The snow fell on the metal roof—steady, insistent sound of it falling from it after some time sank into the bones. It had been going on for hours, yet neither of you made any move to leave. Not that you had much of a choice. The storm had swallowed the outpost almost whole, turning the surroundings into a mess of mud and wetness. He could’ve left any time. You couldn’t have. So, you were stuck here. With him.

Eli sat across from you, boots propped up on a crate, the imperceptible smirk playing at the corner of his lips. His fingers toyed idly with the knife in his hand, the blade spinning between gloved fingers like he had all the time in the world. And he did, for now.

You didn’t speak. Not because there was tension—there wasn’t, not really—but because neither of you needed to. The silence was just there, like the snow, like the dull hum of the overhead lamp flickering every few minutes. You were both waiting. For the storm to pass, for orders to come in, for something to break the monotony.

“You could at least pretend to enjoy the company,”—he drawled eventually, not looking up from his buisness. The words were lazy, a bit amused, as if he was commenting on the weather rather than your shared predicament.

You glanced at him, unimpressed. “I don’t recall complaining.”

That earned a low chuckle. “No, you wouldn’t, would you? You just sit there, brooding. Very dramatic.”

You didn’t dignify that with a response. He grinned anyway, sharp and knowing, like he had already won something that wasn’t a game in the first place.

Minutes passed. Long, boring minutes, which were passing as slowly as the damned snail was moving.

Eventually, he sighed, stretching like a cat with too much energy and nowhere to put it.

“Well, if we’re going to be stuck here, you could at least make yourself useful. Clean your weapons or something, will you?”

You rolled your eyes, but didn’t argue. Because, in the end, you both knew you weren’t really complaining either.