They stood there amid the ruin of the library, the wind rattling the old panes, the scent of salt still clinging from Skye. Flynn brushed a strand of hair from her bruised cheek.
“We rest tonight,” he said quietly. “Let’s go to my place and try to get some actual sleep. Tomorrow we start puttin’ this back together.”
Heather nodded, eyes on the faint glow of the dying fire.
“Tomorrow,” she echoed, knowing nothing would ever be ordinary again.
Chapter 35
Heather—Present Day
Heather woke to a sound somewhere between a groan and a trumpet.
For one blissful second she thought Flynn was snoring. Then it came again—long, mournful, and distinctly bovine.
“Is that—?” she croaked, voice still sleep-rough.
Flynn rolled onto his back with a groan that matched the one outside. “Angus. He’s remindin’ me breakfast is late. If I dinnae move soon, he’ll lead the others in open revolt.”
Heather buried her face in the pillow, laughing softly. “You have a fan club.”
“Aye. Hairy anarchists, the lot of them.”
Everything hurt—muscles sore, neck stiff, the bruise blooming where Kerr’s hand had connected, another where Flynn’s stubble had scraped her skin the night before. Despite all this, she felt human again. Bruised, but whole.
Flynn pressed a kiss to her shoulder before rolling out of bed. “I’ll go feed the coos before they storm the fence.”
“Tell them bon appetit for me,” she mumbled.
He chuckled and disappeared out the door.
Heather lingered in the warmth of the quilt another minute, then swung her legs over the edge. Flynn’s worn crewneck sweatshirt hung from the chair; she tugged it on, soft and oversized, hem brushing her thighs.
The record player on the counter caught her eye: a battered old turntable with a few vinyl sleeves stacked beside it. She flipped through until she foundThe Very Best of Fleetwood Mac, smiled, and set the needle down.
The opening chords of “Everywhere” filled the kitchen, bright and hopeful in a way that almost felt defiant.
She found eggs and a bag of pancake mix, deciding it was time to repay her host. It was the least she could do after dragging Flynn into this mess.
As the first sizzle hit the pan, she started to dance—bare feet on cool tile, the song lifting her somewhere lighter.
For a moment, she was six again, spinning through her mother’s kitchen, Eilidh humming along to oldies, banana pancakes perfuming the air. The memory ached, but gently this time.
“Morning concert, is it?”
She turned, startled, to find Flynn leaning in the doorway, muddy boots half-untied, watching her like she was the first sunrise he’d ever seen. His hair was damp, his grin half-awake.
“Caught me,” she said sheepishly.
“Didnae want to interrupt. Looked like sacred work.”
She flipped a pancake, pretending not to blush. “Breakfast. For the hero who saved Scotland from hungry cows.”
“A national service,” he deadpanned, crossing the room. When she tried to sidestep him, he caught her waist, spinning her once. “You’re a menace, Campbell.”
“So are you,” she whispered, laughing as flour dusted both of them. He stole a kiss, then another, until pancake batter smeared his jaw.
“Now ye owe me breakfast and a bath,” he murmured against her mouth.
