The thought unsettled her more than she wanted to admit. Maybe he’d known and lied to protect her. Or maybe he’d buried the truth because it was easier than believing Eilidh had gone chasing legends and never come home.
Either way, the old anger came quick, sharp as a match strike. For all the years he’d left her to grieve alone. For every liquor-fueled tirade that had turned her mother into a ghost before she ever knew the real story.
Heather exhaled slowly, steadying herself.
The kettle screamed softly, its whistle low and mournful. She reached for it, but her hand trembled, the melody of an old tune slipping out before she even realized she was humming.
My mother told me… someday I would buy…
The words barely carried, more breath than sound, but something about them settled deep, like a memory she hadn’t fully lived yet.
Heather caught herself halfway through the second verse, clearing her throat against the lump rising there.
“Didn’t expect to wake up to sea shanties,” a rough voice teased behind her.
She jumped, spinning toward the doorway. Flynn leaned against the frame, barefoot, shirtless, his hair a tousled mess ofcurls that had no right looking that good this early. Byrdie wove around his ankles, tail flicking like she’d defected to his side completely.
Heather’s heart did a traitorous flip. “You scared me,” she said, though her smile gave her away.
“Sorry, lass.” His grin was lazy, still edged with sleep. “Couldnae help it. You were singin’ about galleys and sailin’ off to who knows where before breakfast.”
She huffed a laugh, setting the kettle down before it whined itself hoarse.
Flynn padded closer, the floor creaking softly beneath his weight.
She murmured. “I used to think it was a lullaby.”
He reached out, brushing his thumb along her jaw, his touch light but steady. “Sounds more like a battle cry to me.”
The comment tugged a small, bittersweet smile from her. “You’d get along with her, I think.”
Flynn’s expression softened. “Aye, maybe I would’ve.”
They stood there for a moment, the silence comfortable for once. Heather poured the tea, passing him a mug. His fingers brushed hers, rough and warm and achingly real.
“You slept like a rock,” she said, trying for lightness.
Flynn huffed a laugh, rubbing the back of his neck. “Well, can’t say I didnae have reason to. Not every night ends like that one.”
Color rose in her cheeks. “You mean with a cat in your arms?”
“Among other things.” His grin curved slow, wicked and fond all at once. “Though Byrdie’s a fierce wee thing. Had to earn my place, ye ken.”
Heather shook her head, fighting another smile. “You really are a cat dad now.”
He took a sip of tea, still watching her over the rim. “Could be worse fates.”
Her chest warmed again, a softer ache this time. She turned toward the window, watching the way the morning light caught on the wet stone outside.
“You were thinkin’ of her again, weren’t you?” Flynn’s voice was quiet behind her.
Heather hesitated. “Always,” she admitted. “I remembered the day my dad told me. I just… I can’t stop wondering if he knew. If he knew she didn’t die in a car crash.”
Flynn set his mug down and came up behind her, resting his hands lightly on her shoulders. “Maybe he thought it was mercy,” he said softly. “Tellin’ a bairn she lost her mum in somethin’ quick instead of—”
“Instead of what really happened?” Her voice thinned. “Instead of her drowning alone?”
His grip tightened, steadying her. “You’re not alone,” he murmured.
