “Like...”

Like being yanked out of your body, nose stinging with fumes that aren't there. Crying tears that maybe aren't yours. But he doesn't know how to begin to say that, and in the name of discretion he doesn't have to.