When the storm finally settled down and the power flickered back on, the world outside was a pristine snow globe; if snow globes came with buried driveways and streets that disappeared under mountains of slush. Inside, though, things were creeping back to normal...or at least what passed for normal after a day of stumbling around in candlelight and arguing over the best way to heat soup without electricity.

Morning sunlight filtered into the laundry room, soft and golden, catching on the rows of freshly folded towels I’d lined up earlier, trying to restore some semblance of order.

I’d tucked myself into the corner on a little stool next to the dryer, my sketchbook balanced on my lap, a pencil clutched in my hand. Snowflakes covered the page—delicate curls and arcs, erased and redrawn so many times the paper was starting to pill. I wanted them to look like they were in motion, but they rocked dangerously close to chaos every time I adjusted the lines.

The dryer hummed next to me, warm and steady, and for a moment, I let the rhythm of it soothe me, pencil poised mid-air as I thought through my next attempt.

That’s why I didn’t hear the door creak open.

Or notice the familiar scent of woodsy aftershave until it was too late.

“Are there any clean towels in here, or did the storm eat those too?”

“Graham!” I snapped, clutching the sketchbook to my chest as I turned toward the door. “Do you have to sneak up on people?”

He stood there, halfway into the room, his head tilted with that same infuriating smirk he always wore. “You’re the one hiding out in the laundry room,” he said, waving a hand at the fortress of towels.

“I’m not hiding,” I shot back, adjusting the sketchbook as if I could somehow erase what had just happened. “I’m working.”

“Uh-huh,” he said, stepping further in and leaning against the counter. “On what? Towels?”

“No,” I said firmly, my cheeks warming. “On something else.”

His gaze dropped to the sketchbook I was clutching, and his smirk softened into something more curious. “Let me see.”

“No,” I said quickly, hugging it tighter.

“Why not?” he asked, crossing his arms as if this was some casual debate he planned to win.

“Because I don’t want to,” I said, my voice coming out sounding ridiculously childlike. “It’s not for anyone else, okay?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Didn’t stop you from showing me that lighthouse sketch.”

I glared. “You weren’t supposed to see that. Noah practically taped it to your forehead.”

He grinned, unrepentant. “And I told you it was great. Which it was, by the way.”

“That’s not the point,” I muttered, trying not to let his words burrow under my skin.

“Okay, so you didn’t want me to see the lighthouse...but I did. And it was incredible. If this is anything like that, I don’t get why you’re so against me looking.”

I hesitated, my grip on the sketchbook tightening. “It’s not the same.”

“Why not?”

“Because this one isn’t...good,” I said finally, feeling the sting of my honesty.

His face softened, and he straightened up a little, leaning against the dryer now. “How bad could it be?”

“Worse than your cheating attempt at winning Monopoly,” I said before I could stop myself.

He laughed, loud and warm, his head tipping back as he crossed his arms over his chest. “Nothing’s worse than that.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.” He gestured at the sketchbook. “Let me see. If it’s bad, I’ll fake amnesia and forget I ever saw it. Promise.”

For a moment, I just sat there, staring at him. Graham wasn’t like Noah, shoving things in people’s faces because he thought it would be good for them. He was more subtle...patient. It was part of why I didn’t immediately shove him out the door.

With a deep breath, I flipped the sketchbook open, turning it toward him. “Fine,” I said, my voice sharp to cover the nerves buzzing under my skin.

He stepped closer, leaning down to study the page, his brow furrowing as he took it in. I braced myself for a teasing comment, some offhand joke about squiggles or kindergarten art class.

Instead, he nodded slowly. “These are...really good.”

I blinked. “You don’t have to lie.”

“I’m not lying.” He gestured to the lines on the page. “The way you’ve drawn them, they look like they’re actually moving.”

A laugh slipped out of me, soft and unplanned. “They’re just scribbles.”

When his eyes met mine again, his smile had softened. “Isla, you’re really good at this. You should finish it.”

The heat in my cheeks deepened, but this time, I didn’t brush off the compliment.

“Thanks,” I said quietly, glancing at the snowflakes again.

“Why do you act like it doesn’t matter?” he asked, his voice lower now.

I hesitated, the question catching me off guard. “Because if you don’t care too much...you can’t mess it up.”

He studied me for a long moment like I was just as much a puzzle as the sketch. “I don’t think that’s true.”

“Why not?”

“Because you do care,” he said simply. “And that’s not a bad thing, Isla.”

Something about the way he said my name...calm and steady...made my chest ache. I looked away, blinking at the page to steady myself.

“Why do you care so much about what I care about?” I asked, my voice softer now.

His grin returned, gentler this time. “Maybe because I like seeing you care. It suits you.”

I rolled my eyes, but the corners of my mouth betrayed me, tugging upward. “You’re just saying that to distract from the fact that you’re completely unqualified to critique art.”

“Obviously,” he said with a laugh. “But hey...my lack of talent makes yours look even better. You’re welcome.”

His teasing melted into something quieter...steadier. For the first time, I let myself believe he might mean it.