Page 112 of Lavender and Honey

I nod, sliding off the stool and placing my empty mug in the sink. "Yes, I'd like that. Elias suggested it might be a good way to keep my mind occupied for a while."

Soren's expression shifts, that mercurial energy focusing into something more serious, more intent. "Ah, distraction therapy. A solid choice." His voice loses some of its teasing edge, becoming softer, more genuine. "When I'm feeling messed up—which is more often than these guys would like, honestly—I usually go for a run or lift weights until my arms feel like they're going to fall off. Different approach, same principle." He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant movement for someone with such frenetic energy. "Physical activity, engaging the senses, getting out of your own head. It helps."

The sudden shift from playful banter to earnest advice catches me off guard. It's like glimpsing another layer of Soren beneath the jokes and dramatic gestures—someone who perhaps understands more about emotional struggle than his carefree demeanor might suggest.

"That's the idea," I say, meeting his eyes with newfound appreciation. "I just want to keep busy for a while. Not think about... everything."

Something like recognition flashes in Soren's purple eyes. "I get that," he says, and I believe him. "Sometimes you need to step away from your problems for a bit. Doesn't mean you're avoiding them. Just means you're giving your brain a breather so you can come back stronger."

I blink, surprised by the insight. "Yes, exactly. That's exactly it."

Elias glanced to the clock and back to Soren, "Weren't you supposed to meet Finn this morning? Something about helping with inventory for the gift boxes?"

Soren's expression shifts to one of comical dismay. "Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow." At Elias's raised eyebrow, he sighs dramatically.

"Fine, fine. Inventory it is. But you owe me a full report on the greenhouse adventures later." He points at me, his expression serious but his eyes twinkling. "Don't let him monopolize all the good pruning. He gets weirdly possessive about the herbs."

"I do not," Elias protests, but there's a slight flush to his cheeks that suggests Soren might be onto something.

"He does," Soren stage-whispers to me. "Once found him having a serious conversation with the basil plants. Very intense. Very personal."

I laugh again, the sound coming easier this time. "I'll keep an eye on him," I promise, playing along. "No illicit herb conversations on my watch."

Soren beams at me, clearly pleased with my participation in his teasing. "Good girl. I knew we could count on you." He stretches, arms reaching toward the ceiling in a languid motion that reminds me of a cat. "Well, I should probably get moving if I'm supposed to be helping Finn. You two have fun playing in the dirt."

The casual exchange, the easy way they've included me in their morning rituals and gentle teasing, makes something in my chest ache with a peculiar mixture of longing and contentment. For a few minutes, I've almost forgotten the reason I'm here—my mother's surprise visit, the emotional fallout, the uncertainty about what comes next. The reprieve, brief as it is, feels like a gift.

"Thanks, Soren," I say, meaning it more deeply than my light tone suggests. "For the entertainment."

His answering grin is knowing, as if he understands exactly what I'm thanking him for. "Anytime, Lavender girl. Anytime."

Chapter Sixty-Seven

The greenhouse bathes us in filtered sunlight. Elias moves among the plants with practiced grace. I follow behind him, my hands still stained with potting soil, a strange sense of peace settling over me.

"This one needs a bit more attention," Elias says, gesturing to a sprawling rosemary plant whose woody stems have grown wild and untamed. "Sometimes the most resilient plants are the ones that need the most careful pruning."

I move to stand beside him, inhaling the sharp, piney scent that intensifies as my fingers brush against the fragrant leaves. "It reminds me of something my art teacher once said—that knowing where to stop is just as important as knowing where to begin."

Elias glances at me, a smile crinkling the corners of his hazel eyes. "Exactly. It's all about balance." His hands move with gentle precision, trimming away dead growth while preserving the plant's natural shape. "Too much interference and you stifleit; too little and it grows chaotic, using all its energy in directions that don't serve it."

The metaphor isn't lost on me, but I choose not to acknowledge it directly. Instead, I focus on mimicking his technique with a smaller herb nearby, my movements less confident but growing more assured with each snip of the pruning shears.

We've been working like this for hours, moving from plant to plant in comfortable silence punctuated by occasional conversation. The greenhouse is a haven of green life and earthy scents, sealed away from the complications waiting beyond its glass walls.

"You have good instincts," he says, pausing to watch as I gently separate the roots of a mint plant that's outgrown its container. "Gentle but decisive."

"Plants are easier than people," I reply, not looking up from my task. "They don't judge you or have hidden agendas."

"True," Elias laughs, the sound warm and genuine. "Though some are pricklier than others." He gestures to a small potted cactus sitting in splendid isolation on a high shelf.

I can't help but smile at that. "Are you implying I'm the cactus of this operation?"

"If the spines fit," he teases, but his eyes are soft with affection. "But even cacti bloom when conditions are right." A comfortable silence falls between us again as we finish repotting the mint. My fingers work the soil around its roots, ensuring it's neither too loose nor too compact. The repetitive motion is soothing, almost meditative, allowing my thoughts to drift without latching onto the anxiety that's been my constant companion since yesterday.

"I think we've earned a break," Elias says eventually, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. He gestures to a small bench nestled between two large ferns, partially hidden from view. "Shall we?"

I nod, suddenly aware of the ache in my lower back from bending over plants. The bench is just wide enough for two, and when we sit, our shoulders brush against each other. The contact sends a small, unexpected thrill through me—not unpleasant, just unfamiliar after so long avoiding casual touch.

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