Page 123 of Lavender and Honey

"Thank you," I say finally, the words simple but heartfelt. "Not just for the necklace, but for..." I gesture vaguely, encompassing the workshop, the house above us, everything that's happened since I first encountered him and Elias. "For making space. For seeing me."

Finn's expression grows serious, though the warmth remains. "You're easy to see, Lydia. Once you stop trying so hard to be invisible."

The gentle truth of it disarms me. I have been trying, haven't I? Not just with my scent blockers and careful distance, but with everything— keeping parts of myself hidden, protected, unseen. The realization brings both vulnerability and relief. Maybe I don't have to try so hard anymore. Maybe here, with these people, I can begin to be seen.

I look up at him, this tall, thoughtful man with his skilled hands and perceptive eyes, and feel something shift inside me— like a door opening to a room I've kept locked for years. The feeling is terrifying and exhilarating in equal measure.

The pendant rests against my skin, wood warmed by my body heat until it feels like a part of me— a tangible reminder that connections can be beautiful, that being seen doesn't always lead to harm. I touch it again, feeling its smooth contours under my fingertips, and make a silent promise to myself not to hide it away, to wear this symbol of new beginnings.

Finn's smile widens as he takes in the sight of me wearing his creation, his eyes darkening slightly in a way that sends a flutter through my stomach. He steps closer, his height making me tilt my head back to maintain eye contact. There's something different in his expression now— a focus, an intensity that wasn't there before. His hand comes up slowly, giving me plenty of time to move away if I wanted to, and traces the outline ofthe pendant where it rests against my skin. The touch is gentle but deliberate, his fingertip just barely making contact with my collarbone in a way that sends tiny shivers across my skin.

"Lydia," he says, my name sounding different in his voice now— weighted with something unspoken. "May I kiss you?"

The question hangs between us, simple and direct. No pressure, no assumption— just an honest request. I've spent so long avoiding these moments, these vulnerabilities, that my first instinct is to retreat, to deflect, to protect myself from the potential complications. But here, in the warm light of his workshop, surrounded by the evidence of his care and creativity, that instinct feels distant, less urgent.

I nod, my voice finding itself just enough to add, "Yes."

His smile softens, reaching his eyes in a way that makes them crinkle at the corners. He moves with that deliberate grace of his, one hand coming up to cup my cheek while the other rests lightly at my waist. The contact is gentle but grounding, anchoring me to the moment as he leans down.

His lips meet mine with surprising softness— a question more than a claim. The kiss is light, almost reverent, and I find myself leaning into it, my body responding before my mind has fully caught up. His hand is warm against my face, callused fingers slightly rough against my skin in a way that only heightens the sensation.

For a moment, we stay like that— connected but careful, then something shifts, a subtle change in pressure, in intent. My hands find their way to his chest, feeling the solid warmth of him through his shirt. His heartbeat is strong and slightly elevated, matching the quickened pace of my own.

The kiss deepens, his lips moving more confidently against mine as I respond. There's a gentle insistence to it now, an exploration that makes heat pool low in my abdomen. His hand slides from my cheek to the back of my neck, fingers threadingthrough my hair in a way that makes me gasp softly against his mouth.

He takes advantage of that small opening, his tongue tracing the seam of my lips in a silent request that I grant without hesitation. The taste of him is intoxicating— warm and slightly sweet, with hints of the tea. When his tongue meets mine, a shiver runs down my spine, electric and insistent. I'm barely aware of moving until I feel my back press against his workbench, the solid wood providing support as my knees threaten to weaken. Finn breaks the kiss just long enough to study my face, his eyes dark with desire but still watchful, still careful.

"Is this okay?" he asks, voice rough in a way that sends another wave of heat through me.

"More than okay," I breathe, surprising myself with the certainty in my voice.

His smile turns almost predatory then, a flash of teeth that awakens something primal in me. Without warning, he lifts me— his hands spanning my waist with ease— and sets me on the edge of the workbench. The move is fluid and controlled, demonstrating a strength that makes my Omega instincts purr with approval.

The new position puts us at eye level, eliminating the height difference between us. Finn steps between my knees, his hands coming to rest on either side of my hips. There's a moment of suspended animation where we just look at each other, both a little surprised at the intensity that's developed so quickly between us. Then he's kissing me again, deeper this time, with an intent that leaves no room for uncertainty. My hands find their way to his shoulders, feeling the play of muscles beneath his shirt as he leans into me. The pendant he made rests between us, a small point of connection in addition to our lips and hands and increasingly heated skin.

His fingers move to the hem of my shirt, hesitating there in silent question. I nod almost imperceptibly, and he slips his hands underneath, palms flat against the small of my back. The direct skin contact sends a jolt through me, his hands impossibly warm and slightly rough against my softer skin. A small sound escapes me— half sigh, half moan— and I feel him smile against my lips before he trails kisses along my jawline and down to my neck. When his mouth finds the sensitive spot just below my ear, my head falls back instinctively, giving him better access. The vulnerability of the position— exposing my throat to an almost-stranger— should frighten me, but instead it feels right, feels safe in a way I can't entirely explain.

His touch grows bolder, hands sliding up my sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of my breasts through my bra. Even that slight contact is enough to make me arch toward him, seeking more. One of his hands leaves my skin long enough to tangle in my hair, gently but firmly tilting my head to give him better access to my neck.

When his teeth graze lightly over my pulse point, a full-bodied shudder runs through me. My scent blooms in response— the subtle notes of my Omega nature becoming stronger, sweeter, filling the space between us with unmistakable arousal. I should be panicking, should be reaching for the blockers I religiously apply, but I can't bring myself to care— not when his mouth is doing such exquisite things to my neck, not when his hands are mapping my skin like he's memorizing every curve.

"You smell incredible," he murmurs against my throat, his voice a low rumble that I feel as much as hear. "Like everything I've ever wanted."

The words send a fresh wave of heat through me, settling low and insistent between my thighs. I pull him closer, suddenly desperate for more contact, more friction, more of him. My legs wrap around his waist, drawing him against me until there'sno mistaking his arousal pressed hard against the apex of my thighs.

The position aligns us perfectly, and when he rocks slightly against me, even through our clothes, the friction sends sparks of pleasure radiating outward. I gasp his name, my fingers clutching at his shoulders hard enough that I might be leaving marks. The thought only intensifies the heat building inside me.

His hand moves to cup my breast through my shirt, thumb brushing over the hardened peak in a way that makes me moan softly. I'm lost in sensation— the heat of his mouth on my neck, the pressure of his body between my thighs, the skilled movements of his hands— when a deliberate throat-clearing sound cuts through the haze of desire.

We freeze simultaneously, Finn's body going tense against mine. Slowly, reluctantly, he lifts his head from my neck, though he doesn't immediately step away from me. I follow his gaze to the bottom of the stairs.

Elias stands there, one shoulder propped against the wall in a posture that would seem casual if not for the intensity in his eyes. His arms are crossed over his chest, but there's nothing closed-off or defensive about his stance— just a patient stillness that somehow commands attention more effectively than any interruption could have.

How long he's been watching us, I have no idea. Heat floods my face, but it's not entirely from embarrassment. There's something in his gaze— dark and hungry and seemingly untroubled by what he's witnessed— that keeps the fire in my veins burning rather than being doused by his presence.

"Don't let me interrupt," he says, his voice lower than usual, rough around the edges. "But if you're interested, I thought we might move to the living room. For that movie." There's a brief pause, weighted with significance. "Or whatever else might appeal."

The suggestion hangs in the air between the three of us, laden with implications that make my breath catch. Finn hasn't moved away from me, his body still a solid warmth between my thighs, though his hands have stilled their exploration. I can feel the rapid rise and fall of his chest against mine, evidence that his composure isn't as complete as he might want to appear.

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