Page 110 of Lavender and Honey

"The greenhouse it is, then," I decide, feeling a small spark of anticipation kindle in my chest—the first positive emotion I've felt since my mother appeared in my shop yesterday. It's tiny, fragile as a seedling, but it's there. And maybe, like the plants in Elias's greenhouse, it just needs a little care and patience to grow into something stronger.

Chapter Sixty-Six

Iwas finding myself surprisingly eager for the prospect of greenhouse work. The idea of stepping outside, of feeling sunlight on my skin and soil beneath my fingers, is suddenly appealing in a way I couldn't have anticipated.

Elias smiles at me, reaching out a hand to help me up from the nest. Our fingers intertwine, his palm warm against mine, and he pulls me to standing with an effortless strength that belies his lean frame. For a moment we stand close—too close—our bodies separated by mere inches, our joined hands a bridge between us. His scent envelops me—honey and cinnamon and something uniquely him—and I find myself instinctively leaning closer before catching myself.

I step back hastily, breaking the strange spell that had momentarily descended. Elias clears his throat, releasing my hand with a gentleness that makes the loss of contact feel like a physical thing.

"I'll give you some privacy to get dressed," he says, his voice slightly rougher than before. "There are clean clothes in the dresser by the window—nothing fancy, just t-shirts and sweats and such." He gestures vaguely toward a solid oak dresser I hadn't noticed before. "They're communal pack clothes, so you're welcome to anything that fits. Or Lucian brought your bag up yesterday if you'd prefer your own things."

The consideration in this simple offering—the choice between borrowing their clothes or wearing my own—touches me in an unexpected way. It's such a small thing, but it highlights once again how these men constantly give me options, respecting my agency in even the most mundane decisions.

"Thank you," I murmur, suddenly self-conscious in the oversized t-shirt I slept in. "I'll just... get changed, then."

Elias nods, backing toward the door. "I'll be in the kitchen starting breakfast. Take your time." With a final smile, he slips out, closing the door softly behind him.

Alone in the room, I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The nest still holds our combined warmth, the imprints of our bodies visible in the arranged blankets. I turn away from it, moving toward the dresser Elias indicated. My fingers trail across the smooth wood, hesitating at the handles. There's an intimacy in borrowing clothes that feels significantly different from sleeping in their nest. The nest was a collective space, but clothes... clothes are personal.

After a moment's consideration, I spot my duffel bag tucked neatly in the corner of the room. I move toward it, intending to grab my own clothes, but curiosity tugs at me. I pause, then turn back to the dresser, slowly pulling open the top drawer. Inside are neatly folded t-shirts in various colors, some plain, others with faded logos or designs. I run my fingers over them, wondering which belong to whom, imagining these four men sharing clothes with the same ease they share everything else.

On impulse, I select a soft heather-gray shirt that looks like it might fit me. I hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It smells of laundry detergent and a faint trace of what I'm beginning to recognize as their collective pack scent—a complex blend of all four of them that somehow forms something entirely unique. The scent is comforting in a way I don't fully understand.

I pair the borrowed shirt with my own jeans from yesterday, quickly changing in the early morning light. The shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves reaching past my elbows, but there's something oddly satisfying about being wrapped in fabric that carries their essence. I roll the sleeves up, adjust the hem, and run my fingers through my tangled hair in a futile attempt to tame it.

When I finally make my way to the kitchen, I find Elias at the counter, slicing bread with careful precision. Elias looks up as I enter, his face brightening. "There you are," he says, as if I've been gone for days rather than minutes. His eyes take in the borrowed shirt, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That looks good on you."

I glance down, suddenly self-conscious. "I hope it's okay that I borrowed it. I should have just used my own clothes..."

"It's more than okay," he assures me, setting down his knife. "Like I said, the casual clothes are communal. Pack sharing and all that." He gestures to the bread on the cutting board. "I'm just making something simple—toast and jam. Sound okay?"

The thought of food makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. Despite the twelve hours of sleep, I feel drained, hollowed out by yesterday's emotional turmoil. "Actually, I'm not really hungry," I admit. "Maybe just some tea?"

Elias pauses, his brows drawing together in concern. "When did you last eat, Lydia?"

The question makes me think. Yesterday is a blur of panic and tears, but I'm fairly certain I didn't eat after my morningcoffee. "I... don't remember," I confess. "Lunch, maybe? Or... no, I skipped lunch because I was working on an art piece, and then my mother showed up, and after that I..."

"So you haven't eaten since yesterday morning," Elias concludes, his voice gentle but firm. "That's almost twenty-four hours, Lydia. You need to eat something, even if it's just toast." He selects a jar from a row on the counter—strawberry preserves, I note, the same kind I bought from him at the market just last week. "You don't have to finish it if you really can't, but at least try?"

The care in his voice, in his eyes, makes it hard to refuse. I nod reluctantly. "Alright. Just a little, though."

Elias beams as if I've agreed to something much more significant than merely eating toast. "Excellent. Sit down—it'll just take a minute." He gestures to the island, where two stools sit tucked beneath the overhanging counter. I perch on one of the stools, watching as Elias moves about the kitchen with the ease of someone completely at home in their space. He slides the bread into a toaster, then reaches for a kettle that's already steaming on the stove. The familiar ritual of tea-making—the cups retrieved from cabinets, tea leaves measured into a strainer, hot water poured with careful attention—soothes me in an unexpected way.

"Chamomile okay?" he asks, holding up a small tin. "It's good for stress."

"Perfect," I say, touched that he's remembered my preference for herbal teas. He places a steaming mug before me just as the toaster pops. The rich scent of toasted sourdough fills the kitchen as he transfers the bread to plates. His movements are graceful, practiced—a dance he's performed countless times. The jar of preserves opens with a soft pop, and he spreads a generous layer over each piece of toast before setting a plate in front of me.

"Thank you," I murmur, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "This is... really nice of you."

Elias shrugs, settling onto the stool beside me. "It's just toast," he says, but we both know it's more than that. It's care, attention, the refusal to let me neglect myself even in small ways.

I take a small bite of the toast, expecting to have to force it down. But the familiar flavors—the tang of sourdough, the sweet-tart burst of strawberry—awaken something in me. Suddenly, I'm ravenous, my body remembering what my mind had forgotten: I need sustenance to heal, to face whatever comes next.

"This is good," I admit between bites, surprised by my own appetite.

Elias smiles, a satisfied look crossing his features. "Told you. The body knows what it needs, even when the mind tries to ignore it." We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are the clink of our cups against saucers and the crunch of toast. The normalcy of it—sharing a simple meal in a sunny kitchen—feels like a gift after the chaos of yesterday. For a brief moment, I can almost pretend that this is my life, that I belong here in this warm kitchen with this gentle man.

The illusion is broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, quick and light with a bouncing energy I'm beginning to recognize. Soren. Sure enough, he appears in the doorway, his purple eyes bright with their usual mischief despite the early hour. He's barefoot, wearing loose track pants and a tank top that reveals more of his lean, muscled frame than I've seen before. His hair is tousled, as if he's just rolled out of bed or perhaps been running his fingers through it.

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