Page 120 of Lavender and Honey

Elias shakes his head, but the fond exasperation in his expression speaks volumes. He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back at me. "The shortbread is best while it's still warm," he says softly. "Just so you know."

With that, he's gone, returning to the kitchen in that unhurried way of his. I find myself watching the empty doorway for a moment, as if his presence has left some tangible trace in the air.

"He's been baking all morning," Finn observes casually. "Started with bread for tomorrow's market, then moved on to at least three kinds of cookies. When he gets like that— creating food no one asked for— it usually means he's working through something in his head."

I turn to look at Finn, curious about this insight into Elias. "Is he okay?"

Finn's smile is knowing. "More than okay, I think. Just processing. Change can be good, but it still requires adjustment." His eyes meet mine, and there's a depth to his gaze that suggests layers of meaning. "Even welcome changes."

I'm not entirely sure what he's implying, but heat rises to my cheeks anyway. I reach for a piece of shortbread, using the motion to hide my sudden self-consciousness. The cookie isindeed still warm, crumbling slightly between my fingers. The first bite melts on my tongue— buttery and sweet, with a hint of vanilla and something else I can't quite identify.

"Oh," I breathe, the simple pleasure of it momentarily overriding all other thoughts.

"Yeah," Finn agrees, watching my reaction with satisfaction. "He's unfairly talented. It's annoying, really." But there's no real annoyance in his voice, only a deep appreciation thinly disguised as complaint. I'm beginning to understand how they function together— this balance of teasing and genuine admiration, the way they orbit each other while maintaining their own distinctive spaces.

"Where do I fit into all this?" The question slips out before I can stop it, voiced so quietly it's almost a whisper.

Finn considers me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "Wherever you want to," he finally says. "That's the thing about our pack— we don't force people into predetermined slots. We make room for them as they are."

The concept is so fundamentally different from everything I've known about pack structures that I struggle to fully grasp it. Traditional packs with their rigid hierarchies, their expectations and limitations— that's what drove me away, made me choose solitude over suffocation. This more fluid approach feels almost too good to be true.

"It's not always easy," Finn continues, as if sensing my skepticism. "Freedom can be harder than structure in some ways. But it's worth it, I think— finding your own place rather than having one assigned to you."

I nod slowly, turning his words over in my mind as I sip my tea. In the kitchen, I can hear Elias humming again, the sound punctuated by the occasional clink of pottery or metal. The house envelops us in its quiet comfort, a shelter not just from the physical elements but from the emotional ones as well.

"So," Finn says, breaking my reverie with a lighter tone. "What kind of movies do you like? So I can prepare appropriate counterarguments to whatever Elias suggests."

The normalcy of the question— so domestic, so ordinary— catches me off guard, and I laugh. "I honestly don't know. It's been a while since I've watched anything just for fun."

Finn's expression softens with understanding, but there's no pity in it— just a gentle recognition. "Then we'll have to conduct a thorough investigation of your tastes. For scientific purposes, of course."

"Of course," I agree, finding it easier than expected to slide into their rhythm of gentle teasing. "Very rigorous research protocols will be required."

"Absolutely. Multiple sessions, extensive data collection." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "We take our entertainment very seriously around here."

As we sit together, sharing the snacks Elias prepared and slipping into easy conversation. I take another bite of shortbread, letting myself savor it fully before going back to my sketchbook. Before I could get too engrossed in my drawing Finn spoke up.

"While we wait for the master baker," Finn says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that makes me smile despite myself, "would you like to see my workshop? I promise it's more interesting than watching bread cool." The invitation is casual, but there's something in his eyes— a gleam of genuine eagerness— that tells me this matters to him, this sharing of his creative space.

I set my sketchbook on the cushion beside me, placing my pencil carefully on top to mark my place. The apple slices and cheese Elias brought are gone, though I've saved one piece of shortbread for later, unable to part with its buttery perfection just yet.

"I'd love to," I say, surprising myself with my lack of hesitation. Usually, I need time to consider new experiences, to weigh potential threats against curiosity. But here, now, with Finn's invitation hanging in the air between us, there's no calculation— just simple wanting.

His face brightens, those laugh lines deepening around his eyes. "Fair warning— I might bore you with excessive detail about wood grain and joinery techniques."

"I think I can handle it," I reply, rising from the couch and stretching slightly to ease the stiffness from sitting so long. "I've been known to spend twenty minutes mixing the perfect shade of blue-green."

"Sounds like we're both hopeless cases," Finn says, standing with that fluid grace of his. He's taller than me by nearly a head, but he doesn't use his height to loom or intimidate— just exists in his lanky frame with easy confidence. "This way, little artist. Mind your step on the stairs."

He leads me through the living room and down a hallway I haven't fully explored yet. The house is larger than it appears from outside, with corridors that branch in unexpected directions and rooms that reveal themselves only after you've passed some invisible threshold of belonging. Or maybe that's just how it feels to me— the space expanding as I'm granted greater access to it.

"The workshop's on the other side of the house," Finn explains, his voice carrying easily in the quiet hallway. "And down in the basement. Better climate control for the wood, and the noise doesn't bother anyone when I'm working late."

"You work late often?" I ask, following his tall form as we pass several closed doors.

He glances back at me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sometimes ideas don't respect reasonable hours. I'm sure you've never experienced that with your art, though."

The gentle sarcasm makes me laugh. "Never. I always stop precisely at five o'clock, regardless of inspiration."

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