Page 96 of Of Heather and Thistle
But hope was dangerous.
Because if it hadn’t been a mistake, then it meant something.
And that was worse.
She shook her head, her voice quieter this time. “This… this was a mistake, Flynn.”
His body went still. A long beat of silence stretched between them, thick and heavy.
“No,” he said, voice low and steady. “It wasn’t.”
Heather’s chest ached. The way he looked at her, the quiet certainty in his voice—it made something splinter inside her.
So she did what she always did. She pulled away.
“It didn’t mean anything.”
Something flickered in his eyes. Something quiet. Something hurt.
He exhaled sharply, nodding once. “If that’s what you need to tell yourself.”
She swallowed hard. Her fingers curled tighter in the sheets. “I think you should go.”
Flynn hesitated, just for a second. Then he stepped toward the door, jaw tight.
At the threshold, he glanced back. “I meant what I said, Heather.” His voice was quiet, but sure.
Heather gripped the sheet tighter, her nails pressing into the fabric.
The words were right there on her tongue.
Wait.
Stay.
But she swallowed them down, locking her jaw.
Then he was gone, leaving behind the scent of coffee—and the taste of regret.
Heather sat frozen, Flynn’s words still hanging in the air long after the door closed behind him.
I meant what I said, Heather.
Her heart.
She pressed a hand to her chest as if she could steady the uneven rhythm of her heart. As if she could force herself to ignore the way those words had cracked something open inside her. This was precisely why she couldn’t do this.
Flynn Duncan was… good. The kind of good that made her chest feel tight and made her want to believe in things she had no business believing in. The type of man who brought pastries and coffee after a night tangled in the sheets instead of slipping out before dawn. And that terrified her.
She swung her legs over the side of the bed, her bare feet hitting the worn wooden floor. The room felt too small. The air was too thick. She needed to move—before the weight of it crushed her.
She pulled on the shirt from the floor, jamming her arms through the sleeves with more force than necessary. The scent of sawdust and something unmistakably him clung to her skin, only making it worse.
She stood there for a long time, staring at the closed door. Hoping. But he wouldn’t walk through it again. Her throat was tight, a dull ache spreading through her chest, but she pushed it down.
This is what you wanted.
It had to be.
