Kerr.
Profile unmistakable.
She didn’t slow. “Keep walking,” she murmured.
Flynn’s hand tightened around hers: affection on the outside, strategy on the inside.
They made curriculum of the day: the Writers’ Museum, a tiny bookstore with a cat that judged them less harshly than Byrdie, and Grassmarket’s vintage stalls. Flynn tried on a hat that madehim look like the world’s most attractive scoundrel; Heather pretended to faint and demanded restitution in pastry form.
He fed her the first bite of an apricot jam tart fromThe Milkmanwhile tourists tried not to openly stare.
“Do we look convincing?” she asked, watching a red Lothian double-decker thunder by.
“Lass, we look like a brochure.”
Another glimpse of Kerr—leaning near the curb on the George IV Bridge, one hand to his ear as if the city were too loud. Speaking briefly. Glancing once their way.
Flynn murmured, “What d’ye reckon he’s tellin’ them?”
“That I’m frivolous and ordinary,” Heather said with a shrug. “That I’m my father’s daughter after all.”
Flynn kissed her temple. “Good. Let him be wrong.”
They climbed toward the castle with the afternoon crowd. On the Esplanade, Heather leaned against warm stone and looked over the city—spires, trains, Arthur’s Seat watching everything.
“We’re a postcard,” Flynn drawled. “He must be bored out of his skull.”
She followed his line of sight: Kerr by the ticket gate, speaking to a blonde museum liaison—probably Erinn—gesturing lazily, already losing interest in the direction she’d gone.
“He’s satisfied,” she said.
“Aye. He’ll report you’re finished.”
“Good.” Heather slid her hand into Flynn’s back pocket purely to sell the narrative. “I could use something in my life that ends neatly.”
Flynn chuckled into her hair. “I make no promises about neat, Campbell.”
They let evening happen:
— a Rose Street bar with sweating glasses
— mash so buttery it should’ve been illegal
— a faux-argument over the last bite
— a soft-lit photo posted to her socials with the caption:
It’s the little things.
Across the road, a dark car idled for a moment, then left.
“Think they’ll sleep tonight?” Flynn asked, tucking the bill under its clip.
“They think I will,” Heather said. “That’s enough.”
They walked back to the Scotsman with umbrellas closed; the drizzle had decided to be cinematic.
In their room, Heather flopped onto the bed. Flynn locked the door and set the chain like muscle memory.
