Page 54 of Of Heather and Thistle

H eather sat at the worn wooden table in the kitchen, Flynn’s hoodie draped over her shoulders, the sleeves swallowing her hands whole. The warmth of their moment still clung to the air, mixing with woodsmoke and something faintly sweet—tea, maybe. Or the lingering taste of Flynn on her lips.

She’d told him everything. About her mother. About Glenoran. About Ivy. About the tangled mess of grief and longing she’d carried since she was nine years old. And he’d listened—in his quiet, steady way. No empty reassurances. No fixing. Just being there.

As Flynn rinsed their mugs at the sink, she let her head rest against the back of the chair and exhaled. “You’re being suspiciously quiet, Duncan,”

“Aye. Because I’m thinkin’,” he said, setting the cups aside. He dried his hands on a rag and turned to face her, arms crossed over his chest. “Come with me for a second.”

Heather raised a brow. “Where exactly? Because last time I followed you, things got a bit… involved.”

A slow smirk curved his lips. “Not that involved… though keep talkin’ like that, and we might never leave this kitchen.”

A blush crept up her throat, but she rolled her eyes and stood. “Fine. Lead the way.”

Flynn took her hand, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, and guided her out of the kitchen, up the stairs, and down the dimly lit hall. When he stopped in front of a door, her breath caught.

Her mother’s room.

Heather’s chest tightened. She hadn’t really stepped inside since arriving—it had felt too raw. Too real. Too empty. Flynn pushed open the door, stepping aside so she could see.

And suddenly, it wasn’t empty at all. The furniture was back—all of it.

The antique vanity stood by the window, its surface polished to a soft gleam.

The iron twin bed frame was dressed in fresh linens, the same delicate cream and blue pattern she remembered from her arrival.

And the quilt. Her mom’s pastel, handmade quilt lay proudly across the mattress.

The armchair, the bookshelves, even the little wooden jewelry box tucked away in storage—all restored, all placed precisely as they had been.

Heather’s hands flew to her mouth.

“Flynn,” she whispered, stepping inside. Her legs felt unsteady, as if the moment’s weight might knock her over. “You—when did you do all this?”

“Finished it yesterday,” He said, watching her intently. “I figured you’d want to see it when your heart could handle it.”

Her vision blurred. She reached out, trailing her fingers along the vanity and then the edge of the bed. It was as if she were stepping into the past—like walking into a memory she’d never been allowed to keep.

“She used to sit here,” she murmured, running a hand over the vanity stool. “Brush her hair…” She could almost hear the soft bristle of the brush, the quiet creak of the stool, the way her mother would hum under her breath—half lullaby, half prayer.

Flynn didn’t say anything; they just gave her the space to take it in. Heather pressed a hand to her chest to steady the ache beneath her ribs.

It would be easy to stay. To curl up in this house, in this history, in the warmth Flynn had built for her here.

But what would staying mean? Would she feel trapped between two worlds —Millhaven and here —never fully belonging to either? She swallowed hard and turned back to Flynn. “Thank you,” she said softly. “For everything.”

His expression softened. “Ye dinnae have to thank me, mo chridhe .”

She stepped closer, tilting her head up to meet his gaze. “Maybe I just want to,” she said.

Flynn exhaled sharply, as if she’d knocked the breath out of him. She closed the distance between them and kissed him—slow this time, unhurried. A promise, not a demand. Heather sighed into it, letting herself sink—just for now.

Then, just as suddenly, he pulled back and smirked. “C’mon, lass. We’ve got furniture to move.”