Page 119 of Lavender and Honey

Finn's smile turns reflective. "Still working on it. But I'm closer here than I've ever been." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the house and, by extension, the pack within it. "Having peoplewho see you clearly helps. Even when—especially when—they're teasing you mercilessly."

"I'll keep that in mind," I promise with mock solemnity.

"Please do. Elias gets far too comfortable when no one challenges him." The mention of Elias brings with it an awareness of the sounds from the kitchen—the opening and closing of cabinet doors, the clatter of utensils, the occasional muttered word. The house feels alive around us, vibrating with the presence of others who have somehow, improbably, become important to me.

"You're thinking too hard again," Finn observes, reaching out to tap my sketchbook lightly. "Maybe you should go back to your flowers. They seem to settle you."

The observation is astute— art has always been my refuge, my way of ordering chaos into something meaningful. I open the book again, finding my place.

"Don't let me distract you," Finn says, settling more comfortably beside me. "I just wanted to check in. I can sit quietly."

And he does, his presence beside me neither demanding nor intrusive. The silence between us is comfortable, punctuated by the soft sounds of my pencil on paper and his occasional shift in position. There's something profoundly calming about sharing space with someone who doesn't feel the need to fill every moment with words. As the afternoon light slowly shifts, casting longer shadows across the living room floor, I find myself more relaxed than I've been in years— sketching beside a man who has somehow become important to me, in a house that is beginning to feel like home.

Chapter Seventy

The scent reaches me before he does—fresh bread and something sweet, underscored by the distinctive notes that are uniquely Elias. I look up from my sketchbook as he appears in the doorway, his chestnut hair slightly mussed, a flour handprint marking the front of his apron like an abstract signature. He's barefoot despite the chill in the air, moving with that quiet confidence that seems to define him, as if he's perfectly at home in his own skin.

I'd chosen to stay in the living room rather than join him in the kitchen earlier. Not because his company wasn't welcome in these past few days— quite the opposite. Sometimes his presence is so easy, so inviting, that I find myself wanting to lean into it completely. It frightens me a little, that pull. So I've been giving myself small doses, like someone building a tolerance to a powerful drug.

Elias's eyes find Finn first, crinkling at the corners as his mouth curves into a warm smile. "Abandoning your woodshavings to bother our artist?" he teases, the affection in his voice unmistakable.

"Someone has to make sure she comes up for air occasionally," Finn replies, not moving from his spot beside me. "You know how us creative types get."

Elias shakes his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead that he doesn't bother to sweep away. Then his gaze shifts to me, and there's a subtle change in his expression— a softening, a focus that makes it feel like the air between us has thinned slightly.

"I brought reinforcements," he says, crossing to where I sit and presenting a small plate with sliced apples, cheese, and what looks like freshly baked shortbread. In his other hand is a steaming mug, the fragrance of chamomile and something citrusy rising in gentle curls. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."

It's not a question or an accusation, just a quiet observation. I hadn't realized he'd noticed. I hadn't even noticed myself, too caught up in the flow of creation to register hunger.

"Thank you," I say, setting my sketchbook aside to accept his offerings. Our fingers brush in the exchange, a brief point of contact that sends a disproportionate warmth up my arm. "You didn't have to do that."

"I know." His smile deepens, hazel eyes warm in the afternoon light. "I wanted to." The simple statement hangs between us, unembellished and honest. That's one of the things I'm learning about Elias— he doesn't waste words or gestures. Everything he offers comes from genuine intent.

I take a sip of the tea, letting the flavors bloom across my tongue. Chamomile, yes, but also orange and a hint of honey, perfectly balanced. "This is delicious."

"Secret family recipe," he says with a wink. "Well, not really secret. My grandmother would tell anyone who asked. But people rarely thought to ask an Omega about her recipes."

There's no bitterness in the statement, just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the world as it is— or as it was for his grandmother. I'm struck again by his comfort with his identity, the way he wears his Omega status like a well-tailored garment rather than a heavy cloak to be hidden beneath.

"I'm almost done in the kitchen," Elias continues, glancing back toward the hallway. "Just have to let the bread cool and pack up a few things for tomorrow's market." He turns back to me, his expression shifting to something almost shy. "I was thinking, when I'm finished... maybe we could play a game? Or watch a movie? If you're tired of sketching, that is."

The invitation is casual, but there's an undercurrent to it— a deliberate effort to include me in their routines, to carve out space for me in their lives. I've spent so long on the periphery of communities, careful never to get too close, that the gesture feels significant in ways I can't fully articulate.

"I'd like that," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I've made good progress on the cards. A break would be nice."

Elias's face brightens, as if my simple acceptance has given him some unexpected gift. "Great. You can pick what we watch. Finn's taste is terrible— all documentaries about extinct woodworking techniques."

"They're fascinating and you know it," Finn protests, nudging my shoulder lightly. "Besides, I'm looking forward to some Omega time. It's refreshing to have someone else around who understands the burden of dealing with self-important pack members."

The teasing is clearly aimed at Elias, and I can't help the laugh that escapes me at his expense. The dynamics between them are complex but comfortable.

Elias rolls his eyes, the gesture playfully exaggerated. "Says the man who spent three days perfecting the curve of a spoon handle because it didn't 'feel right' in his hand."

"It didn't," Finn insists, completely unrepentant. "And now it's perfect. You're welcome." Their banter has the easy rhythm of long familiarity, affection woven through every exchange. I watch them, sipping my tea, feeling both observer and participant in this small domestic scene.

"Keep her company," Elias says to Finn, his tone shifting to something more earnest. "And don't annoy her too much. I'll be back soon."

"I make no promises about the annoyance," Finn replies, settling more comfortably against the couch cushions. "But I'll keep her safe from any overzealous bakers who might force-feed her pastries."

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