69. Chapter Sixty-Nine
Chapter Sixty-Nine
T he pencil moves across the page almost without my conscious direction, gray lines emerging to form the curve of a spring flower. My fingers feel both clumsy and desperate, like they've been waiting for this release of my emotions that I have been bottling up. The living room couch cushions have molded to my body in the past hour, sunlight spilling through the windows in pools of gold that shift imperceptibly as the afternoon wears on.
I adjust my position, tucking one leg beneath me and balancing the sketchbook more comfortably against my knee. The house is quiet except for the occasional creak of settling wood and the soft scratch of graphite against paper. From somewhere in the kitchen, I can hear Elias humming, the melody interspersed with the clatter of pots and pans. The sound wraps around me like a blanket, familiar now in ways I wouldn't have expected a month ago.
The themed season cards for the gift boxes were my idea, something to make our products stand out at the market. Four cards: spring, summer, autumn, winter. Each with its own personality, its own story to tell. I'm working on spring now—delicate flowers pushing through half-melted snow, a ribbon of green winding through the composition.
"Winter thaws," I murmur to myself, giving voice to the card's unwritten message. "Life returns." My pencil traces the outline of a snowdrop, its white bell drooping with elegant vulnerability. I switch to a softer pencil to deepen the shadows beneath it, creating the illusion of depth. For the gift boxes, I want each card to feel special, handcrafted. I plan to sketch them all first, getting the compositions right, then finish them with watercolor washes and fine ink lines for definition. The thought of seeing them completed, tucked into our wooden gift boxes alongside Elias's creations makes me smile. My contribution. My place.
I set down my pencil and stretch my fingers, feeling the slight cramping that comes from holding a drawing tool too tightly. I look down at my drawing again. I had moved onto the spring scene and it is coming together, the composition balanced but not rigid. I've left space for the watercolors to bloom and spread, for the ink to add definition where needed. I've learned to leave room for the unexpected, for the materials to speak for themselves.
I take a deep breath, picking up the pencil again when I hear footsteps approaching from the hallway. The sound doesn't make me tense. That's new. My fingers continue their dance across the paper, adding a curl of vine here, the suggestion of a leaf there. I'm relaxing more with each passing minute, the creative flow washing away the lingering unease that's been my constant companion for so long.
For the first time in years, I feel truly at home. Not just physically safe, but emotionally anchored. I smile to myself, adding one last detail to my drawing before looking up to see who's entering the room.
Finn appears in the doorway. He stands for a moment, hands dusted with fine sawdust that catches the afternoon light, his eyes finding mine across the room with the precision of someone who's been aware of my presence in the house all along. His expression softens, lips curving into a smile that creates fine lines at the corners of his eyes.
"Mind if I join you?" he asks, already moving toward me with that deliberate grace of his, each step placed with the same careful intention he brings to his woodworking.
I shift slightly on the couch, making space beside me. "It's your living room."
"Our living room," he corrects gently, lowering himself onto the cushion next to me. He smells of pine and cedar, the scents clinging to his clothes and skin like a second presence. His blonde hair is pulled back in its customary knot, though several strands have escaped to frame his face. He doesn't tuck them away, seemingly unconcerned with such small imperfections.
"What are you working on?" His gaze drops to my sketchbook, but he doesn't reach for it or try to look too closely—respecting the private space between artist and creation.
"Season cards for the gift boxes," I explain, angling the book slightly so he can see the spring design. "I had talked to Elias before about them….I am giving it a try. I thought they would make it more personal. "
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 a real 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 was the 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?"
Finn's smile turns reflective. "Still working on it. But I'm closer here than I've ever been." He gestures vaguely, encompassing the house and, by extension, the pack within it. "Having people who see you clearly helps. Even when—especially when—they're teasing you mercilessly."
"I'll keep that in mind," I promise with mock solemnity.
"Please do. Elias gets far too comfortable when no one challenges him." The mention of Elias brings with it an awareness of the sounds from the kitchen—the opening and closing of cabinet doors, the clatter of utensils, the occasional muttered word. The house feels alive around us, vibrating with the presence of others who have somehow, improbably, become important to me.
"You're thinking too hard again," Finn observes, reaching out to tap my sketchbook lightly. "Maybe you should go back to your flowers. They seem to settle you."
The observation is astute— art has always been my refuge, my way of ordering chaos into something meaningful. I open the book again, finding my place.
"Don't let me distract you," Finn says, settling more comfortably beside me. "I just wanted to check in. I can sit quietly."
And he does, his presence beside me neither demanding nor intrusive. The silence between us is comfortable, punctuated by the soft sounds of my pencil on paper and his occasional shift in position. There's something profoundly calming about sharing space with someone who doesn't feel the need to fill every moment with words. As the afternoon light slowly shifts, casting longer shadows across the living room floor, I find myself more relaxed than I've been in years— sketching beside a man who has somehow become important to me, in a house that is beginning to feel like home.