70. Chapter Seventy
Chapter Seventy
T he scent reaches me before he does—fresh bread and something sweet, underscored by the distinctive notes that are uniquely Elias. I look up from my sketchbook as he appears in the doorway, his chestnut hair slightly mussed, a flour handprint marking the front of his apron like an abstract signature. He's barefoot despite the chill in the air, moving with that quiet confidence that seems to define him, as if he's perfectly at home in his own skin.
I'd chosen to stay in the living room rather than join him in the kitchen earlier. Not because his company wasn't welcome in these past few days— quite the opposite. Sometimes his presence is so easy, so inviting, that I find myself wanting to lean into it completely. It frightens me a little, that pull. So I've been giving myself small doses, like someone building a tolerance to a powerful drug.
Elias's eyes find Finn first, crinkling at the corners as his mouth curves into a warm smile. "Abandoning your wood shavings to bother our artist?" he teases, the affection in his voice unmistakable.
"Someone has to make sure she comes up for air occasionally," Finn replies, not moving from his spot beside me. "You know how us creative types get."
Elias shakes his head, a lock of hair falling across his forehead that he doesn't bother to sweep away. Then his gaze shifts to me, and there's a subtle change in his expression— a softening, a focus that makes it feel like the air between us has thinned slightly.
"I brought reinforcements," he says, crossing to where I sit and presenting a small plate with sliced apples, cheese, and what looks like freshly baked shortbread. In his other hand is a steaming mug, the fragrance of chamomile and something citrusy rising in gentle curls. "You haven't eaten since breakfast."
It's not a question or an accusation, just a quiet observation. I hadn't realized he'd noticed. I hadn't even noticed myself, too caught up in the flow of creation to register hunger.
"Thank you," I say, setting my sketchbook aside to accept his offerings. Our fingers brush in the exchange, a brief point of contact that sends a disproportionate warmth up my arm. "You didn't have to do that."
"I know." His smile deepens, hazel eyes warm in the afternoon light. "I wanted to." The simple statement hangs between us, unembellished and honest. That's one of the things I'm learning about Elias— he doesn't waste words or gestures. Everything he offers comes from genuine intent.
I take a sip of the tea, letting the flavors bloom across my tongue. Chamomile, yes, but also orange and a hint of honey, perfectly balanced. "This is delicious."
"Secret family recipe," he says with a wink. "Well, not really secret. My grandmother would tell anyone who asked. But people rarely thought to ask an Omega about her recipes."
There's no bitterness in the statement, just a matter-of-fact acknowledgment of the world as it is— or as it was for his grandmother. I'm struck again by his comfort with his identity, the way he wears his Omega status like a well-tailored garment rather than a heavy cloak to be hidden beneath.
"I'm almost done in the kitchen," Elias continues, glancing back toward the hallway. "Just have to let the bread cool and pack up a few things for tomorrow's market." He turns back to me, his expression shifting to something almost shy. "I was thinking, when I'm finished... maybe we could play a game? Or watch a movie? If you're tired of sketching, that is."
The invitation is casual, but there's an undercurrent to it— a deliberate effort to include me in their routines, to carve out space for me in their lives. I've spent so long on the periphery of communities, careful never to get too close, that the gesture feels significant in ways I can't fully articulate.
"I'd like that," I say, surprised by the steadiness in my voice. "I've made good progress on the cards. A break would be nice."
Elias's face brightens, as if my simple acceptance has given him some unexpected gift. "Great. You can pick what we watch. Finn's taste is terrible— all documentaries about extinct woodworking techniques."
"They're fascinating and you know it," Finn protests, nudging my shoulder lightly. "Besides, I'm looking forward to some Omega time. It's refreshing to have someone else around who understands the burden of dealing with self-important pack members."
The teasing is clearly aimed at Elias, and I can't help the laugh that escapes me at his expense. The dynamics between them are complex but comfortable.
Elias rolls his eyes, the gesture playfully exaggerated. "Says the man who spent three days perfecting the curve of a spoon handle because it didn't 'feel right' in his hand."
"It didn't," Finn insists, completely unrepentant. "And now it's perfect. You're welcome." Their banter has the easy rhythm of long familiarity, affection woven through every exchange. I watch them, sipping my tea, feeling both observer and participant in this small domestic scene.
"Keep her company," Elias says to Finn, his tone shifting to something more earnest. "And don't annoy her too much. I'll be back soon."
"I make no promises about the annoyance," Finn replies, settling more comfortably against the couch cushions. "But I'll keep her safe from any overzealous bakers who might force-feed her pastries."
Elias shakes his head, but the fond exasperation in his expression speaks volumes. He turns to leave, then pauses, glancing back at me. "The shortbread is best while it's still warm," he says softly. "Just so you know."
With that, he's gone, returning to the kitchen in that unhurried way of his. I find myself watching the empty doorway for a moment, as if his presence has left some tangible trace in the air.
"He's been baking all morning," Finn observes casually. "Started with bread for tomorrow's market, then moved on to at least three kinds of cookies. When he gets like that— creating food no one asked for— it usually means he's working through something in his head."
I turn to look at Finn, curious about this insight into Elias. "Is he okay?"
Finn's smile is knowing. "More than okay, I think. Just processing. Change can be good, but it still requires adjustment." His eyes meet mine, and there's a depth to his gaze that suggests layers of meaning. "Even welcome changes."
I'm not entirely sure what he's implying, but heat rises to my cheeks anyway. I reach for a piece of shortbread, using the motion to hide my sudden self-consciousness. The cookie is indeed still warm, crumbling slightly between my fingers. The first bite melts on my tongue— buttery and sweet, with a hint of vanilla and something else I can't quite identify.
"Oh," I breathe, the simple pleasure of it momentarily overriding all other thoughts.
"Yeah," Finn agrees, watching my reaction with satisfaction. "He's unfairly talented. It's annoying, really." But there's no real annoyance in his voice, only a deep appreciation thinly disguised as complaint. I'm beginning to understand how they function together— this balance of teasing and genuine admiration, the way they orbit each other while maintaining their own distinctive spaces.
"Where do I fit into all this?" The question slips out before I can stop it, voiced so quietly it's almost a whisper.
Finn considers me for a long moment, his expression thoughtful. "Wherever you want to," he finally says. "That's the thing about our pack— we don't force people into predetermined slots. We make room for them as they are."
The concept is so fundamentally different from everything I've known about pack structures that I struggle to fully grasp it. Traditional packs with their rigid hierarchies, their expectations and limitations— that's what drove me away, made me choose solitude over suffocation. This more fluid approach feels almost too good to be true.
"It's not always easy," Finn continues, as if sensing my skepticism. "Freedom can be harder than structure in some ways. But it's worth it, I think— finding your own place rather than having one assigned to you."
I nod slowly, turning his words over in my mind as I sip my tea. In the kitchen, I can hear Elias humming again, the sound punctuated by the occasional clink of pottery or metal. The house envelops us in its quiet comfort, a shelter not just from the physical elements but from the emotional ones as well.
"So," Finn says, breaking my reverie with a lighter tone. "What kind of movies do you like? So I can prepare appropriate counterarguments to whatever Elias suggests."
The normalcy of the question— so domestic, so ordinary— catches me off guard, and I laugh. "I honestly don't know. It's been a while since I've watched anything just for fun."
Finn's expression softens with understanding, but there's no pity in it— just a gentle recognition. "Then we'll have to conduct a thorough investigation of your tastes. For scientific purposes, of course."
"Of course," I agree, finding it easier than expected to slide into their rhythm of gentle teasing. "Very rigorous research protocols will be required."
"Absolutely. Multiple sessions, extensive data collection." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "We take our entertainment very seriously around here."
As we sit together, sharing the snacks Elias prepared and slipping into easy conversation. I take another bite of shortbread, letting myself savor it fully before going back to my sketchbook. Before I could get too engrossed in my drawing Finn spoke up.
"While we wait for the master baker," Finn says, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper that makes me smile despite myself, "would you like to see my workshop? I promise it's more interesting than watching bread cool." The invitation is casual, but there's something in his eyes— a gleam of genuine eagerness— that tells me this matters to him, this sharing of his creative space.
I set my sketchbook on the cushion beside me, placing my pencil carefully on top to mark my place. The apple slices and cheese Elias brought are gone, though I've saved one piece of shortbread for later, unable to part with its buttery perfection just yet.
"I'd love to," I say, surprising myself with my lack of hesitation. Usually, I need time to consider new experiences, to weigh potential threats against curiosity. But here, now, with Finn's invitation hanging in the air between us, there's no calculation— just simple wanting.
His face brightens, those laugh lines deepening around his eyes. "Fair warning— I might bore you with excessive detail about wood grain and joinery techniques."
"I think I can handle it," I reply, rising from the couch and stretching slightly to ease the stiffness from sitting so long. "I've been known to spend twenty minutes mixing the perfect shade of blue-green."
"Sounds like we're both hopeless cases," Finn says, standing with that fluid grace of his. He's taller than me by nearly a head, but he doesn't use his height to loom or intimidate— just exists in his lanky frame with easy confidence. "This way, little artist. Mind your step on the stairs."
He leads me through the living room and down a hallway I haven't fully explored yet. The house is larger than it appears from outside, with corridors that branch in unexpected directions and rooms that reveal themselves only after you've passed some invisible threshold of belonging. Or maybe that's just how it feels to me— the space expanding as I'm granted greater access to it.
"The workshop's on the other side of the house," Finn explains, his voice carrying easily in the quiet hallway. "And down in the basement. Better climate control for the wood, and the noise doesn't bother anyone when I'm working late."
"You work late often?" I ask, following his tall form as we pass several closed doors.
He glances back at me, a smile playing at the corners of his mouth. "Sometimes ideas don't respect reasonable hours. I'm sure you've never experienced that with your art, though."
The gentle sarcasm makes me laugh. "Never. I always stop precisely at five o'clock, regardless of inspiration."
"Naturally. Very professional of you." His eyes crinkle with amusement. "Though I've noticed your light on at two in the morning more than once since you've been here."
The casual observation catches me off guard— not in an unpleasant way, but in the realization that he's been aware of me, my habits, my nocturnal wanderings. I've grown so accustomed to being invisible that being seen feels both exposing and oddly comforting.
We reach a door at the end of the hallway, heavy and solid-looking, with a simple brass handle that's been worn to a soft patina by countless touches. Finn pauses with his hand on it.
"It's not always tidy down here," he warns, a hint of self-consciousness creeping into his voice. "Creative chaos and all that."
"You've seen my studio at the shop," I remind him. "Paint splatter is not exactly the height of organization." This seems to reassure him. He turns the handle and pushes the door open, revealing a staircase leading down into what had once been an ordinary basement but has clearly been transformed into something else entirely.
The scent hits me first— wood in various states of being, from raw lumber to fresh sawdust to the subtle notes of finishing oils and waxes. As we descend the stairs, the temperature drops slightly, the air taking on a pleasant coolness that contrasts with the warmth of the living areas above.
Finn flips a switch at the bottom of the stairs, and soft lighting blooms throughout the space— not the harsh fluorescents I'd expected, but a carefully arranged system of fixtures that illuminate the large room evenly, creating pools of focused light over workbenches while maintaining a general ambient glow.
The workshop is larger than I'd imagined, occupying what must be most of the house's footprint. One wall is lined with lumber racks, holding boards of various sizes and species— cherry and maple, oak and walnut, each with its unique coloration and grain pattern. Along another wall runs a workbench that looks like it's been in use for decades, its surface marked with the evidence of countless projects. Tools hang on pegboards above it, arranged with meticulous care— chisels graduating in size, hand planes organized by function, measuring tools and marking gauges all within easy reach.
In the center of the room stands a massive table saw, its cast iron surface gleaming dully under the lights. Beside it, a band saw and jointer form a triangle of major machinery, with dust collection hoses connecting them to a system I can see humming discreetly in a corner.
But it's the far end of the workshop that draws my eye— there, bathed in the most generous pool of light, stands what must be Finn's primary workbench. Unlike the utilitarian benches along the walls, this one has the look of a personal sanctuary. The wooden surface is immaculate, and around it are arranged current projects in various stages of completion.
"This is incredible," I breathe, turning slowly to take it all in. "You built all this?"
Finn shrugs, but I can see the pride he's trying to downplay. "The major setup was here when I joined the pack, but I've been refining it ever since. Elias says I'm obsessive about my tool arrangements. He's not wrong."
I move deeper into the space, drawn to a set of shelves where dozens of wooden boxes sit in neat rows— the gift boxes for our market products. Up close, I can see the extraordinary care that's gone into each one: finger joints cut with perfect precision, surfaces sanded to a silky smoothness, subtle grain patterns oriented to create visual harmony. They appear simple at first glance, but the details reveal themselves upon closer inspection— tiny bevels that catch the light just so, lids that fit with satisfying precision, the occasional inlay of contrasting wood that adds a touch of subtle elegance.
"These are beautiful," I say, running my finger along the edge of one box. "I knew they were well-made, but I didn't realize..."
"That I'm slightly maniacal about the details?" Finn supplies, coming to stand beside me. "It's a character flaw. Or feature, depending on who you ask."
"Definitely a feature." I pick up one of the boxes, feeling its perfect balance in my hand. "Most people wouldn't notice half of what you've done here, but they'll feel it somehow— the rightness of it."
Something in Finn's posture shifts at my words, a tension releasing that I hadn't realized was there. "That's exactly it," he says quietly. "The feeling transcends the noticing."
Our eyes meet briefly, and there's a current of understanding that passes between us— the recognition of shared artistic values, of caring deeply about details that might never be consciously appreciated but matter nonetheless.
"Come see what I'm working on now," he says, leading me toward his main workbench.
I follow, noting how differently he moves here in his creative space— more fluid, more assured, as if the physical environment itself reinforces his sense of self. On the benchtop are several projects in progress: what looks like a small jewelry box with an intricately carved lid; a set of delicate wooden spoons, their handles flowing in organic curves; and something covered with a soft cloth.
"These are prototypes for new market items," Finn explains, gesturing to the spoons. "I'm experimenting with different woods to find the perfect balance between durability and tactile pleasure. People are more likely to buy things they can't help touching."
He demonstrates, placing a spoon in my hand. The handle fits perfectly against my palm, its surface warm and inviting. "Cherry," he says. "Good for everyday use, develops a beautiful patina over time."
He shows me each project in turn, explaining his process and the thinking behind his designs. His passion is evident in every word, every gesture. I find myself captivated not just by the craftsmanship but by his relationship to it— the deep respect for materials, the patience with process, the clear joy he takes in bringing latent beauty to the surface.
"And this," he says finally, his hand hovering over the cloth-covered object, "is something I've been working on for a while. For you, actually— if you'd like it."
My breath catches slightly. "For me?"
His eyes meet mine, and there's a vulnerability there I haven't seen before. "I started when you agreed to our courting… Call it a woodworker's intuition." His smile turns self-deprecating. "Or just hopeful thinking."
The knowledge that he's been creating something specifically for me— before I'd even agreed to let them court me— sends an unexpected warmth spiraling through my chest. I've received few gifts in my life, and fewer still that were made with such intentional care.
"I'd be honored to see it," I say, my voice softer than I intended.
Finn's expression warms, and he nods once, decisively. "Good. Because I really want to give it to you." His hand lingers on the cloth, and I find myself holding my breath, waiting for the revelation of whatever lies beneath.