Page 121 of Lavender and Honey

"Naturally. Very professional of you." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Though I've noticed your light on at two in the morning more than once since you've been here."

The casual observation catches me off guard— not in an unpleasant way, but in the realization that he's been aware of me, my habits, my nocturnal wanderings. I've grown so accustomed to being invisible that being seen feels both exposing and oddly comforting.

We reach a door at the end of the hallway, heavy and solid-looking, with a simple brass handle that's been worn to a soft patina by countless touches. Finn pauses with his hand on it.

"It's not always tidy down here," he warns, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice. "Creative chaos and all that."

"You've seen my studio at the shop," I remind him. "Paint splatter is not exactly the height of organization." This seems to reassure him. He turns the handle and pushes the door open, revealing a staircase leading down into what had once been an ordinary basement but has clearly been transformed into something else entirely.

The scent hits me first— wood in various states of being, from raw lumber to fresh sawdust to the subtle notes of finishing oils and waxes. As we descend the stairs, the temperature drops slightly, the air taking on a pleasant coolness that contrasts with the warmth of the living areas above.

Finn flips a switch at the bottom of the stairs, and soft lighting blooms throughout the space— not the harsh fluorescents I'd expected, but a carefully arranged system of fixtures that illuminate the large room evenly, creating pools of focused light over workbenches while maintaining a general ambient glow.

The workshop is larger than I'd imagined, occupying what must be most of the house's footprint. One wall is lined with lumber racks, holding boards of various sizes and species— cherry and maple, oak and walnut, each with its unique coloration and grain pattern. Along another wall runs a workbench that looks like it's been in use for decades, its surface marked with the evidence of countless projects. Tools hang on pegboards above it, arranged with meticulous care— chisels graduating in size, hand planes organized by function, measuring tools and marking gauges all within easy reach.

In the center of the room stands a massive table saw, its cast iron surface gleaming dully under the lights. Beside it, a band saw and jointer form a triangle of major machinery, with dust collection hoses connecting them to a system I can see humming discreetly in a corner.

But it's the far end of the workshop that draws my eye— there, bathed in the most generous pool of light, stands what must be Finn's primary workbench. Unlike the utilitarian benches along the walls, this one has the look of a personal sanctuary. The wooden surface is immaculate, and around it are arranged current projects in various stages of completion.

"This is incredible," I breathe, turning slowly to take it all in. "You built all this?"

Finn shrugs, but I can see the pride he's trying to downplay. "The major setup was here when I joined the pack, but I've been refining it ever since. Elias says I'm obsessive about my tool arrangements. He's not wrong."

I move deeper into the space, drawn to a set of shelves where dozens of wooden boxes sit in neat rows— the gift boxes for our market products. Up close, I can see the extraordinary care that's gone into each one: finger joints cut with perfect precision, surfaces sanded to a silky smoothness, subtle grain patterns oriented to create visual harmony. They appear simple at firstglance, but the details reveal themselves upon closer inspection— tiny bevels that catch the light just so, lids that fit with satisfying precision, the occasional inlay of contrasting wood that adds a touch of subtle elegance.

"These are beautiful," I say, running my finger along the edge of one box. "I knew they were well-made, but I didn't realize..."

"That I'm slightly maniacal about the details?" Finn supplies, coming to stand beside me. "It's a character flaw. Or feature, depending on who you ask."

"Definitely a feature." I pick up one of the boxes, feeling its perfect balance in my hand. "Most people wouldn't notice half of what you've done here, but they'll feel it somehow— the rightness of it."

Something in Finn's posture shifts at my words, a tension releasing that I hadn't realized was there. "That's exactly it," he says quietly. "The feeling transcends the noticing."

Our eyes meet briefly, and there's a current of understanding that passes between us— the recognition of shared artistic values, of caring deeply about details that might never be consciously appreciated but matter nonetheless.

"Come see what I'm working on now," he says, leading me toward his main workbench.

I follow, noting how differently he moves here in his creative space— more fluid, more assured, as if the physical environment itself reinforces his sense of self. On the benchtop are several projects in progress: what looks like a small jewelry box with an intricately carved lid; a set of delicate wooden spoons, their handles flowing in organic curves; and something covered with a soft cloth.

"These are prototypes for new market items," Finn explains, gesturing to the spoons. "I'm experimenting with different woods to find the perfect balance between durability and tactilepleasure. People are more likely to buy things they can't help touching."

He demonstrates, placing a spoon in my hand. The handle fits perfectly against my palm, its surface warm and inviting. "Cherry," he says. "Good for everyday use, develops a beautiful patina over time."

He shows me each project in turn, explaining his process and the thinking behind his designs. His passion is evident in every word, every gesture. I find myself captivated not just by the craftsmanship but by his relationship to it— the deep respect for materials, the patience with process, the clear joy he takes in bringing latent beauty to the surface.

"And this," he says finally, his hand hovering over the cloth-covered object, "is something I've been working on for a while. For you, actually— if you'd like it."

My breath catches slightly. "For me?"

His eyes meet mine, and there's a vulnerability there I haven't seen before. "I started when you agreed to our courting… Call it a woodworker's intuition." His smile turns self-deprecating. "Or just hopeful thinking."

The knowledge that he's been creating something specifically for me— before I'd even agreed to let them court me— sends an unexpected warmth spiraling through my chest. I've received few gifts in my life, and fewer still that were made with such intentional care.

"I'd be honored to see it," I say, my voice softer than I intended.

Finn's expression warms, and he nods once, decisively. "Good. Because I really want to give it to you." His hand lingers on the cloth, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the revelation of whatever lies beneath.

Chapter Seventy-One

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