Page 122 of Lavender and Honey

My heart beats a little faster as Finn's fingers hover over the cloth. There's something intensely personal about this moment— someone creating something specifically for me, pouring their skill and time into an object intended for no one else. I can't remember the last time anyone made something for me, and certainly not with the level of craftsmanship I've seen in everything else in this workshop. I nod again, encouraging him to continue, suddenly as eager as I am nervous to see what lies beneath.

Finn gently lifts the cloth, revealing what lies beneath with deliberate care. Against the dark fabric rests a pendant on a slender leather cord. The pendant itself is small— no larger than a quarter— but what it lacks in size it makes up for in detail. Carved from wood that's been stained to a rich amber hue, it depicts a stylized tree with intricate branches spreading outward in an asymmetrical but perfectly balanced pattern. The rootsmirror the branches below, creating a sense of reflection and continuity.

"It's walnut," Finn says softly, lifting the piece so I can see how the grain of the wood has been incorporated into the design, the natural lines flowing through the carved branches like life itself. "I chose it for its strength and depth of color. It darkens beautifully with age and handling."

The craftsmanship is extraordinary. Looking closer, I can see how each tiny branch has been carved with precision, the negative spaces between them as intentional as the wood itself. The tree isn't perfectly symmetrical or idealized— there are slight irregularities that make it feel alive, as if caught in a moment of growth. The edges have been polished to a satiny smoothness that invites touch.

"Finn," I breathe, not quite trusting my voice with more. My finger reaches out almost of its own accord, tracing the outline of the tree. The wood is warm against my skin, as if it retains some essence of the life it once held.

"The back is carved too," he says, turning it over to reveal a simple spiral pattern on the reverse side, its flowing line moving from the outer edge inward in a continuous journey. "For balance. And because some things aren't meant to be immediately visible to everyone."

Something about the way he says this— the quiet significance in his voice— makes me look up from the pendant to his face. His expression is open, vulnerable in a way that catches at something deep inside me. This isn't just a gift; it's a message, though I'm not entirely sure I understand all it's meant to convey.

"It's the most beautiful thing I've ever been given," I tell him, and it's true. Not just because of the evident skill in its creation, but because of the thought behind it— the hours of careful work dedicated to making something he hoped I would love.

Finn's face softens, relief and pleasure mingling in his expression. "I started carving it after our first meeting at the market. Something about you... I couldn't get the image out of my head. A tree that bends but doesn't break, with roots as complex as its branches." He looks down at the pendant, then back to me. "Strong enough to stand alone, but part of something larger too."

The description hits so close to how I've felt— how I've tried to be— that for a moment I can't speak. I've spent years cultivating independence, teaching myself to need no one, to expect nothing. And yet here is this man who saw something else in me from the beginning— not just solitary strength, but potential for connection.

"I don't know what to say," I admit finally. "Thank you seems inadequate."

"You don't need to say anything." His voice is gentle, without expectation. "Just wanted you to have it. Whether you wear it or keep it in a drawer somewhere, it's yours." But we both know it's more than that. The pendant represents something neither of us is quite ready to name— a recognition, an offering, a possibility.

"I love it," I say simply, because it's true and because sometimes the simplest truths are the most important. "Truly. It's perfect."

Finn's smile deepens, reaching his eyes and crinkling the corners. "Would you like to wear it?" he asks, lifting the leather cord. "I made the cord adjustable so you can decide how it sits."

I nod, my throat suddenly tight with emotion I hadn't anticipated. "Yes. Please."

He moves behind me, his tall frame casting a slight shadow over my shoulders. I feel the brush of his fingers against my neck as he brings the cord around, the leather cool against my skin. There's a subtle scent that I recognize as distinctly his— woodsy and clean, with notes of the oils he uses on his projects.His breath stirs the fine hairs at my nape as he concentrates on adjusting the clasp.

"Is this length good?" he asks, his voice low and close to my ear. The pendant rests just below the hollow of my throat, the wood warm against my skin.

"Perfect," I manage, hyper aware of his proximity, of the careful movements of his hands near my neck— one of the most vulnerable parts of any Omega. There's a trust implied in allowing him this close, this access, that goes beyond the simple act of helping with a necklace.

His fingers brush my skin as he secures the clasp, and I feel that touch like a current running through me— not static electricity but something more vital, more alive. For a moment after the clasp is secured, his hands linger, resting lightly on my shoulders. Not demanding, not presuming, just present. I lean back slightly, almost imperceptibly, into that touch.

"There," he says softly, his breath warm against my hair. "It suits you." He moves around to face me, his eyes immediately dropping to the pendant resting against my skin. His expression shifts, something complex passing through his gaze— satisfaction mixed with a deeper emotion I'm not sure how to name.

"What do you think?" he asks, gesturing toward a small mirror hanging on a nearby post— presumably for checking the symmetry of various projects.

I move to the mirror, looking at my reflection. The pendant sits perfectly against my skin, the rich wood tone complementing my coloring. But it's more than just aesthetics— there's something about seeing this handcrafted piece on me, made by someone who has come to matter to me, that creates a sense of belonging I rarely experience. Like I'm carrying a physical manifestation of connection.

"It's beautiful," I say, reaching up to touch it gently with my fingertips. "I can't believe you made this for me."

When I turn back to Finn, there's moisture gathering in my eyes— an emotional response I hadn't expected and can't entirely control. It's not just about the necklace itself, beautiful as it is. It's about what it represents— being seen, being known, being valued enough that someone would create something specifically for me. After years of careful invisibility, of keeping everyone at a safe distance, the gift feels revolutionary in its simple acknowledgment of my existence, my worth.

Finn sees the emotion in my eyes and takes a step closer, his own gaze softening. "Hey," he says gently, "it's just a little piece of wood. Nothing to get misty-eyed about." But his tone belies the casual words, acknowledging the deeper meaning we both recognize.

"It's not, though," I reply, my voice steadier than I expected. "It's not just wood. It's time, thought and skill. It's..." I search for the right word. "It'sseeing."

He nods, understanding exactly what I mean. "Yes," he says simply. "It is."

We stand there in the warm light of his workshop, surrounded by the evidence of his creativity and care, connected by this small carved token now resting against my skin. The moment feels significant, a turning point I couldn't have anticipated when I first agreed to see his workspace.

Finn's smile widens as he studies me wearing his creation. "I hoped it would look right on you," he says, satisfaction evident in his voice. "Some pieces, you know while you're making them that they're meant for a specific person. This one always felt like it was waiting for you."

The sentiment is so perfectly aligned with how the pendant feels against my skin— like it belongs there, like it was alwaysmeant to find its way to me— that I'm momentarily speechless again.

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