“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 abouttonight. “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.
