Flynn stood there.
Rain in his hair.
Jacket damp at the shoulders.
Eyes clear and steady and unbearably familiar.
His gaze flicked over her—towel, robe, flushed cheeks—and something unreadable passed through his eyes. Not lust. Not pity.
Recognition.
Worry.
All tangled together.
“You look…” His voice caught, roughened. He cleared his throat, trying again. “You look like you’ve been hidin’ from me.”
Heather lifted her chin defiantly. “Maybe I have.”
She internally cringed.
What the fuck was that, Heather?
Byrdie wound around her ankles, purring at Flynn like he was the best thing that had happened all week.
Traitor.
Silence stretched between them.
Heather gripped the doorframe.
Flynn’s jaw clenched, rain dripping from his hair onto the old stone step.
“I came back,” he said quietly, “because I’m not lettin’ you shut me out, Heather Campbell.”
Her throat bobbed.
“Not after what you heard,” he continued. “Not after what you’ve carried alone for all these years. You don’t get to face this by yourself anymore.”
Her vision blurred. The robe felt suddenly too soft, the air too warm, his presence too steady.
“You don’t understand.” she whispered.
Flynn stepped closer.
A wall.
A dock.
Somewhere safe to land.
“Then make me,” he said, voice cracking just enough to undo her. “Because I’m not goin’ anywhere.”
Heather’s pulse thundered so loudly she wasn’t sure if the house could hear it too. Glenoran seemed to lean in around them, the air holding its breath.
She swallowed hard. “Flynn… I don’t know if I can—”
“You don’t have to know.” He shook his head, rain slipping down his temple. “You just have to let me in.”
