Kinlochleven and its surroundings.

The pub was tucked into the edge of a hill, overlooking a stretch of road that turned to gravel just before the trees thickened. Its sign swung in the wind like it had a story to tell — The Thistle and Fox, carved into weather-dark wood, lit by soft golden lamps that made the old stone walls glow almost romantic in the dusk.

It was the kind of place that smelled like old pine, smoked meat, and someone’s spilled pint from two hours ago. Somewhere behind it, the hills of Beinn na Caillich loomed quiet and steady, the loch just a fifteen-minute walk west, still silver in the late light.

You stood just outside the door, tugging at the sleeves of your sweater like it might hide how much you wanted to turn around.

It had been years since you’d dated. Or flirted. Or even considered cracking the door to that part of yourself again. Not since her — the sixteen-year-old in hospital volunteer scrubs who had seemed like the cure to loneliness until you realized just how young and volatile she was. The fallout had been messy. Terrifying. The kind that made you question your own gut, even after everything was proven to be just a sick tangle of crossed wires and misplaced obsession.

You hadn’t touched the idea of romance since.

Briar gave you a look from where she leaned against the pub wall, arms crossed, patient but amused. “If you’re thinking of backing out, I swear to God, I’ll have my dad drag you in by the ear.”

“I’m not backing out,” you said, lying just enough to be unconvincing.

She raised an eyebrow.

You sighed. “I just… I’m not built for mingling.”

“You’re built for brooding, and it’s exhausting. For everyone.”

You gave her a flat look.

“You’ve grieved. You’ve healed. You’ve hovered around my kitchen like a sad, handsome ghost for days. Now go get a drink.”

She didn’t wait for a response — just shoved open the door and vanished into the warmth.

Heart kicking harder than it should, you followed.

Inside, the pub was alive with low laughter, clinking glasses, and fiddle music that sounded older than anything you’d ever touched. Locals filled the space in wool jackets and hearty scarves, cheeks pink from wind and whisky. The smell of venison pie and peat smoke clung to the air like memory.

You hadn’t even reached the bar before someone caught your eye.

Finnegan MacRae.

Tall, broad, and devastatingly nonchalant — the kind of man who could charm a room without trying. His beard was just shy of unruly, his hands calloused in a way that made your heart beat entirely wrong. His flannel sleeves were rolled to the elbow, and he had the sort of lazy confidence that said yes, I own sheep, and yes, I know exactly what to do with them.

Your eyes met. Finn tilted his head like he was assessing livestock — but fondly.

“Well now,” the farmer said, accent thick and teasing, “they warned me about city boys wanderin’ in like lost lambs, but I didn’t think I’d see one look quite so tragically handsome while doin’ it.”

You blinked. “I—sorry?”

“You should be,” Finn said with a grin. “That look you’re givin’ me? That’s the kind that starts fires. Want a drink?”

It was obscene, the way he said it — casual, confident, like the answer was already yes.

Heat crawled up the back of your neck.

Briar passed behind you, whispering, “You’re welcome,” before vanishing into a crowd of retirees singing something about whisky and wayward sailors.

Somehow, you made it to the bar, sat beside Finn, and had a pint pressed into your hand.

One drink turned into two. Then whisky. Then a lot of whisky.

Finn was everything you weren’t — loud in a way that didn’t ask for permission, openly flirtatious, and grounded in a way that made you want to stop apologizing for your past. He asked about your work with kids, cracked jokes about pediatricians being the only kind of doctor he’d ever trust to hold a lamb, and said things like “You ever kissed someone in a hayloft?” without blinking.

You didn’t remember saying yes.

But you remembered the kiss. The rough wall of the pub’s back hallway. Finn’s hand in your hair