Page 118 of Lavender and Honey

He nods, appreciation warming his eyes. "They will. People connect with handmade things— they carry intention." His hands rest on his thighs, palms up, relaxed but ready. They bear the marks of his craft— small nicks and scars, calluses that speak of years holding chisels and saws. "How are you doing? Really?"

The question is simple but weighted with genuine concern. It's not the casual "how are you" of social convention but areal inquiry into my state of being. I could deflect it, give the easy answer, but something about Finn's steady presence invites honesty.

"I'm still feeling a bit off-balance," I admit, setting my pencil down and closing the sketchbook. "After my mother showed up at the shop like that... and then learning my father is in town too." I shake my head, trying to order my thoughts. "It's been a little over a year since I've seen either of them. A year of careful distance. And then suddenly, there they were, bringing all that history back with them."

Finn listens without interrupting, his body angled toward mine in a way that offers attention without demanding response.

"But I'm feeling better," I continue, surprised to find it's actually true. "Being here, with all of you... it helps. More than I expected it would." The admission feels vulnerable, but not dangerous. Not here.

"We're glad you're here," Finn says, voice low and sincere. "It's been good, watching you find your space among us."

I look down at my hands, suddenly self-conscious. "I wasn't looking for this, you know. For any of you." The words could sound harsh, but they come out soft, wondering. "I was just trying to keep my head down, stay invisible."

"How's that working out for you?" Finn asks, a teasing lilt entering his voice.

It startles a laugh from me. "Terribly. I've never been more visible in my life."

"Visibility has its advantages." His eyes crinkle at the corners. "For one thing, it's easier to find you when dinner's ready."

The casual domesticity of the comment warms something deep inside me. "I don't know how to thank you all. For everything." My voice catches slightly, emotion rising unexpectedly to the surface. "You didn't have to take me in, or help me with my parents, or any of it. But you did."

Finn's expression grows serious, though the warmth remains. "That's what pack is, Lydia. Not just the traditional hierarchies or living arrangements, but this— finding people who see you and choose to stand with you anyway." He shifts slightly, his knee brushing against mine. The contact is brief but grounding. "Besides, we're not entirely selfless. You bring something to us too."

"My charming personality and sunny outlook?" I suggest dryly.

He laughs, the sound rippling through the quiet room like stones dropped in still water. "That too. Though I was thinking more about your fierce independence, your talent—" he gestures to the sketchbook, "—and the way you notice things others miss."

Heat rises to my cheeks at the unexpected praise. "I've had practice observing. It was a survival skill."

"And now?"

I consider the question, its layers and implications. "Now it feels like something else. Less about surviving, more about..." I search for the right word. "Participating, maybe."

Finn nods as if I've confirmed something he already suspected. "Good. That's progress." He leans back against the couch cushions, his posture deliberately casual. "We all felt the same, you know. When we found each other. Like we'd been holding our breath for years without realizing it."

The sentiment resonates so deeply that I have to look away for a moment, focusing on the play of light across the floor. "I didn't think I needed anyone," I admit quietly. "I convinced myself that was safer."

"Safer doesn't always mean better," Finn says. "Sometimes it just means smaller." His words hit hard, but he was right. I've been living in an increasingly smaller world, telling myself it wasthe only way to stay secure. The realization is both painful and freeing.

"So philosophical today," I tease, trying to lighten the moment. "Did you inhale too much sawdust?"

He grins, accepting the shift in tone. "Occupational hazard. All that time alone with wood and tools— gives a person too much time to think."

"What were you working on this morning?" I ask, genuinely curious. I've heard the sounds of his workshop but haven't ventured there yet.

"New design for the gift boxes. Trying a different joinery technique." His hands move as he speaks, describing shapes in the air with unconscious elegance. "The current ones are good, but I think we can make them better— more distinctive."

"Perfectionist," I accuse lightly.

"Says the artist who's been working on the same flower for an hour." His smile takes any sting from the words.

I laugh, surprised again by how easy it is to be with him. "Fair point."

"Besides," he continues, "there's satisfaction in refining a design, finding the best version of an idea." He looks at me directly, something deeper moving behind his casual tone. "Like finding the best version of yourself, maybe."

The analogy hangs between us, simple but profound. I've spent so long trying to hide parts of myself, to suppress my Omega nature, to keep my head down. The idea of instead refining, developing, becoming more fully myself—it's both terrifying and exhilarating.

"Is that what you've done?" I ask. "Found the best version of yourself?"

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