Page 57 of Of Heather and Thistle

T he paintbrushes were abandoned.

Heather let out an exhausted sigh, swiping at the streak of deep green that had somehow ended up on her cheek. Standing beside her, Flynn looked just as wrecked—his shirt streaked with smudges of paint, his hands stained from where he’d rolled fresh coats over the library walls.

“You look like a Jackson Pollock painting,” she teased—though she knew she wasn’t any better.

Flynn smirked, lifting a brow as he wiped a paint streak down his forearm.

“Aye, and you don’t?” Heather rolled her eyes, turning toward the sink to wash her hands, but Flynn’s voice stopped her.

“Y’know, there’s a much better way to clean up. ”

She turned back, catching the way his gaze darkened ever so slightly. Her pulse kicked up a notch as she swallowed. “Are you suggesting—”

Flynn stepped closer, tilting his head, voice low and deliberate. “I’m suggestin’ we stop wasting time scrubbing paint off in separate places when there’s a perfectly good shower upstairs.”

Heather blushed at his bold suggestion. He was giving her an out. He always did. If she wanted to laugh it off, if she wanted to step away, he’d let her. But she didn’t want to step away. She wanted to step closer.

So she did.

Flynn didn’t move at first; he just waited, his patience like gravity pulling her in without a single touch. Heather let out a slow breath, searching his face. “Alright,” she murmured. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

The smirk he gave her was devastating. She barely had time to react before his fingers curled around her wrist, tugging her gently but insistently toward the stairs.

The bathroom was filled with steam before they even stepped inside.

The old pipes rattled slightly as warm, inviting water poured from the shower head.

Heather stood by the sink, her heartbeat loud in her ears.

She could feel Flynn behind her, his presence like heat against her skin.

He peeled off his shirt in one smooth motion.

Heather didn’t mean to stare… but she did.

His muscles flexed with every movement at the broad span of his chest. His skin was streaked with paint—deep green across his collarbone and a smear along his ribs.

She swallowed hard, fingers twitching at her sides.

Flynn caught her staring. Of course, he did.

A slow, knowing smirk curved his lips. “Your turn, lass.” Heather’s breath caught.

She could back out. She could laugh it off. Or—

She reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head. The air between them thickened. Flynn’s gaze dropped. Not in a way that felt greedy or rushed, but in a way that devoured. Like he wanted to memorize every inch of her—every freckle, every curve.

For so long, Heather had hated what she saw in the mirror.

She wasn’t blind—she knew she had her mother’s emerald eyes, her mother’s delicate features, her mother’s curls that always refused to be tamed.

But where her mother had been ethereal, stunning—a fairy out of a dream—Heather had spent years feeling like a poor imitation.

A shadow.

A reflection, never quite good enough.

And yet—Flynn wasn’t looking at a ghost of the past. He wasn’t comparing.

He was looking at her. And he saw something worth wanting.

Heat crept up her neck, but for once, she didn’t shrink away from it.

She didn’t fold into herself or try to disappear.

Neither did he. They undressed in silence—slow, unhurried.

Letting the moment stretch. Letting the tension build.

It was like stepping into something inevitable when Heather stepped under the water.

The warmth cascaded over her skin, washing away the paint, the exhaustion, the weight of everything.

And then Flynn stepped in behind her. His hands found her waist first—a simple touch, grounding, steady.

His thumbs brushed her damp skin, trailing slow circles along her hips.

Heather inhaled sharply, eyes fluttering shut as he pressed closer, his body warm, solid, inescapable.

His lips brushed her shoulder, then traced a path to the hollow beneath her ear. She shivered, not from the water, but from him.

“Still with me?” Flynn murmured, his voice like smoke, his breath warm against her neck. Heather’s fingers curled over his hands, gripping him as if he were the only thing keeping her standing. “Yes,” she whispered. “I’m with you. ”

That was all it took.

Flynn turned her in his arms, capturing her mouth in a kiss that stole the air from her lungs.

It was slow at first—a quiet unraveling, a deep pull, the kind of kiss that felt like a q uestion and an answer all at once.

Heather melted into him and let herself want.

The water rushed over them, their skin slick and warm, and nothing else mattered.

Not Glenoran. Not the past. Not the fear.

Only this.

Only him.

Only them.

* * *

Heather stirred beneath the sheets, her body warm, aching in the best way. She kept her eyes closed, just feeling —the softness of the linen, the steady rise and fall of breath beside her.

Flynn.

The realization hit her all at once. Last night hadn’t been some fleeting moment, some impulse driven by exhaustion or proximity.

She had chosen this. Chosen him. And now, morning had come.

She turned her head slightly, her heart thudding in her chest. Flynn was still asleep, his face relaxed, his dark lashes stark against his tanned skin.

He looked different this way—softer, peaceful.

She wanted to trace the faint scruff along his jaw.

To memorize his shape. She’d never experienced a morning like this—the raw intimacy of it all.

Instead, she swallowed hard and exhaled.

She had spent so much of her life running—from places, people, and herself.

But this morning, for the first time in a long time… She didn’t want to run.

She wanted to stay.

Heather shifted carefully, rolling onto her side, closing the distance between them.

As if sensing her movement, Flynn stirred, his arm slipping around her waist, pulling her against him instinctively, even in sleep.

A small smile tugged at Heather’s lips. Maybe, just maybe, this was exactly where she was meant to be.

Heather lay still, listening to the slow, steady rhythm of Flynn’s breathing.

The weight of his arm draped over her waist, the warmth of his body pressed against hers, solid and grounding —it sent a quiet thrill through her.

She wasn’t used to this—the comfort of waking up next to someone, the intimacy of shared warmth beneath the covers.

It felt foreign and familiar all at once.

Flynn shifted slightly, his nose brushing against her shoulder as he exhaled a sleepy sigh.

His grip around her tightened, like even in sleep, he wasn’t ready to let her go.

She bit her lip, torn between letting him rest and the overwhelming urge to see his eyes—those deep, piercing blue eyes that always seemed to see straight through her.

Before she could decide, Flynn murmured something under his breath, his voice rough with sleep.

Then, his lips grazed her bare shoulder in a lazy, absentminded kiss.

Heather stilled, warmth blooming in her chest. His small, unconscious action sent a gentle ache through her—not heavy, not overwhelming, just something quiet and steady, settling deep in her bones.

Flynn hummed softly, then blinked awake, his arm flexing around her.

She felt it the moment he registered where he was, the slow awareness seeping into him as his fingers traced over the curve of her hip.

His lips brushed against her skin again, deliberate this time.

“Morning, mo chridhe,” He murmured against her shoulder, his voice thick with sleep.

Heather swallowed, her heart fluttering at the sound—the warmth of it, laced with something steady and sure.

Something that made her feel safe, even as it left her breathless.

She turned her head, meeting his gaze. His blue eyes were soft, still heavy with sleep, but there was something else there, too.

Something that made her chest feel tight.

Flynn studied her, his expression unreadable for a long moment. Then, slowly, a lazy, knowing smirk curved his lips. “Didn’t bolt,” he mused, voice teasing but gentle.

Heather rolled her eyes, but the warmth in her chest spread. “Shut up.”

Flynn chuckled, his fingers brushing up her spine, sending a shiver down her spine. “I’m serious,” he murmured, his voice quieter now. “I half expected to wake up alone.” Heather hesitated, her throat tightening. “I thought about it,” she admitted, her voice barely above a whisper.

Flynn’s smirk faltered, replaced by something softer.

“And what made you stay?” Heather swallowed, her fingers curling slightly against his chest. “I don’t know,” she said honestly.

“I just… I didn’t want to leave.” Flynn searched her face, something unreadable flickering through his eyes.

Then, instead of pushing for more, he exhaled, his forehead resting against hers. “Good,” he murmured.

Heather closed her eyes for a moment, letting the quiet settle between them, allowing herself just to be here, in this moment. She didn’t know what came next. Didn’t know what this meant or where they were heading. But for now, she knew one thing.

She wasn’t running.

Not this time.

Heather stretched beneath the covers, the warmth of Flynn’s body lingering against her skin.

She felt light, almost weightless, starkly contrasting the heavy uncertainty she had carried for weeks.

The quiet hum of the morning filled the room—the distant rustle of trees outside, the faint creaks of Glenoran settling, and the rhythmic sound of Flynn’s breathing beside her.

Just as she was about to close her eyes again, a familiar, indignant chirp broke the peace. Heather peeked over the edge of the covers just in time to see Byrdie perched on the nightstand, tail flicking impatiently, her green eyes fixed on Flynn with pure feline disapproval.

Heather smirked. “Uh oh. You’ve been caught.” Flynn cracked one eye open, his brows furrowing as he slowly registered the cat staring him down. He let out a low groan. “Bloody hell.”

Byrdie chirped again, louder this time, her little nose twitching in accusation. Heather turned fully onto her side, propping her head on her hand as she watched the silent standoff. “I think she’s mad you took her spot.”

Flynn exhaled through his nose, rubbing a hand down his face. “You mean the spot on the bed she lets you borrow?”

“Exactly. I’m just the tenant here.” She grinned.

Byrdie made her point clear by hopping onto the bed and landing directly on Flynn’s chest with surprising force for such a small creature. Flynn let out an exaggerated grunt. “Och, are ye serious?”

Byrdie, completely unbothered, circled twice before sitting squarely on his sternum, her fluffy tail curling around her paws.

Her glare was unwavering as if assessing whether or not he deserved to stay.

Heather laughed as Flynn sighed in defeat, dropping his head back against the pillow. “This is it, isn’t it? I’ve lost.”

“I hate to break it to you, but she outranks you,” Heather teased, reaching out to scratch behind Byrdie’s ear. Byrdie purred a deep, smug rumble but didn’t move from her perch.

“Traitorous wee beastie.” Flynn opened one eye, shooting Heather a look. “Let me get this straight. I’ve had to work for your trust for weeks, and the cat’s already got a throne?”

Heather shrugged. “She’s been here longer.” Flynn exhaled dramatically, giving Byrdie a pointed look. “Fine, lass. We’ll negotiate terms.”

Byrdie blinked slowly as if considering the offer, then stretched luxuriously before hopping off Flynn’s chest and onto the empty pillow beside Heather, nestling into it as though she had allowed this arrangement to continue.

Flynn groaned. “So I’m allowed to stay, then?” Heather smirked. “Seems like it. Consider yourself lucky.” Flynn rolled onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow. “Aye, I do.” His voice had softened, and her stomach flipped when Heather met his gaze .

He wasn’t just talking about Byrdie anymore.

Heather swallowed, her fingers grazing absently over the edge of the blanket.

There was something about this moment—the warmth, the ease of it—that made her chest ache in a way that had nothing to do with fear.

Flynn reached out, tucking a stray curl behind her ear before trailing his fingers lightly down her arm.

“I like waking up with you,” he admitted, quiet and unguarded.

Heather’s breath caught. She wanted to say something, but the words tangled in her throat. Byrdie chose that moment to roll onto her back, stretching luxuriously before letting out a tiny snore.

Heather huffed out a laugh, breaking the tension. “Looks like you’re stuck with both of us.”

Flynn grinned, his hand still resting against her arm. “Aye, seems like I’ve got my work cut out for me.”

Heather tilted her head. “You sure you’re up for it?”

His fingers slid down to her hand, lacing them together. “I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life, lass.”

Heather’s heart stuttered, but she didn’t pull away this time. She squeezed his hand back, and for once didn’t feel so lost.