The tiny bit of peace that I had managed to find that morning was shattered when Noah, a human hurricane of misplaced enthusiasm, exploded into the kitchen clutching something that made my stomach drop straight down to my socks: my sketchbook.

“Look what I found!” he announced, brandishing it overhead like it was Excalibur. His grin was so wide, so boyishly pleased with himself, that it took me a second to process the horror.

My sketchbook. My sketchbook.

My heart plunged like a stone in a stormy sea. “Noah, NO! Give that back!”

But it was already too late.

He cracked it open with an audible “ooh,” flipping straight to the most recent page, my half-complete sketch of the lighthouse. The scene had consumed me the night before: jagged cliffs carved by harsh winds, an ocean whipped into a frothy rage, and the lighthouse, stoic against the tempest.

Noah paraded it around like an overzealous auctioneer. “Isla drew this! Look at it—it’s awesome!”

I felt the prickle of every eye in the room. My face burned as hot as the stovetop and I felt like our old kettle, ready to pop and blow steam from my ears at any second. Unlike the kettle, I somehow held it together enough to hold in the shrill scream that was slowly rising at the back of my throat. “Noah, I’m serious. Put it down!” I strangled the words out, trying my best to keep tears at bay. This was my worst nightmare come true.

My voice fell flat amongst the chaotic rumble of the kitchen, doing absolutely nothing to stop the chain reaction that was about to begin. One of the hockey players—Conner, maybe?—grabbed it from Noah’s hands with an amused smirk.

“Whoa,” he said, holding it up as if he’d unearthed a Rembrandt. “This is... really good.”

“Stop!” I lunged, but he turned his back, flipping pages with aggravating nonchalance.

My sketchbook began its humiliating journey down the table, passed hand to hand like contraband. Each pause and murmured comment twisted the knots in my stomach tighter.

The guys were all making noises of surprise and admiration, but I didn’t care. I didn’t want admiration. I wanted my art back, safe where no one could dissect the lines that felt like tiny pieces of me.

By the time it reached Graham, my heartbeat roared so loudly I thought it might drown me.

He didn’t flip through it like the others. He just held it open to the lighthouse sketch, studying it with a kind of slow, focused attention that made my skin crawl. His dark eyes moved over the page, tracing every line and shadow.

Why wasn’t he saying anything?

The silence stretched, taut as a fishing line, until he finally looked up. His gaze locked on mine, and it felt like being caught under a spotlight.

“You drew this?” he asked, his voice calm, even.

It wasn’t mocking, but somehow that only made it worse.

“No,” I snapped, crossing my arms tightly across my chest. “I summoned it from the depths of my misery.”

The corner of his mouth twitched like he was fighting off a laugh. “Well, your misery’s got some serious talent.”

The unexpected compliment struck me harder than it should have. I wasn’t prepared for him to be... nice.

“Glad my suffering is entertaining to you,” I muttered, marching over and yanking the sketchbook out of his hands.

I shoved it under my arm and turned on my heel, the heat crawling up my neck threatening to consume me.

Noah’s clueless voice chased me out the door. “What’s her problem?”

The rest of the morning was a chaotic blur. The B&B echoed with the cacophony of clattering dishes, shouted orders, and stomping boots.
Somewhere in the chaos, Noah had pivoted from sketchbook theft to pestering me with a string of increasingly absurd questions.

“Do you think the snowbanks are tall enough to build a fort?”

“Noah, no.”

“Why can’t we eat cookies for lunch?”

“Because that’s not how meals work!”

The whole time, my sketchbook sat on the laundry room shelf like a bomb waiting to go off. Every glance toward it sent fresh waves of embarrassment rippling through me.

By noon, I’d scrubbed syrup off plates, made up guest beds, and briefly escaped to the sanctuary of the laundry room. For five blessed minutes, the hum of the dryer had drowned out the rest of the world.

But peace, as I was quickly learning, was a rare luxury around this place these days.

When I returned to the kitchen, Graham was there, peeling an orange with maddening ease. He stood at the counter, leaning on one elbow, entirely at home. The scent of citrus was sharp and clean, cutting through the kitchen’s usual blend of coffee and toast.

“Taking a break?” I asked, hoping my tone sounded casual instead of accusing.
He glanced up, his movements slow and deliberate as he stripped another piece of peel. “Figured I’d get out of the way. Your mom looks like she’s about to snap.”

“She’s fine,” I said automatically. The words tasted hollow, even to me.

He raised an eyebrow, not buying it. “Right. Fine.”

His gaze flicked to me, lingering. It wasn’t the same teasing look he’d given me earlier. This one felt... softer.

“You do a lot around here, huh?” he said quietly.
The question caught me off guard. I hesitated, unsure whether to bristle or brush it off.

“Is that your way of saying I look like a mess?” I shot back, trying for levity.

His mouth twitched slightly, a tiny upward curve that could have almost been a smile. “No. Just an observation.”

For a moment, I forgot about the orange, the chaos, and the ache in my shoulders. It was just the two of us in the kitchen, the noise outside fading into something distant and unimportant.

He didn’t look away, and I felt an unfamiliar warmth unfurl in my belly. Maybe it was the compliment. Or the way his tone softened, like he wasn’t teasing for once.

“Don’t make a habit of being nice,” I muttered, breaking the silence. “It’s weird.”

“Noted.” He popped an orange slice into his mouth, still watching me like I was more interesting than his snack.

The door banged open, and Noah skidded inside, boots trailing snow across the floor.
“Isla! You’ve gotta come see—”

“Noah, boots!” I snapped, my voice sharper than I intended.

He froze, looking down at the puddles forming beneath him. “Oh. Sorry.”

The moment between Graham and me evaporated, leaving the air buzzing with unfinished tension.

As Noah launched into a rambling explanation of his latest snow-related discovery, Graham turned back to his orange. I grabbed the mop from the corner, my earlier warmth replaced by the weight of a never-ending to-do list.

The floor wasn’t going to clean itself.

Neither, it seemed, was anything else in this house.