Chapter 21 Jessica
JESSICA
Three days without setting anything on fire.
I'm calling it progress.
The spreadsheet glows on my laptop screen, color-coded and beautiful. Blue for practices. Green for games. Yellow for travel. Red for conflicts, which there aren't any of anymore because I fixed them all.
I fixed them. Me. The woman who accidentally dispatched half the county's law enforcement to battle a trash panda.
Take that, Callum.
I lean back in my chair and stretch my arms over my head. The guest room has become my command center. Laptop on the desk. Clipboard on the nightstand. Stack of equipment requisition forms on the dresser that I've been working through every night before bed.
Sergio gave me actual responsibility. Not busywork. Not pity tasks. Real work that matters, that helps people, that makes me feel like something other than a disaster in borrowed clothes.
Speaking of borrowed clothes.
I look down at myself. Nacho's grey hoodie, the one I've been wearing since that first night. Carlos's flannel over top, soft from a thousand washes, smelling like sawdust and sandalwood. Pedro's wool socks, thick and warm, borrowed after I complained about cold feet at breakfast.
And underneath all of it, Sergio's old hockey jersey that I found in the laundry room and definitely did not steal.
I stole it. I absolutely stole it.
The fabric is worn thin from years of use, the number faded, his name barely visible across the shoulders.
I've been doing this for days. Collecting things. Soft things. Things that smell like them.
The rational part of my brain knows this is weird. Knows I'm acting like some kind of fabric-hoarding goblin, surrounding myself with textiles that belong to four men I'm not sleeping with.
The irrational part of my brain doesn't care. The irrational part wants more.
A knock at my door makes me jump.
"Yeah?"
"It's Pedro. Can I come in?"
My heart does something stupid in my chest. "Sure."
The door opens and he steps inside, and I immediately forget how to breathe.
He's fresh from the shower. Hair damp and pushed back from his face. Grey t-shirt clinging to shoulders that should require a permit. Sweatpants hanging low on his hips, revealing a strip of skin above the waistband that makes my mouth water.
Pedro’s scent cuts through all the other scents layered on my body. My omega perks up and starts purring like a broken engine.
Down, girl.
"I wanted to check on you." His voice is gruff. Clipped. Classic Pedro. "See how you're feeling."
"I'm fine. Great. I finished the equipment orders and updated the travel schedule for the next three months and I think I found a cheaper supplier for replacement helmets."
He's not listening.
He's staring at my bed.
I follow his gaze and feel my face catch fire.
The bed is a disaster. But not a normal disaster. Not a "I forgot to make my bed this morning" disaster.
It's a nest.
Blankets piled in a careful circle. Pillows arranged in a specific pattern that my brain apparently decided was necessary at three AM. Hoodies and flannels and soft things tucked into every available space, creating walls around a central hollow that looks exactly like what it is.
A place to curl up. A place to hide. A place to ride out a heat surrounded by the scents of alphas I trust.
Oh no.
Oh no no no.
"Jessica." Pedro's voice has dropped an octave. His eyes are dark when they meet mine. "How long has this been going on?"
"I don't know what you're talking about."
"The nest."
"That's not a nest. That's just. Laundry. Disorganized laundry. I was going to fold it."
"You were going to fold four different hoodies, two flannels, and a jersey into a circular pattern on your bed?"
"I'm an unconventional folder."
He crosses the room in three strides. I scramble to my feet, backing up until my shoulders hit the wall. He stops a foot away, I can see the individual droplets of water still clinging to his hair.
"Your scent." He's breathing through his mouth, jaw tight. "It's stronger."
"I showered this morning."
"That's not what I mean." He leans closer. His nose brushes my temple. I feel his inhale against my skin and shiver. "Peaches and honey. But sweeter. Thicker. Like it's building toward something."
My heart is pounding so hard he can probably hear it.
"Pedro."
"Your heat is close." He pulls back just enough to meet my eyes. "Days, not weeks. I'd estimate three or four based on your scent markers."
The words land like ice water.
"That's not possible. You said two weeks. At my appointment. You said I had two weeks."
"Bodies don't follow schedules. Especially not bodies that have been suppressed for years." His hand comes up to cup my jaw. His palm is warm. Calloused. I want to turn my face into it and never move. "Your omega is waking up fast. Trying to make up for lost time."
"I'm not ready."
"I know."
"I don't have a plan. I don't have. I don't know who. I mean, there are options but I haven't decided and I can't just."
"Breathe."
I try. It comes out shaky.
"Breathe," he says again, softer this time. His thumb strokes across my cheekbone. "In through your nose. Out through your mouth. That's it. Good."
I follow his rhythm. In. Out. In. Out. The panic recedes slightly, replaced by something warm and liquid that starts in my belly and spreads outward.
His scent is everywhere. Pine and mint flooding my lungs with every inhale. My omega is doing backflips, screaming at me to get closer, to press my body against his, to find out what sounds he'd make if I put my mouth on his neck.
I grip the hem of my stolen jersey and hold on.
"What do I do?" My voice comes out small. Scared.
"You have options." He drops his hand from my face. Steps back. The loss of contact feels like losing a limb. "Heat companions. Professional services. All consensual, all safe."
"Strangers."
“What?”
I shake my head. "I can't. I don't. The idea of someone I don't know touching me when I'm that vulnerable."
"Then someone you do know."
The air between us changes. Thickens.
"Someone like who?"
His jaw tightens. I watch the muscle jump beneath his skin.
"That's your choice. Not mine."
"What if I don't know how to choose?"
"Then you figure it out." His voice is rough. Strained. "Before your heat hits and the choice gets made for you."
He turns toward the door. I grab his wrist before I can stop myself.
"Wait."
He freezes. Looks down at my hand on his arm. Looks back at my face.
"The nest," I say. "All these clothes. They're not just random. They're."
"Ours. I know." His eyes bore into mine. "You've been collecting pieces of all four of us. Surrounding yourself with our scents. Building a space that smells like pack."
The word hits me like a punch to the gut.
Pack.
"I didn't mean to."
"Yes you did." He turns to face me fully. "Maybe not consciously. But your omega knows what it wants. What it needs." He steps closer. I should back up. I don't. "The question is whether your brain is going to let you have it."
"What if I don't know what my brain wants?"
"Liar."
The word is soft. Almost gentle. But it cuts right through me.
"You know exactly what you want," he continues. "You've known since you walked through our door. Since before that, probably. Since that night six years ago when Carlos kissed you and you ran."
"I was scared."
"You're still scared." He's so close now I can feel the heat radiating off his body. "But scared isn't the same as unsure. You can be terrified of something and still want it."
My breath is coming fast. Too fast. My hands are shaking.
"I want." I stop. Start again. "I want things I shouldn't want."
"Says who?"
"Common sense. Decency. The fact that you're my ex's best friends and wanting all four of you is insane and greedy and."
"Stop."
I stop.
"Wanting more than one person isn't greedy. Wanting a pack isn't wrong." His hand comes up again. This time it lands on my hip. His fingers curl into the fabric of Sergio's jersey. "Callum made you think your desires were too much. That you were too much. He was wrong."
"You keep saying that."
"Because it keeps being true."
His grip tightens on my hip. I feel the pressure through every layer of borrowed clothing.
"If I asked you to stay." My voice is barely audible. "During my heat. Would you?"
Something dark flares in his eyes. Something hungry.
"Yes."
"And the others?"
"They'd stay too." His voice is rough enough to strike matches on. "We've talked about it. All of us. We know what we want."
"Which is?"
"You." The word drops between us like a bomb. "All of you. Every piece. Every version. The mess and the brilliance and everything in between."
I'm going to cry. Or scream. Or climb him like a tree and see what happens.
Instead I say: "I'm still scared."
"I know." His free hand cups the back of my neck. Steadying. Grounding. "You can be scared and still say yes. You can be scared and still let us take care of you."
"I don't know how to be taken care of."
"Then let us teach you."
His forehead drops to rest against mine. We're sharing breath, and scents now.
"Three or four days," I whisper.
"Maybe less."
"I'm not ready."
"You will be." His lips brush my forehead. Light. Careful. A promise more than a kiss. "We'll make sure of it."
He pulls away. The cold rushes in to fill the space where his warmth used to be.
"Rest today. Eat protein. Drink water." He's back to doctor mode, but his voice is still rough. His eyes are still dark. "Your body is preparing for something intense. Give it what it needs."
"Okay."
"And Jessica?"
"Yeah?" Carlos grins.
"One small request. Let us know when you take our clothes. Nacho has been searching for a sweater all week. We love that you want to smell like us…it’s kinda cute.”
He leaves before I can respond.
I sink onto the edge of my nest and stare at the door he just walked through.
Three or four days. Maybe less.
My heat is coming. My first real heat. And four alphas are waiting to help me through it.
Four alphas who want me. All of me. The mess and the brilliance and everything in between.
I should be panicking. Should be making lists and plans and contingency strategies. Should be calling Sharon for another emergency meltdown session.
Instead I lie back on my nest. Pull Carlos's flannel tighter around my shoulders. Breathe in their scents.
My omega settles in my chest. Warm. Content.
Home, it whispers. We're home.
Just for today.
Tomorrow I can panic again.
Today I rest. I eat protein. I drink water.
And I try not to think about what it's going to feel like when they finally touch me.
I fail at that last one.
I fail spectacularly.
The knock comes at dinner time.
I've spent the last four hours alternating between staring at my laptop and rearranging my nest. The spreadsheet is done. Has been done since this morning. But I keep opening it, tweaking colors, adjusting formulas. Anything to keep my hands busy.
Anything to stop thinking about Pedro's hands on my body.
"Jess?" Carlos's voice through the door. "Dinner's ready. Nacho made stew."
"Coming."
I look down at myself. Still wearing four different brothers' clothing like some kind of scent-hoarding dragon. I should change. Should put on my own clothes. Should stop acting like a walking advertisement for pack bonding.
I don't change.
The hallway smells like beef and onions and fresh bread. My stomach growls so loud it echoes off the walls.
The kitchen is warm and bright. Nacho stands at the stove, stirring a massive pot with the focus of a man defusing a bomb.
Sergio sits at the head of the table, paperwork spread in front of him, pen tucked behind his ear.
Carlos is perched on the counter, legs swinging, stealing pieces of bread from a basket Pedro keeps moving out of his reach.
Four alphas.
All of them look up when I enter.
All of them inhale.
I watch their eyes darken. Watch their shoulders tense. Watch their nostrils flare as my scent hits them.
"You smell different," Carlos says. His voice is strained.
"Pedro told me." I hover in the doorway, suddenly unsure. “Maybe four days or less.”
Silence.
Sergio sets down his pen. Nacho stops stirring. Pedro's hand freezes on the bread basket.
Carlos slides off the counter and crosses the kitchen toward me. He stops a foot away, I can see the gold flecks in his blue eyes.
"You're wearing my flannel."
"And Nacho's hoodie. And Pedro's socks. And Sergio's jersey."
His lips twitch. "Quite the collection."
"I'm a goblin."
"You're nesting." His hand comes up to toy with the collar of his flannel. His flannel, on my body. "It's cute."
"It's embarrassing."
"It's omega." Nacho's voice from the stove. Calm. Steady. "Your body knows what it needs. There's no shame in that."
"Easy for you to say. You're not the one hoarding laundry like a deranged magpie."
Sergio makes a sound that might be a laugh. I turn to look at him and find him watching me with an expression I can't read.
"The jersey," he says. "How long have you had that?"
I feel my face heat. "Three days."
"Wondered where it went."
"I can give it back."
"No." His voice is firm. "Keep it."
"But."
"Keep it." He holds my gaze. "It looks better on you anyway."
All four of them are staring at me now, their eyes tracking my every move.
"Dinner," Nacho says, breaking the tension. "Everyone sit. The stew is ready."
I move toward my usual seat. The one between Carlos and Pedro. The one where I'm surrounded by warmth and scent and the low rumble of alpha voices.
Carlos pulls out my chair. Pedro fills my bowl before I can reach for the ladle. Sergio passes me the bread basket without being asked. Nacho sets a glass of water in front of me with the reminder to stay hydrated.
They're taking care of me.
All of them. In small ways. In constant ways.
Like I'm already theirs.
"Eat," Pedro says. His hand brushes my shoulder as he returns to his seat. "You need your strength."
I pick up my spoon.
I look around the table at four men who are watching me like I'm the most precious thing they've ever seen.
I know what I want.
I've always known.
The only question is whether I'm brave enough to take it.