Page 81 of Lavender and Honey

"Dropped the spoon and then stepped on it," Elias grumbles, looking more embarrassed than hurt. "The sauce splattered everywhere."

Indeed, the front of his apron is now decorated with red splotches, and there's a spreading stain on the floor tile. Without thinking, I grab a nearby dish towel and move to help clean up.

"Are you hurt?" I ask, kneeling to wipe up the sauce before it can spread further.

"Only my pride," Elias sighs, accepting the clean towel Lucian hands him. "And possibly this apron, which might be beyond saving."

"I don't know," I say, examining the splatter pattern. "It's almost artistic. Like one of those abstract expressionist paintings."

Soren snorts with laughter. "Jackson Pollock does pasta sauce. I like it."

"Very avant-garde," Finn agrees, his green eyes twinkling with amusement.

Elias looks down at his apron, then back at us, his lips twitching. "Perhaps I've discovered a new artistic medium," he suggests, striking a pose. "Move over, watercolors. Sauce is the next big thing."

The absurdity of it all—Elias posing in his sauce-splattered apron, the earnest way we're all pretending to critique it as art, the warmth and laughter filling the kitchen—suddenly strikes me. A giggle escapes my lips, then another, until I'm laughing so hard that tears spring to my eyes.

"There she is," Soren says softly, his expression triumphant. "I was beginning to think you didn't know how to laugh like that."

I wipe at my eyes, still smiling. "I didn't know I remembered how," I admit, and the simple truth of it hangs in the air, acknowledged without judgment.

"Well," Lucian says, his voice gentle but firm, "I think we've all had enough excitement for one evening. Let's finish getting dinner ready before any more culinary disasters befall us."

We fall back into our tasks with renewed energy. I help Elias strain the pasta—a different batch than the one he was preparing earlier, thankfully unaffected by the sauce incident. Finn finishes the salad while Soren sets the table, his movements displaying a surprising grace for someone so naturally exuberant. Lucian oversees it all, occasionally stepping in to help where needed, his quiet efficiency bringing order to our collective chaos.

As we work, I become aware of how naturally we've fallen into a rhythm together. There's an effortless choreography to our movements, as if we've done this a hundred times before. It reminds me of watching dancers, each person knowing instinctively where the others will be, creating harmony through motion.

"Penny for your thoughts?" Elias asks, appearing at my side with a basket of fresh bread.

"Just observing," I say, taking the basket from him. "How easily you all work together. It's... nice to watch."

His expression softens. "It's nice to be part of, too," he says, his meaning clear in the gentle emphasis on his words. An invitation, not a demand.

"Yes," I find myself agreeing. "I'm discovering that."

The pride I feel when we finally bring everything to the table catches me off guard. It's a simple meal—pasta with Elias's grandmother's sauce, a fresh salad, crusty bread—but we made it together. My hands helped prepare this food. My taste budsapproved the seasoning. My laughter blended with theirs as we worked.

"This looks amazing," I say, surveying the spread as we all take our seats. "Thank you for letting me help."

"Thank you for helping," Lucian replies, his steel-gray eyes warm as they meet mine across the table. "You've been a welcome addition to our kitchen."

"Maybe next time you can teach us one of your recipes," Finn suggests, passing the salad bowl to Soren.

"I'd like that," I say, and am surprised to realize I mean it—not just the sharing of a recipe, but the implied next time. The continuation of whatever this is growing between us. As we begin to eat, conversation flows easily around the table. They ask about my day at the shop, share stories about difficult customers at the market, debate the merits of different wood types for carving. Ordinary topics, everyday exchanges, but infused with a warmth that makes them feel significant.

I find myself contributing more than I expected, drawn out by their genuine interest and encouraging responses. When Elias asks about my favorite foods, I share memories of a trip to Italy I took during college, describing a small trattoria where I first tasted real carbonara. When Finn mentions a new art exhibit in the next town over, I offer opinions on the featured artist's technique.

Gradually, I become aware of a strange sensation spreading through my chest—a warmth that has nothing to do with the food or the wine Soren poured for me. It takes me a moment to identify it, this feeling so foreign to my recent experience.

Belonging. That's what this is. Sitting at this table, sharing this meal, my scent mingling freely with theirs in the air around us—I belong here. Not because they've demanded it or because I've forced myself to fit, but because they've made space for me, exactly as I am.

My throat tightens unexpectedly, emotion welling up from some deep place I've kept carefully sealed. I take a sip of water, trying to compose myself before anyone notices.

But of course, they do notice. Four pairs of eyes turn to me with varying degrees of concern.

"Lydia?" Elias asks softly. "Are you alright?"

I nod, not trusting my voice immediately. When I can speak, the words come out more vulnerable than I intended. "Yes. I'm just... this is nice. Being here like this. With all of you."

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