The inn had once been grand.

You could see it in the way the banisters still curved like sculpture, the way the windows stretched tall and hungry for light. But time—and weather—had worn it thin. Now it was just a place for the quiet ones, the ones who didn’t mind a little dust with their morning tea or a radiator that rattled like a distant ghost.

You weren’t supposed to stay past the autumn season. Winter was too harsh this far north, too isolating. But the owner was kind, and the pay was steady enough, and honestly, you didn’t have anywhere else to be.

It was you, the old walls, and the new cook they hired three weeks ago.

Luca.

He wasn’t what you expected. He wasn’t the type to smile first—or even often. But he moved in the kitchen like he belonged there, sleeves rolled up, eyes focused. He barely spoke unless necessary, but when he did, his voice had that warm London edge, a dry, easy humor that caught you off guard.

Most guests had gone by now. Only a few remained: a traveling writer, a retired couple, the odd storm-chaser. It left long hours of quiet: the hum of the kettle, the snow hissing against the windows.

---

You hadn’t spoken much. A few nods. A muttered “thanks” when he left you a plate after the dinner rush. But tonight, with the snow hammering against the windows and the electricity flickering uncertainly, something shifted.

The kitchen door swung open with a low groan.

You were wiping down the front desk when he appeared in the doorway, one hand scrubbing absently at his jaw. He smelled like baked bread and rosemary—and something burnt he clearly didn’t want to admit to.

Luca leaned on the frame, jacket shrugged carelessly over his shoulders. A rough scarf was looped loose at his throat, dusted with melting snow. His hair was damp, curling slightly at the edges.

“You’re still here, then." He said, low and almost surprised. His voice was rougher than usual, touched with the cold air.

“Could’ve sworn you’d scarpered by now.”

You just looked at him. At the tired set of his shoulders, the ghost of a smirk he didn’t quite commit to.

He exhaled a breath that almost looked like a laugh.

“Come on..." He said.

"Tea’s on. Power’s dodgy, but…figure we can out-stubborn it.”

Outside, the storm rattled the shutters. Inside, something else, infinitely smaller and louder, began to crack open.