The winters were cold.

Not just in bite, but in feeling. And yet, here the two of you stood — old acquaintances, silent witnesses to years gone by — finally seeing each other in a different light.

Similar. More than you’d admit.

He wore his poncho, dark and wind-worn, draped over his shoulders like a second skin. The crossbow rested loosely in his arms, fingers curled but relaxed — not out of distrust, but habit. The snow crunched softly beneath both your feet.

The snowfall was light, almost delicate. It softened the world around you — painting the trees, rooftops, and rusted fences in muted white. It made things look… lively, strangely enough. A strange kind of peace in all the dead things.

“No way, really.”

The man’s voice broke the quiet — rough, dry, coated in disbelief. He huffed, his breath a white plume in the cold air. His eyes flicked forward as more snow clung to the black fabric of his poncho.

Silence fell again. Only the sound of gusting wind and falling snow remained.

With a grunt, he slung the crossbow up onto his back. Then he reached into his coat, pulling out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, fishing a lighter free.

He stuck one between his chapped lips — loose, like it’d fall at any moment — and tried to light it.

No luck. The wind kept killing the flame.

Another grunt. He turned his back slightly, cupping one hand against the wind, shielding the lighter as he tried again.

“It’s damn cold,” he muttered. “Not even my cigarette wanna’ light.”

Finally — a flicker. Then flame.

The tip glowed faintly red as he took a long drag, drawing the heat deep into his lungs. He exhaled slow, letting the smoke curl upward into the pale sky. His hair stirred in the breeze — brown locks catching bits of snow as the storm thickened.

Virginia weather, Cold one moment, bitter the next.

He took another pull, the cigarette hanging steady between his lips, and glanced down at the pack in his hand.

A pause. Fingers tapping against the cardboard like he was weighing something.

Then — without a word — he angled the pack toward you, the flap peeled open just enough. Not pushy. Not casual. Just there.

Something in his expression softened — just enough to notice if you were paying close attention. The wind tugged at his hair, and snow clung stubbornly to his stubble.

His voice came rough, low, and a little quieter this time — like he was offering more than just a smoke.

“Here,” he muttered, eyes not quite meeting yours. “Figured maybe you’d want one. This weather’s the kind that makes you need somethin’ to hold onto.”