Chapter 22 Tessa #2
Roasted chicken with herbs that fill the workshop with a homey aroma. Vegetables glazed with honey. And the bread. God, the bread. Still warm, with a crust that crackles when I tear into it and a soft, pillowy interior.
“You made this?” I’m already reaching for another piece. “This morning?”
“Before work.” He pours wine for both of us, a deep red that catches the candlelight. “Bread needs time to rise. Gives me something to do with my hands while I wait.”
“While you wait for what?”
He meets my eyes across the table. “Tonight.”
The simple honesty of it floors me. No games, no smooth lines. Just tonight. Like he’s been counting the hours since he sent that text. Like having me here, in his space, is something he’s been anticipating all day.
“Where did you learn to cook like this?” I ask, because I need to say something and my brain is short-circuiting under the weight of his attention.
“My mom.” His voice warms. “She taught me and Levi both, back when we were kids. Said no one should go through life not knowing how to feed themselves properly. Or the people they love.”
“She sounds wonderful.”
“She was.” There’s a softness there, an old grief worn smooth. “She and my aunt raised us together after my dad left. Levi’s more brother than cousin at this point. We learned everything from them—cooking, reading, how to take care of people.”
I set down my fork, something clicking into place. “Is that why you do it? The acts of service thing? Building the stage, making the vases, all of it?”
“Partly.” He meets my eyes. “It’s how I was taught to show love. Through my hands. Through the work.”
The words settle into me, warm and heavy. Ben fixes things. Milo pays attention. Elijah builds.
“Ben told you about me,” I say quietly. “The foster care stuff.”
“Some of it.” He doesn’t pretend otherwise. “He wanted us to understand. Why you keep people at arm’s length. Why you plan for everything.” His eyes hold mine, steady and patient. “He didn’t tell us to gossip. He told us so we wouldn’t push too hard. So we’d know to be patient.”
My throat tightens. I’m not sure if I’m touched or annoyed that they’ve been discussing me like some kind of group project. Both, maybe.
“Is that why you organize everything?” he asks. “The lists. The backup plans. The color-coded schedules.”
My hand tightens on my wine glass. “You noticed that?”
“I notice everything about you.” He says it simply, like it’s obvious. “I always have.”
“It’s a control thing,” I admit. “When everything else is chaos, at least I can control my spreadsheets.”
“That makes sense.”
“Does it?”
“I do the same thing.” He sets down his wine, and there’s something raw in his expression now.
Something I’ve never seen from quiet, careful Elijah.
“When my mom died, I was fourteen. My dad had already left years before—just gone one day, never looked back. And I didn’t know how to handle any of it.
The grief. The fear. The feeling like the ground had disappeared under my feet. ”
I wait, barely breathing.
“So I built things.” He gestures at the workshop around us—the tools on the walls, the half-finished projects on benches, the life he’s created with his hands.
“Started spending all my time in my grandfather’s shop.
Learning to carve, to measure, to make something out of nothing.
When I’m working with wood, everything makes sense.
I can’t control death or loss or people leaving. But I can control this.”
“You build to feel safe,” I say softly. “I organize for the same reason.”
“I know.” His eyes hold mine, warm and steady. “I recognized it in you the first time you walked into my shop with that clipboard. The way you held it like a shield. Like if you just planned well enough, nothing could hurt you.”
My throat tightens. No one has ever—no one has ever just seen it like that. Understood without me having to explain.
“Is that why you wanted to teach me to carve?” I ask.
“Partly.” He stands, coming around the table to offer me his hand. His palm is warm and callused—woodworker’s hands, capable and strong. “But mostly I want to share this with you. The thing that makes me feel whole. I want you to know this part of me.”
I take his hand and let him pull me to my feet.
He leads me to a workbench at the back of the shop, where a small block of wood is waiting.
Maple, I think—light colored with subtle grain patterns that shimmer in the candlelight.
A set of carving tools is laid out beside it.
Gouges and chisels of various sizes, arranged with the kind of precision I recognize.
“I thought we’d start simple,” he says. “A small bowl. Something you can use.”
“I’ve never carved anything in my life. Unless you count that failed attempt at a soap sculpture in third grade.”
“Soap’s harder than wood.” His mouth twitches. “What was it supposed to be?”
“A duck. It looked like a tumor with a beak.”
He makes a sound that might be a laugh—rusty, like he doesn’t use it often. “We’ll aim higher than tumor duck.”
He positions me in front of the workbench, and then he’s behind me.
Not crowding, but close. Present. His warmth bleeds through my sweater, and his scent wraps around me until it’s all I can breathe—cedarwood and honey and something deeper underneath.
Something that makes my omega instincts purr with satisfaction.
Alpha. Safe. His.
His hands cover mine as he guides my fingers to one of the carving tools.
“Thumb here,” he murmurs, his voice low and close to my ear. “Index finger there. That gives you control.”
I try to focus on the knife in my hands, but every nerve in my body is focused on him. The solid width of his chest against my back. The way his breath stirs my hair. The gentle strength of his hands as they position mine.
“The grain tells you where to go.” He guides my hand in a slow, careful stroke. A curl of wood falls away, revealing the lighter grain beneath. “You don’t force it. You follow it. Let the wood show you what it wants to become.”
“And if I don’t know what it wants?”
“You will.” His thumb traces across my knuckles, and I shiver. “You just have to pay attention. Listen. Be patient.”
“I’m not very good at patient.”
“I’ve noticed.” There’s warmth in his voice. Affection. “That’s okay. I’m patient enough for both of us.”
We work together in silence for a while. Him guiding, me learning. The wood takes shape under our combined hands, becoming something round and curved. A bowl emerging from the raw block, one careful stroke at a time.
It’s meditative in a way I didn’t expect. The rhythm of it. The focus required. For the first time in days—maybe weeks—my brain goes quiet. No to-do lists scrolling through my head. No panicked calculations about vendor deadlines. Just this. The wood. His hands on mine. His scent in my lungs.
“The nesting bench you made for Ben,” I say quietly. “The one at his cabin.”
His hands still on mine. “Yes?”
“When did he commission it?”
A pause. “Few months ago. Before he even bought the cabin.”
“Why? He wasn’t seeing anyone. He didn’t have an omega.”
“No.” Elijah’s voice is low against my ear. “He said he wanted something ready. For someday. For when he found the right omega.”
My breath catches. “He was waiting for me. Even then.”
“We all were. In different ways.” His thumb traces along my wrist, finding my pulse point. It’s racing. “Ben commissioned furniture. Milo memorized your coffee order. I...” He pauses, and I feel him take a breath. “I made things you’d touch. Even if you didn’t know they were for you.”
I turn in his arms.
It’s a small space, the gap between his body and the workbench. He doesn’t step back to give me room. Instead, he plants his hands on the bench on either side of me, caging me in without trapping me. I could duck under his arm if I wanted to leave.
I don’t want to leave.
“The heart vases,” I say, looking up at him.
“The heart vases. The stage I’m building for the auction.
The new shelves in your office that the town council commissioned last fall.
” His jaw is tight, like he’s fighting to get the words out.
Like this is harder for him than anything else we’ve talked about tonight.
“Every time you touch one of my pieces, I feel like part of me is with you. Even when I can’t be. ”
Oh god.
This quiet, steady man has been loving me in silence all this time. Through wood and work and waiting. And I never knew. I was so busy building walls and making lists and convincing myself I didn’t need anyone that I missed it completely.
“Elijah.” My voice comes out shaky. “I don’t—I don’t know how to do this. I’ve never had a family. I don’t know how to be part of one. Part of a pack. I don’t know how to let people in without waiting for them to leave.”
“I know.” His hands move from the workbench to my waist, warm through my sweater. “I’m not asking you to have it figured out.”
“Then what are you asking?”
He leans down until his forehead presses against mine. His breath mingles with mine, and his scent is everywhere—grounding, warm, safe.
“Just let us try,” he says. “Let us show up. Let us prove we’re not going anywhere.”
“You already have,” I whisper. “That’s what scares me. You’re all worth it, and that means I have something to lose.”
“Or something to gain.” He pulls back just enough to look at me, those golden-brown eyes so close I can see the flecks of amber in them. “A family, Tessa. A pack. People who will be there. No matter what.”
A tear slips down my cheek before I can stop it. He catches it with his thumb, brushing it away with the same gentleness he uses on his wood.
“How do you know?” I ask. “How can you be so sure?”
“Because I’ve watched you for three years,” he says simply. “Because I know exactly who you are. And I’m still here. We’re all still here. And we’re not going anywhere.”
I don’t have words for what I’m feeling. This overwhelming, terrifying hope.
So I do the only thing that makes sense.
I kiss him.