Page 73 of Of Heather and Thistle
She lingered in the doorway before finally speaking again. “There’s a room upstairs I’d like to keep as close to how it is now as possible.”
Flynn studied her, then nodded. “Alright.” He wiped his hands on his jeans and motioned for her to lead the way.
Heather hesitated, fingers curling against her palm before stepping toward the staircase. The old wood creaked beneath her steps, the sound strangely comforting in the silence.
She felt Flynn just behind her—quiet, solid.
The door to the room was slightly ajar.
Soft yellow walls. Faded floral curtains. A twin bed draped in a pastel quilt.
A life preserved in stillness.
Heather stepped inside, her fingers ghosting over the chipped paint of the dresser. “This was my mom’s room when she was a little girl.”
Her voice was quieter now, as if speaking too loudly might disturb the space that had remained untouched for so long.
Flynn didn’t respond right away. He just took it in.
She was noticing this about him—he looked first, listened first. He didn’t fill silence with meaningless words.
Finally, he exhaled. “It’s in good shape, considering how long it’s been left alone.” He ran a hand along the bedpost, testing its strength. “You want to keep it just like this?”
Heather nodded. “As close as possible. Fresh paint in the same shade. The bed stays. If the curtains can’t be salvaged,I’d like to replace them with something similar.”
Flynn studied the fabric, rubbing the edge between his fingers. “Aye, they’re fragile, but I know a place that can match the pattern close enough.”
Heather let out a breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.
He turned his attention back to the walls. “I can patch the cracks and repaint without losing the texture. Might take some time to get the right match, but I’ll get it there.”
She glanced at him, surprised by the shift in his tone—how carefully he spoke to her now, how much attention he was giving this room, and what it meant.
“Thank you,” she said softly.
Flynn met her gaze, holding it just long enough that something shifted between them.
“Some things are worth keeping the way they were.”
Heather swallowed hard and turned back to the room. She cleared her throat, suddenly feeling exposed under Flynn’s steady gaze.
“Anyway,” she said, waving a hand toward the peeling wallpaper in the hallway. “Let’s talk about something really tragic—this wallpaper situation. Did they even have color palettes in the seventies, or did they just throw random pastels at the wall and hope for the best?”
Flynn huffed a quiet laugh, crossing his arms. “Campbell, you’re dodging.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” she said, already moving toward the door. “This is serious design trauma, Flynn. The people need answers.”
“Aye, well, the people need better taste.” He smirked, following her out. “Dinnae worry, Campbell. We’ll fix your tragic wallpaper crisis first thing.”
“Oh, good. That’s obviously the most pressing issue in the entire house,” she tossed back.
Flynn scoffed. “While we’re working on that, you’ve got a job, too.”
“Oh? Are you about to hand me a hard hat?” she teased.
“Not quite,” he said with a chuckle. “This house is full of… well, history. You’ve got old furniture, boxes of who-knows-what, and probably some hidden treasures in the mix. You’ll need to go through it all and decide what stays, what goes, and what’s worth restoring.”
Heather’s gaze drifted to the shelves filled with dusty books and forgotten trinkets.
