The wind howled outside, rattling the windows like a restless spirit trying to claw its way in. Inside, the B&B was wrapped in a patchwork of flickering candlelight, the soft orange glow of the wood stove its heartbeat. The Monopoly board lay abandoned on the coffee table, a battlefield strewn with toppled plastic hotels and scattered play money. Noah’s “creative financing” had pushed the game to the brink of civil war.

“That was highway robbery,” I muttered, sinking onto the couch and wrapping myself in a fleece blanket. The fabric smelled faintly of cedar like it had been stored in a chest too long.

Across from me, Graham sprawled in the armchair like a prince on a throne, one leg draped over the other. He balanced a water bottle on the armrest, holding it aloft like a victory chalice. The dim light softened the sharp lines of his jaw, making him look almost approachable. Almost.

“I’d call it creative financing,” he said, his mouth curving into a smirk that was equal parts maddening and charming.

“Creative cheating,” I shot back.

“Details, Clarke. Details.”

I rolled my eyes, though my annoyance had lost its edge, replaced by something quieter. The storm outside filled the silence that stretched between us, its relentless rhythm a constant reminder that we were snowbound. Noah, nursing his wounded pride, had slunk off to a guest room, claiming the emotional toll of his defeat required a nap.

“Do you think it’s going to get worse?” I asked, nodding toward the frost-laced windows. The snow swirled in chaotic patterns, a mad painter’s brush against the glass.

Graham tilted his head, his gaze moving lazily to the storm outside. “Probably. Looks like one of those that settles in for the night.”

“Fantastic,” I muttered, burrowing deeper into my blanket. “Guess that means we’re stuck with each other.”

His laugh was low and warm, the kind of sound that made you want to lean in. “Could be worse.”

“Could it, though?” The teasing lilt in my voice was reflexive, but his smile deepened, a slow curve that made me think he enjoyed the back-and-forth as much as I did.

“You could be stuck with someone who doesn’t know the difference between a mortgage and Monopoly,” he said, tossing the water bottle from hand to hand like it was part of his routine.

“That’s fair,” I admitted, unable to resist a small grin. “But I’m still not forgiving Noah.”

The room fell into a comfortable quiet, the kind that doesn’t demand conversation but invites it anyway. I let my gaze drift, drawn to the way the firelight danced in the reflection of Graham’s eyes. He wasn’t watching the storm; he was watching me.

“What?” I asked, suddenly self-conscious.

“Nothing,” he said quickly, his fingers fidgeting with the water bottle cap. “You just... remind me of someone.”

That caught me off guard. “Oh yeah? Who?”

“My sister.”

The admission hung between us, heavy and unexpected. I blinked. “You have a sister?”

“Had,” he corrected, the word tight, like it scraped on the way out. “She passed three years ago.”

The casual way he said it like it was something he’d worn smooth with repetition, made it hit harder. My chest tightened. “Graham, I’m... I didn’t know.”

He shrugged, though the gesture felt forced, the usual ease of his movements replaced by something stiff. “It’s not exactly Monopoly-table conversation.”

The joke was weak, but I gave him a faint smile anyway. “What was she like?”

His lips curved in a sad smile, soft at the edges. “The opposite of me. She was loud and fearless. She once convinced the entire neighborhood to have a snowball fight at midnight. Parents were furious, but she just... didn’t care. She had this way of making everything feel bigger like the world was hers to play with.”

“She sounds amazing,” I said softly, the ache in his voice settling into me like secondhand grief.

“She was.” His voice cracked, just a little, and he cleared his throat, looking away. “Anyway, that was a long time ago.”

I hesitated, then reached across the gap between us, my fingers brushing his hand. The contact was fleeting, but it made him glance at me, his expression gentler now.

“Thanks,” he said after a moment, his voice quieter. “For asking.”

“Thanks for telling me,” I replied.

The silence that followed was different. Not heavy, but meaningful. Like we’d crossed some invisible line into a deeper understanding of each other. I leaned back into the couch, watching the flickering shadows on the ceiling.

“You’re not what I expected,” I said finally, the words slipping out before I could overthink them.

He raised an eyebrow, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips. “Oh yeah? What’d you expect?”

“Someone cocky, probably a little obnoxious, and completely incapable of losing at board games.”

“Well, two out of three isn’t bad,” he said, his tone teasing but quieter now. “What about you? What should I expect from Isla Clarke?”

“Why don’t you tell me?” I challenged, raising an eyebrow.

He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, studying me with mock seriousness. “Sarcasm as a defense mechanism. A tendency to overthink. And... a surprisingly sharp sense of humor when you’re not sulking over Monopoly.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how close to the mark he was. “Wow. You’ve got me all figured out, huh?”

“Maybe,” he said, that damn smirk softening into something more genuine. “Or maybe I’m just observant.”

Outside, the storm raged on, its fury loud against the quiet intimacy of the room.

Wrapped in the glow of the fire and Graham’s steady presence, it was easy to pretend, just for a moment, that the storm wasn’t so bad after all.