Ianto glances up to look around the room, contemplating the question. Is it warm in the room? Not particularly, he concludes. He's drinking soup, which is of course warm, and he's yet to take off some of the layers he had put on to go outside. But no, it is winter, and there is no fire or anything else he can see besides the natural insulation of the tree to keep the warmth of the room. A room that is not particularly hot, in any sense of the word.

He shakes his head in response, moving to take another sip of his soup before setting it down beside him.

"Not really," he replies. "A little stuffy, perhaps, but tolerable."

Out of reflex, without really thinking about the gesture until he can't take it back, he reaches out towards the other man to test his temperature with his hand -- is he feverish, perhaps?