By the time supper rolled around, the storm’s howl had quieted into a steady murmur, but a thick blanket of snow kept the world firmly sealed off. The house buzzed with restless energy—too many bodies crammed into too few rooms. The hockey team had taken over the living room, their lively debates about fantasy trades rising over the faint hum of the ancient radio straining out the top hits in the corner.

I maneuvered through the packed kitchen with a plate of fresh cookies, weaving around Noah and his frosting-covered face as he chased someone wielding a spatula like a weapon. Mom stood by the stove, stirring a pot of stew that smelled like garlic, thyme, and home. It was chaos, but it was warm chaos.

As I stepped into the living room, I spotted Graham, perched in the corner of the couch. His dark brow furrowed as he glared at his phone screen like it had insulted his entire lineage.

“Don’t tell me you’re bored already,” I teased, stopping in front of him.

He looked up, and for once, his signature smirk was nowhere to be found. “No signal.”

“Well, welcome to wintertime in Twillingate,” I said, setting the plate on the coffee table. There's no Wi-Fi or cell service, but hey, we do have cookies.”

He reached for one, his lips twitching as if the smirk might stage a comeback. “Is this your idea of making up for storming off earlier?”

I folded my arms, narrowing my eyes. “What do you mean, storming off?”

His gaze flicked to the ceiling like he was asking for strength. “You know. The sketchbook thing. You looked at me like I kicked your puppy and then you bolted.”

I rolled my eyes but didn’t rise to the bait.

Instead, I turned toward the rest of the room just as the lights flickered once… twice… then surrendered completely.

The collective groan from the hockey team was immediate and heartfelt.

“Well, that’s just great,” Noah muttered, stomping into the room. “What are we supposed to do now? Stare at each other?”

“Brilliant idea, Noah,” I shot back. “You can start by working on your conversational skills.”

“Why don’t we play a game?” someone suggested from the corner.

Noah perked up. “We’ve got Monopoly in the cabinet.”

This suggestion was met with a mix of enthusiasm and dread. Monopoly wasn’t a game; it was a battlefield. But the energy in the room was so stagnant that everyone reluctantly agreed.

An hour later, the coffee table was transformed into ground zero for the most cutthroat version of Monopoly I’d ever witnessed. Players sprawled on the floor and couches, each fiercely guarding their stashes of fake money like it was gold bullion.

When my silver shoe landed on the Free Parking space, I let out a satisfied sigh as I leaned forward to collect the wad of money that had been growing at the center of the board from all the taxes and fines that had amassed so far in the game.

“Wait now, you don’t collect money when you land on Free Parking,” Graham said, pointing at the board like a defence lawyer making his closing argument.

“Um, yes I can. House rules,” I shot back, clutching my magnificent stack of cash from the middle of the board.

“House rules?” His dark brows climbed. “You mean ‘totally made-up rules to benefit Isla Clarke specifically.’”

“It’s called making the game more fun,” I said with a sugary-sweet smile. “And by fun, I mean me winning.”

“Every family has their own Monopoly rules,” Noah chimed in from across the room, stuffing chips into his mouth. “Ours make the game better.”

“Better for cheaters, maybe,” Graham said dryly, earning a snicker from one of the hockey players.

I leaned forward, meeting his glare head-on. “This is how we play, Fletcher. Don’t like it? The door’s right there.”

“And miss out on beating you? Not a chance.” He plucked a 500-dollar bill from the bank with a smug grin and made a show of fanning himself with it.

The room was cold—freezing—but the fire Graham stoked in my chest more than made up for it. At least, until I felt the distinct chill of the draft from the darkened window behind me. I shivered involuntarily, rubbing my arms through the sleeves of my too-thin sweater.

“Here,” Graham said, standing up suddenly and pulling his hoodie over his head. He handed it to me without a word, the fabric still warm from his body.

I hesitated, startled by the quiet gesture. “What about you?”

He shrugged, dropping back into his seat in just his T-shirt, his biceps flexing as he crossed his arms. “I’m not the one shivering.”

I slid the hoodie over my head, instantly enveloped by the scent of him. It was crisp, like pine and a faint trace of something spicy. It was so big on me that the sleeves swallowed my hands, and the hem nearly reached my knees.

“Better?” he asked, his tone maddeningly neutral.

“Warmer,” I admitted, keeping my gaze on the board so he wouldn’t see the way my cheeks had turned traitorously red.

For the next half hour, the game descended into predictable chaos. Graham ended up owning half the board, Noah dramatically declared bankruptcy, and one of the hockey players quit altogether, muttering about “unfair alliances.”

But through it all, I found myself glancing at Graham more than I should have. I didn’t miss a beat, the way his eyes lit up when he bought Boardwalk, the quiet laugh he couldn’t quite suppress when I dramatically mourned the loss of Park Place.

By the time I finally landed on one of his properties and handed over a chunk of my dwindling cash, his smirk was firmly back in place. “Tough break, Clarke.”

I glared at him, even as a smile tugged at my lips. “Don’t get too comfortable, Fletcher. This game isn’t over yet.”

And for the first time all night, I wasn’t just talking about Monopoly.