Heather closed her eyes, the simple words cutting cleaner than any platitude.
When she turned to face him, his expression said it all.
He wasn’t promising to fix it. Just to stay.
Heather let out a breath and leaned into him, her forehead resting against his chest, the beat of his heart grounding her.
“Thank you,” she murmured.
Flynn’s chin brushed her hair. “For what?”
“For not telling me to stop feeling things.”
He huffed a soft laugh against her crown. “Wouldn’t dare. I like you fierce. Even when it hurts.”
She smiled faintly and stepped back, swiping her eyes with the sleeve of her robe. “You want breakfast?”
“Aye,” he said with a grin. “If you promise not to burn the place down.”
Heather rolled her eyes but reached for the loaf on the counter anyway. “I can manage toast and eggs, Flynn.”
He leaned beside her, mug cradled in his hands, watching her move around the kitchen like she belonged there. Tea, rain, butter on hot bread. Sunlight pushing through the window in soft, slanted beams. For a moment, it felt almost ordinary.
When the plates hit the table, he reached across and caught her hand.
“You could stop, you know.”
She froze, glancing up. “Stop what?”
“The digging.” His voice stayed gentle, not pushing—just laying the thought between them. “You’ve been runnin’ on grief and questions since you came here. Maybe it’s time to breathe. To let yourself just… rest. A bit.”
Heather stared at him. “You think I should give up?”
“I think,” he said carefully, “your mum would want you whole before you tear yourself apart tryin’ to finish what she started.”
The words were soft, but they stung anyway. Heather dropped her gaze to her plate, appetite fading. For a long moment, the only sound was Byrdie’s soft purr by the stone kitchen hearth.
“She didn’t die for a story,” Heather said finally, voice low. “She died for the truth. If I stop now, then what was all of this for?”
Flynn’s thumb drew slow circles over her knuckles. “And what if the truth hurts worse than not knowin’?”
Her eyes lifted, fiercer now, a glint of steel through the shine of tears. “Then I’ll survive it.”
He held her gaze for a beat, then nodded once, something resembling pride softening his features. “Aye. I believe that.”
Heather swallowed, gripping his hand tighter. “We need to talk to Eleanor.”
Flynn blinked. “Eleanor? Again?”
Heather’s words tumbled faster now, the floodgate cracked open. “If anyone knows what really happened at the loch, if anyone can tell me why she was there, it’s her.”
Flynn leaned back slightly, studying her. “You really think she’ll talk?”
The kettle clicked off, the sound sharp in the hush. Byrdie rose from her place before the hearth, tail brushing against the carved stone. Morning light glinted off the faint thistles etched into every few blocks—details Heather had never noticed before, now clear as a sign.
“She has to.” Heather’s voice steadied. “Because if she doesn’t, I’m not going to stop asking.”
Chapter 15
