Miller furrows his brows, glancing between the offered coat and Steve's painfully frail physique. After a moment's silent deliberation, he tosses the towel aside and accepts the garment, draping it over his shoulders. He figures Steve could use to redeem some masculinity. "Thanks."

He does a cursory check of the rest of the venue, politely knocking on a few doors before peering inside. Snooping reveals a backstage dressing room for whatever live performances the place hosts, a manager's office, and some restrooms. Still no signs of life.

Satisfied with the recon, Miller resumes rummaging through the bar's amenities -- one of which is a large, metallic urn that radiates warmth. He grabs a cup and presses the lever on the spigot. After some sputtering it spits out the dregs of a dark liquid that smells reminiscent of burnt coffee. But hey, it's warm.

He makes his way back to Steve and offers the beverage. "I think it's coffee? At the very least it might keep your hands warm for a bit."

Miller is content to stick with whiskey -- he takes the bottle and eases back into a leather chair.