Page 56 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he house was quiet.

For the first time since Heather had arrived in Glenoran, it was just her and the lingering echoes of the past. No workers hammering away at repairs, no piles of dust-covered boxes to sort through. Just her, Byrdie, and the hum of possibility.

She set her bags down in the entryway and exhaled slowly. This was it.

Byrdie jumped onto the window seat in the foyer with a soft chirp, her tail flicking as she surveyed her new domain. The cat stretched luxuriously, then promptly curled up in a warm patch of sunlight. Heather smiled. At least one of them was settling in effortlessly.

She walked through the house, fingers trailing over the newly refinished banister. The house looked and felt different now. The raw edges of its neglect had been smoothed away, its bones polished and strengthened, yet it still carried the same weight and history .

It wasn’t just a project anymore.

It was hers.

Heather inhaled deeply, catching the lingering scent of fresh paint mixed with something older—wood smoke from the last fire, the faint trace of lavender and rosemary that always seemed woven into the very walls of Glenoran. The house had found its rhythm again.

She wondered if she had been wrong. If she had spent so much time convincing herself she didn’t belong here that, she never considered the possibility that she did.

Her phone buzzed on the kitchen counter, pulling her out of her thoughts.

It was Flynn .

Settled in yet?

Heather smirked and tapped out a response.

More like staring at the walls and hoping I don’t regret this decision.

His reply was quick:

That sounds about right. Need a distraction?

Before she could answer, another text popped up.

I’ll be there in 10.

She rolled her eyes, but a small smile tugged at her lips.

Of course, he was coming over.

Flynn didn’t knock. He just stepped inside, a bag of tools and paint supplies slung over one shoulder. His hair was damp from the summer rain, and his flannel rolled up to his elbows, revealing muscular, work-roughened forearms. He set the bag down with a thud.

“Getting awfully comfortable just walking in here, aren’t you?” Heather remarked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

Flynn smirked, unbothered. “Figured you wouldn’t mind.” He glanced around. “House looks great. Existential crisis penciled in for later?”

Heather groaned. “Shut up.”

Flynn chuckled, nudging the bag toward her. “Thought you might need a second opinion on the library. You were still second-guessing that green, weren’t you?”

Heather crossed her arms. “I was confident about it until you walked in here with backup supplies.”

Flynn grinned. “Just covering my bases.”

Heather sighed but led him toward the library anyway. The deep green walls looked rich and warm in the afternoon light, giving the space a cozy, old-world feel. But standing here now, she wasn’t sure.

“I don’t know,” She chewed her lip, glancing at the far wall. ‘I don’t know… Is it too much?”

Flynn tilted his head, studying it. “Nah. It suits the place.” He shot her a sideways glance. “You just have commitment issues.”

Heather gave him a light shove. “Excuse me?”

Flynn only grinned wider. “Ye repainted the sitting room twice. And I recall a full-on spiral over the kitchen tile.”

Heather groaned. “Why do you remember everything?”

“Because I like giving you a hard time,” he said. Then, softer, “But also because I’ve spent months watching ye build this place back up.”

Heather swallowed, his words hitting a little too close.

Flynn was observing her, but he didn’t push. Instead, he turned toward the paint cans. “Alright, let’s settle this. If we repaint, I pick the color.”

Heather narrowed her eyes. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is if I win.” Flynn reached for one of the paint rollers, giving her a devilish grin. “We could always do a test run. See what happens.”

Heather recognized the challenge in his expression, which was too late.

He struck first, dragging a line of green across her bare arm.

Heather gasped. “Flynn!”

“Whoops,” he said, grinning like the devil himself.

Heather snatched up a paintbrush, launching a counterattack. The next thing she knew, they were in an all-out paint war—laughing, dodging, and smearing green streaks across each other like a pair of children.

Paint dripped from her brush, breathless laughter still on her lips—until Flynn caught her wrist mid-swipe, freezing her in place.

Heather’s breath hitched.

They were close now—too close. His fingers were still curled around her wrist, his other hand resting lightly on her waist. There was paint on his cheek and a smudge on his jaw, yet he was looking at her like she was the only thing in the room.

The laughter between them faded into something quieter.

Heather swallowed hard, her pulse suddenly thrumming in her ears. His breath was warm against her cheek, and she suddenly couldn’t remember what they’d been arguing about.

Flynn didn’t move, his eyes locked on hers. “Still doubting the green?”

Heather exhaled a shaky breath. “It’s growing on me.” It wasn’t just the color. It was what it meant—fresh start, rootedness, growth. Something new, and hers.

Flynn’s grin softened into something more thoughtful. “Yeah. Me too.”

For a moment, neither of them moved.

Then, before the tension could settle too deep, Flynn released her wrist and cleared his throat, stepping back. “We should probably clean up before you get paint in your hair.”

Heather blinked, trying to ground herself. “Bold of you to assume I haven’t already.”

Flynn laughed, but the charged moment lingered between them.

Later, Heather stood in the library, arms crossed, as she took in the freshly painted walls.

Flynn came up beside her. “You sure this is the one?”

Heather smiled softly.

For the first time in a long time, she was sure of something.

“Yeah,” she said. “I think this is it.”

Flynn nudged her shoulder. “About time.”

Heather rolled her eyes, but there was a warmth in her chest she couldn’t deny.

Maybe, just maybe, she was exactly where she was meant to be.