66. Chapter Sixty-Six
Chapter Sixty-Six
I was finding myself surprisingly eager for the prospect of greenhouse work. The idea of stepping outside, of feeling sunlight on my skin and soil beneath my fingers, is suddenly appealing in a way I couldn't have anticipated.
Elias smiles at me, reaching out a hand to help me up from the nest. Our fingers intertwine, his palm warm against mine, and he pulls me to standing with an effortless strength that belies his lean frame. For a moment we stand close—too close—our bodies separated by mere inches, our joined hands a bridge between us. His scent envelops me—honey and cinnamon and something uniquely him—and I find myself instinctively leaning closer before catching myself.
I step back hastily, breaking the strange spell that had momentarily descended. Elias clears his throat, releasing my hand with a gentleness that makes the loss of contact feel like a physical thing.
"I'll give you some privacy to get dressed," he says, his voice slightly rougher than before. "There are clean clothes in the dresser by the window—nothing fancy, just t-shirts and sweats and such." He gestures vaguely toward a solid oak dresser I hadn't noticed before. "They're communal pack clothes, so you're welcome to anything that fits. Or Lucian brought your bag up yesterday if you'd prefer your own things."
The consideration in this simple offering—the choice between borrowing their clothes or wearing my own—touches me in an unexpected way. It's such a small thing, but it highlights once again how these men constantly give me options, respecting my agency in even the most mundane decisions.
"Thank you," I murmur, suddenly self-conscious in the oversized t-shirt I slept in. "I'll just... get changed, then."
Elias nods, backing toward the door. "I'll be in the kitchen starting breakfast. Take your time." With a final smile, he slips out, closing the door softly behind him.
Alone in the room, I take a deep breath, trying to center myself. The nest still holds our combined warmth, the imprints of our bodies visible in the arranged blankets. I turn away from it, moving toward the dresser Elias indicated. My fingers trail across the smooth wood, hesitating at the handles. There's an intimacy in borrowing clothes that feels significantly different from sleeping in their nest. The nest was a collective space, but clothes... clothes are personal.
After a moment's consideration, I spot my duffel bag tucked neatly in the corner of the room. I move toward it, intending to grab my own clothes, but curiosity tugs at me. I pause, then turn back to the dresser, slowly pulling open the top drawer. Inside are neatly folded t-shirts in various colors, some plain, others with faded logos or designs. I run my fingers over them, wondering which belong to whom, imagining these four men sharing clothes with the same ease they share everything else.
On impulse, I select a soft heather-gray shirt that looks like it might fit me. I hold it to my nose, inhaling deeply. It smells of laundry detergent and a faint trace of what I'm beginning to recognize as their collective pack scent—a complex blend of all four of them that somehow forms something entirely unique. The scent is comforting in a way I don't fully understand.
I pair the borrowed shirt with my own jeans from yesterday, quickly changing in the early morning light. The shirt hangs loose on my frame, the sleeves reaching past my elbows, but there's something oddly satisfying about being wrapped in fabric that carries their essence. I roll the sleeves up, adjust the hem, and run my fingers through my tangled hair in a futile attempt to tame it.
When I finally make my way to the kitchen, I find Elias at the counter, slicing bread with careful precision. Elias looks up as I enter, his face brightening. "There you are," he says, as if I've been gone for days rather than minutes. His eyes take in the borrowed shirt, a small smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "That looks good on you."
I glance down, suddenly self-conscious. "I hope it's okay that I borrowed it. I should have just used my own clothes..."
"It's more than okay," he assures me, setting down his knife. "Like I said, the casual clothes are communal. Pack sharing and all that." He gestures to the bread on the cutting board. "I'm just making something simple—toast and jam. Sound okay?"
The thought of food makes my stomach twist uncomfortably. Despite the twelve hours of sleep, I feel drained, hollowed out by yesterday's emotional turmoil. "Actually, I'm not really hungry," I admit. "Maybe just some tea?"
Elias pauses, his brows drawing together in concern. "When did you last eat, Lydia?"
The question makes me think. Yesterday is a blur of panic and tears, but I'm fairly certain I didn't eat after my morning coffee. "I... don't remember," I confess. "Lunch, maybe? Or... no, I skipped lunch because I was working on an art piece, and then my mother showed up, and after that I..."
"So you haven't eaten since yesterday morning," Elias concludes, his voice gentle but firm. "That's almost twenty-four hours, Lydia. You need to eat something, even if it's just toast." He selects a jar from a row on the counter—strawberry preserves, I note, the same kind I bought from him at the market just last week. "You don't have to finish it if you really can't, but at least try?"
The care in his voice, in his eyes, makes it hard to refuse. I nod reluctantly. "Alright. Just a little, though."
Elias beams as if I've agreed to something much more significant than merely eating toast. "Excellent. Sit down—it'll just take a minute." He gestures to the island, where two stools sit tucked beneath the overhanging counter. I perch on one of the stools, watching as Elias moves about the kitchen with the ease of someone completely at home in their space. He slides the bread into a toaster, then reaches for a kettle that's already steaming on the stove. The familiar ritual of tea-making—the cups retrieved from cabinets, tea leaves measured into a strainer, hot water poured with careful attention—soothes me in an unexpected way.
"Chamomile okay?" he asks, holding up a small tin. "It's good for stress."
"Perfect," I say, touched that he's remembered my preference for herbal teas. He places a steaming mug before me just as the toaster pops. The rich scent of toasted sourdough fills the kitchen as he transfers the bread to plates. His movements are graceful, practiced—a dance he's performed countless times. The jar of preserves opens with a soft pop, and he spreads a generous layer over each piece of toast before setting a plate in front of me.
"Thank you," I murmur, wrapping my hands around the warm mug. "This is... really nice of you."
Elias shrugs, settling onto the stool beside me. "It's just toast," he says, but we both know it's more than that. It's care, attention, the refusal to let me neglect myself even in small ways.
I take a small bite of the toast, expecting to have to force it down. But the familiar flavors—the tang of sourdough, the sweet-tart burst of strawberry—awaken something in me. Suddenly, I'm ravenous, my body remembering what my mind had forgotten: I need sustenance to heal, to face whatever comes next.
"This is good," I admit between bites, surprised by my own appetite.
Elias smiles, a satisfied look crossing his features. "Told you. The body knows what it needs, even when the mind tries to ignore it." We eat in comfortable silence for a few minutes, the only sounds are the clink of our cups against saucers and the crunch of toast. The normalcy of it—sharing a simple meal in a sunny kitchen—feels like a gift after the chaos of yesterday. For a brief moment, I can almost pretend that this is my life, that I belong here in this warm kitchen with this gentle man.
The illusion is broken by the sound of footsteps in the hallway, quick and light with a bouncing energy I'm beginning to recognize. Soren. Sure enough, he appears in the doorway, his purple eyes bright with their usual mischief despite the early hour. He's barefoot, wearing loose track pants and a tank top that reveals more of his lean, muscled frame than I've seen before. His hair is tousled, as if he's just rolled out of bed or perhaps been running his fingers through it.
"Well, well," he drawls, a grin spreading across his face as he takes in the scene before him. "Breakfast for two? How romantic."
I feel heat rise to my cheeks, but before I can stammer out a response, Elias throws a dish towel at Soren's head with surprising accuracy. Soren catches it deftly, his reflexes quick despite his relaxed posture.
"Behave," Elias admonishes, though there's no real heat in his tone. "We're just having some toast before heading out to the greenhouse."
Soren's grin softens slightly as his gaze shifts to me. Despite his teasing, there's genuine warmth in his eyes, a concern that matches what I've seen in Elias and the others. "How are you this morning, Lavender girl?" he asks, the nickname rolling off his tongue with casual affection.
I fiddle with my mug, still not entirely comfortable with direct questions about my emotional state, especially from the most unpredictable member of the pack. "Better," I say finally, deciding that honesty is the simplest approach. "Not great, but... better than yesterday."
Soren nods, seeming satisfied with this answer. "Good," he says, moving further into the kitchen with that barely-contained energy that seems to define him. "One day at a time, right?" He opens the refrigerator, peering inside with exaggerated interest. "So, greenhouse duty today? Finn will be jealous—that's his domain, you know."
"We're just doing some basic maintenance," Elias explains. "I thought it might be a good activity for Lydia. Hands-on but peaceful."
Soren emerges with a carton of orange juice, which he drinks directly from despite Elias's disapproving look. "Smart thinking," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "Plants are good listeners. Never interrupt, never give unsolicited advice." He winks at me over the carton. "Unlike some people I could mention."
Despite myself, I feel a small smile tugging at my lips. There's something about Soren's irreverent energy that cuts through tension like a knife through butter. "Are you including yourself in that category?" I ask, surprised by my own boldness.
Soren's eyes widen in mock offense before he breaks into a delighted laugh. "She's got bite this morning! I like it." He caps the juice carton and returns it to the fridge, ignoring Elias's exasperated head shake. "And for your information, I give excellent advice. It's not my fault if people are too stubborn to take it."
I shake my head, taking a sip of my tea, Soren was always so unpredictable but his company was always warm and comforting.
“So, you plan to monopolise Elias for the rest of the day?” Soren asked, a grin on his face as he knows he is going to get a rise out of the two of us with his teasing. Feeling confident I let myself play his game.
"I take full responsibility," I say, keeping my face as solemn as I can manage. "I've developed a diabolical plan to monopolize Elias's time through strategic gardening requests."
Elias chokes on his tea, clearly surprised by my willingness to play along with Soren's game. Soren's eyes widen briefly before his grin turns positively wolfish. "She admits it!" he crows, pushing away from the counter to circle the island like a prosecutor approaching a witness stand. "A confession! And what, pray tell, do we get in return for the loan of our precious Omega? Hmm? We run a very tight ship around here, you know. Resources must be allocated properly."
I feel my lips twitching despite my attempt to maintain a straight face. There's something infectious about Soren's energy, about the way he treats everything like it's both the most important and the most ridiculous thing in the world simultaneously.
"Soren," Elias says, his tone warning but his eyes amused. "Lydia doesn't need to 'trade' anything for my time."
"No?" Soren asks, raising an eyebrow. "Seems unfair. I have to bribe you constantly." He turns back to me, stage-whispering loudly enough for Elias to hear. "Last week I had to promise to clean the bathroom for a month just to get him to make that chocolate cake I like."
"That's because you're a menace," Elias says mildly, not looking up from the dishes he's rinsing. "Lydia, on the other hand, is a delight." I hide my smile behind my mug, observing the easy dynamic between them.
"A delight?" Soren repeats, his voice rising in mock outrage. "I see how it is. One bat of those pretty blue eyes and you're wrapped around her finger. I've been trying the same thing for years with no success." He flutters his eyelashes at Elias, the effect comical with his angular features and mischievous expression.
Elias turns from the sink, drying his hands on a dish towel, and gives Soren a look that's somewhere between exasperation and fondness. "That's because you're about as subtle as a brick through a window, Soren. Lydia understands being subtle."
"I understand subtlety," Soren protests, his lower lip jutting out in an exaggerated pout. "I'm extremely subtle. Just ask Finn. He says I'm the most subtle person he's ever met."
"He was being sarcastic," Elias says dryly. "You were covered in purple paint at the time, if I recall."
"It was an artistic statement!" Soren insists, throwing his hands up dramatically. "The purple represented the inherent dichotomy of—"
"Of you not watching where you were going and knocking over an entire bucket of paint?" Elias finishes, his eyes twinkling. "Very deep. Very philosophical."
I can't help it—a laugh escapes me at the mental image of Soren covered in purple paint, probably with the same expression of indignant innocence he's wearing now. Once I start, I can't seem to stop, the laughter bubbling up from some place inside me I thought had gone dormant. It feels rusty, unpracticed, but genuine. Both men turn to look at me, surprised by the sound.
"She laughs!" Soren exclaims, looking delighted. "And it's at you, not me. I consider this a personal victory."
Elias rolls his eyes, but he's smiling too, his expression soft as he watches me. "It's good to hear you laugh, Lydia," he says, the simple honesty in his voice catching me off guard. "Even if it's at my expense."
I manage to compose myself, though my cheeks hurt from smiling—an unfamiliar sensation after yesterday's tears. "Sorry," I say, not feeling sorry at all. "You two are just... entertaining."
"We try," Soren says with a theatrical bow. "Breakfast and a show, that's the motto around here. Speaking of which—" He turns to Elias with renewed interest. "What's for dinner tonight?"
Elias sighs, though there's no real annoyance in it. "I haven't decided yet. But since you're so curious, you can help with the meal planning later." He turns to me, his expression softening. "Ready for the greenhouse? We should head out while the morning light is still good."
I nod, sliding off the stool and placing my empty mug in the sink. "Yes, I'd like that. Elias suggested it might be a good way to keep my mind occupied for a while."
Soren's expression shifts, that mercurial energy focusing into something more serious, more intent. "Ah, distraction therapy. A solid choice." His voice loses some of its teasing edge, becoming softer, more genuine. "When I'm feeling messed up —which is more often than these guys would like, honestly—I usually go for a run or lift weights until my arms feel like they're going to fall off. Different approach, same principle." He shrugs, a surprisingly elegant movement for someone with such frenetic energy. "Physical activity, engaging the senses, getting out of your own head. It helps."
The sudden shift from playful banter to earnest advice catches me off guard. It's like glimpsing another layer of Soren beneath the jokes and dramatic gestures—someone who perhaps understands more about emotional struggle than his carefree demeanor might suggest.
"That's the idea," I say, meeting his eyes with newfound appreciation. "I just want to keep busy for a while. Not think about... everything."
Something like recognition flashes in Soren's purple eyes. "I get that," he says, and I believe him. "Sometimes you need to step away from your problems for a bit. Doesn't mean you're avoiding them. Just means you're giving your brain a breather so you can come back stronger."
I blink, surprised by the insight. "Yes, exactly. That's exactly it."
Elias glanced to the clock and back to Soren, "Weren't you supposed to meet Finn this morning? Something about helping with inventory for the gift boxes?"
Soren's expression shifts to one of comical dismay. "Was that today? I thought it was tomorrow." At Elias's raised eyebrow, he sighs dramatically.
"Fine, fine. Inventory it is. But you owe me a full report on the greenhouse adventures later." He points at me, his expression serious but his eyes twinkling. "Don't let him monopolize all the good pruning. He gets weirdly possessive about the herbs."
"I do not," Elias protests, but there's a slight flush to his cheeks that suggests Soren might be onto something.
"He does," Soren stage-whispers to me. "Once found him having a serious conversation with the basil plants. Very intense. Very personal."
I laugh again, the sound coming easier this time. "I'll keep an eye on him," I promise, playing along. "No illicit herb conversations on my watch."
Soren beams at me, clearly pleased with my participation in his teasing. "Good girl. I knew we could count on you." He stretches, arms reaching toward the ceiling in a languid motion that reminds me of a cat. "Well, I should probably get moving if I'm supposed to be helping Finn. You two have fun playing in the dirt."
The casual exchange, the easy way they've included me in their morning rituals and gentle teasing, makes something in my chest ache with a peculiar mixture of longing and contentment. For a few minutes, I've almost forgotten the reason I'm here—my mother's surprise visit, the emotional fallout, the uncertainty about what comes next. The reprieve, brief as it is, feels like a gift.
"Thanks, Soren," I say, meaning it more deeply than my light tone suggests. "For the entertainment."
His answering grin is knowing, as if he understands exactly what I'm thanking him for. "Anytime, Lavender girl. Anytime."