Chapter Ten
Frankie
I wake up on Friday morning before seven a.m., which feels like a personal betrayal.
I don’t know if it’s habit, instinct, or the fact that I accidentally fell asleep with the scent of three alphas and one stress-induced spreadsheet open on my phone, but I’m wired, awake, and fully dressed before the sun’s even doing its job.
And the house is blissfully silent.
I head downstairs to stare into the fridge, but when I step into the kitchen, Finn’s already there. His floppy blond hair’s a little messy, a white tee slung over his shoulder, barefoot, sleepy-eyed, and unfairly wholesome.
He glances up, surprised.
“Hey. You’re up early.”
I gesture vaguely at my own body. “Apparently I’ve evolved into one of those terrifying morning people who drink water and read productivity blogs.”
He chuckles. “I was just about to make eggs. Want some?”
The word sure is on the tip of my tongue, but then I raise an eyebrow.
“Or… hear me out… what if we went to that diner I keep hearing about? You know, the one where the chairs stick and the omelets have reputations?”
“Hazel’s?” Finn grins. “It’s perfect . No one’s ever gotten food poisoning, and the pancakes are basically legally binding.”
I glance toward the hall. “The others?”
“Dead to the world,” he says, already grabbing his keys. “No training until lunch. Rory put it on the calendar. Capital letters.”
“And you’re just… up ?”
“I like mornings, and I like pancakes,” he shrugs, like he doesn’t know how to explain it. “And I think you could use a proper breakfast.”
I eye him. “Are you flirting with me, or trying to make sure I don’t skip meals?”
“Can’t it be both?”
Ten minutes and a brisk walk later, we’re at Hazel’s Diner. The place is small, warm, and aggressively yellow. There’s a cowbell on the door that announces our presence to literally everyone, and a laminated sign by the register that says No Fighting, No Heat Disputes, No Loud Opinions About Toast.
A few heads turn when we walk in. Two older women sitting at a corner booth whisper something to each other and wave at Finn. Behind the counter, a broad-shouldered man with a gray beard and an apron that says Bacon Is My Love Language raises his chin in greeting. He’s got the tired eyes of someone who’s seen three generations of local drama and lived to mock it.
Finn nods back. “Morning, Mark.”
“Is this her?” the man squints.
“Depends,” Finn says, guiding me to a booth. “Her who ?”
“The one behind the videos,” Mark clarifies, like it’s obvious. “You know: the slow-motion lunge? My wife’s got a theory you choreographed it.”
I slide into the booth and smile politely.
“I’m just doing my job. And apparently ruining the local thirst curve while I’m at it.”
Mark laughs. “Hazel’ll be out in a sec. You want the usual, son?”
“Two double stacks with extra butter, and an oat milk latte if you’re still pretending to carry it.”
“I got two cartons yesterday.”
Finn turns to me, all sunny and soft. “You good with pancakes?”
“I feel emotionally ready,” I nod.
“To drink?”
“Juice is fine,” I tell him.
“And an apple juice, too.”
“Coming right up,” Mark nods.
A woman appears round the corner with a notepad in hand a blunt, no-nonsense expression, and I immediately assume that this is Hazel. She’s wearing a purple fleece with no name tag, and the sharp glare of a woman who’s been running this place—and everyone in it—for the past thirty years.
“Finn Whitaker,” she calls. “You’re late.”
“It’s seven-fifteen!” he whines.
“And I said Thursday. We had a deal.”
“I brought an apology omega,” he offers, gesturing to me.
Hazel gives me a once-over and narrows her eyes.
“You’re small.”
“I’m quick,” I say. “And I film thighs for a living.”
Her mouth twitches in approval.
The food doesn’t take too long to arrive, and it’s perfect . The coffee is strong enough to burn off regret, and Hazel reappears by our booth three separate times just to stare at Finn like he’s her personal charity case. He smiles at her every time.
“You come here a lot,” I say, when she disappears again.
“At least once a week,” he says. “Sometimes more. The guys say that the food’s too greasy, so I usually come on my own, unless Jax is in the mood. I think Hazel felt kind of sorry for me. She used to give me free coffee and told me I looked too pretty to be lonely.”
“She’s not wrong.”
He blinks. “You think I’m pretty?”
“Finn,” I deadpan, “you made a woman tear up at the bakery the other day by complimenting her croissants. You’re aggressively pretty.”
He ducks his head, cheeks flushing pink. “You think that’s aggressive?”
“I’ve seen your thighs. Yes.”
He laughs again, soft and surprised, like he wasn’t expecting me to go there.
There’s a beat of quiet, then we eat in comfortable silence until someone walks in wearing an Alderbridge RFC cap and grins when they spot him.
“You’re really settling in,” Finn says gently. “People like you.”
“They don’t even know me,” I say.
“They’re watching,” he says. “They see the way we talk to you. The way you fit.”
I pause. Stir my coffee.
“It’s weird,” I admit. “I’ve been on my own and in the city for so long, I didn’t think anything about being invisible. So I’m not used to… anyone watching. Or caring if I ate breakfast.”
He gives me a small, crooked smile. “You’ll get used to it.”
We finish up, and the check arrives as I rub my swollen stomach. Hazel has written OMEGA FRIEND DISCOUNT across the top in blue pen, and I can’t help but snort at it.
“Well. That’s official.”
Finn settles the bill before I can even fake-reach for my purse.
As we step out into the cool morning air, he looks over at me, still smiling. “Next time we’re getting the cinnamon roll platter.”
“Next time?” I ask.
“You’re in Alderbridge,” he shrugs. “Breakfast is sacred.”
*
By Friday night, the whole house is coiled tight with pre match-day tension.
Dinner was… weirdly quiet. Jax didn’t speak, which was normal; Rory’s food went cold as he stared at strategy notes the whole time; Theo carved his chicken breast with a deeply furrowed brow; and Finn asked if everyone was hydrated, then apologized for hovering and offered electrolytes.
I’d kept my head down and eaten in silence before clearing the table, trying not to let the fact that I was currently wearing one of Theo’s hoodies and Rory’s scent-stained blanket-slippers short-circuit my nervous system.
Now, the plates are clean, the lights are dim, and Theo has snapped out of whatever trance he was in before and has declared that we need a team bonding activity.
Which is how I find myself cross-legged on the living room floor with four absurdly hot alphas and a bowl of snacks, trying not to read into the fact that every single one of them keeps sitting just slightly too close.
Theo grins as he produces a deck of cards from absolutely nowhere.
“Alright. Truth or dare: team version. You pick a player, then pick truth or dare. No skips, no flaking, and no pretending this is a drill session.”
Finn leans toward me. “You don’t have to play if it’s too much.”
“I’m fine,” I say. Which is a lie, but I’m very determined to be brave about it.
I draw the first card.
Nothing happens. It’s just a two of hearts.
“I think it’s just symbolic,” Theo shrugs. “You start.”
I scan the group. Jax is watching me calmly. Rory is pretending not to look at all. Theo’s smirking. Finn’s trying very hard to seem neutral.
“…Finn,” I say, because he’s the safest option. “Truth or dare?”
“Truth,” he says immediately. “But I reserve the right to clarify.”
“Okay. Um…” I think. “Who was your first crush?”
He blushes. Actually blushes . “My physio in junior league. She used to tape my knee. I thought we were soulmates because she gave me a granola bar once.”
Theo howls in laughter, while Rory just rolls his eyes. Jax doesn’t look as though this is news to him in the slightest.
“My turn,” Finn says quickly. “Frankie. Truth or dare?”
I squint. “Truth.”
“What’s the worst thing you’ve googled since moving in?”
I cough. “Is it illegal to accidentally scent-bond in your sleep.”
A beat of silence.
Then Theo starts laughing so hard he chokes on a tortilla chip.
Rory’s mouth twitches even as he reaches over to give Theo several hard whacks on the back. Jax raises an eyebrow but says nothing, and Finn looks somewhat apologetic.
“My turn,” I say, recovering. “Theo. Dare.”
He brightens, wiping his eyes. “ Finally .”
“I dare you to go ten full minutes without saying anything innuendo-adjacent.”
His face falls. “You want me to die.”
“Rules are rules,” I shrug.
He dramatically zips his lips.
Rory picks next. “Frankie. Truth or dare.”
“Truth.”
“What were you thinking the first time you saw us?”
My mouth dries.
“I—uh—” I glance at the group. “All of you individually?”
“Yes.”
“Okay. I thought Jax might murder me and hide the body efficiently. I thought Theo’s compression shorts were a cry for help. I assumed Finn was going to hug me and start reeling off affirmations. And you ”—I look directly at Rory—“I thought that you were intimidating as fuck.”
Rory nods. “Fair.”
Theo throws a chip at my head, and the game spirals from there.
We learn that Finn once cried because a goose made eye contact with him during a nature walk and “seemed really lonely.” Jax can sing but refuses to. Rory broke a table in high school and blamed the janitor. I admit I once pretended to be allergic to dry-erase markers just to get out of group projects. Theo calls it “strategic brilliance.”
But beneath the laughter, something’s building.
The dares get bolder.
Jax is dared to take off his shirt and do ten slow push-ups while making eye contact with me. He doesn’t flinch. Just drops to the floor, peels his shirt off like it’s a napkin, and starts lowering himself with terrifying control.
By push-up four, I’ve forgotten how to breathe.
By seven, I’m planning a wedding.
By ten, I’m praying for strength—and maybe a cold shower.
Finn has to whisper something filthy in someone’s ear, and chooses me. He leans in close, his voice low and warm, his lips brushing against the shell of my ear.
“If you were mine, I’d have you bent over that coffee table before you could even think about safe words.”
I go still. Absolutely motionless.
Because this is Finn —soft, sweet, cardigan-core Finn, the man who carries reusable bags and apologized to a moth he found in the bathroom yesterday morning—and he just said that with a straight face.
I do not recover.
Theo loses the no-innuendo for ten minutes challenge and gets punished with a dare to sit on the floor beside me and stay quiet for five minutes.
He lasts two before resting his hand on my ankle and whispering, “Do you know how good you smell right now?”
I kick him gently. He grins wider.
Rory refuses all dares involving shirt removal, but he doesn’t move when I lean against the edge of the couch near him. Doesn’t blink when I accidentally brush his knee. Doesn’t stop watching me once.
It’s late when the game fizzles out. The living room is dim, the snacks are gone, and my brain’s officially cooked.
Someone makes a comment about getting up early tomorrow ready for the game. Someone else groans. There’s still tension in the air, but it’s quieter now—much more settled under the surface.
I yawn, then move to stand. “I’m going to bed.”
Theo lifts a hand lazily. “Need help getting tucked in?”
“No. Go hydrate.”
“Already did. Want to scent-check my breath?”
“Go away.”
Finn smiles, soft and warm. “Sleep well, Frankie.”
Rory nods. Jax doesn’t say anything, but his gaze lingers longer than it should.
By the time I get to my room, I’m not tired anymore. I’m wired.
I kick off my socks, crawl into my bed, and immediately freeze.
It smells like them. All of them. Not just vaguely, and not just hints—but fully saturated alpha scent.
I don’t remember when it happened, but somewhere between post-dinner teasing and Theo sitting too close, they somehow sunk into the fabric. Again .
I lie on my back, staring at the ceiling. I don’t move. I don’t sniff. I don’t moan or roll or rub my face in anything—I just breathe .
This is dangerous.
This is how it starts.
Packs don’t form in a single moment. I should know—I’ve spent far too many nights reading up about them, curiosity getting the better of me.
It’s not one dramatic claiming, or a group knotting session under a blood moon. It’s slow. It’s scent acclimation, territory sharing, non-verbal cues and emotional imprinting. It’s prolonged exposure, familiarity, trust.
Then scent entanglement. Then bond pressure.
Then instinct decides for you.
I’m not there yet. I know that.
But I’m not exactly not there either.
I’ve been in this house for just over a week. These alphas have seen me faint, panic, flinch, and purr. They’ve seen me in heat-adjacent spirals, rotating wearing their hoodies, and early morning’s where I’ve been near half-conscious. They’ve made me tea, bought me snacks, walked me around town, and even carried me up the stairs when I fell asleep on the sofa— twice .
And tonight? They played cards with me. Talked. Teased. Laughed. Sat close enough that our knees touched, that their scent lingered on my skin long after they moved. Scented me—maybe accidentally, maybe not.
No one’s said the word pack , but the signs are starting to pile up. Cups brought without asking, space made without comment, their scent showing up in my room no matter how often I wash and change the sheets.
And the way they watch me like I belong.
I’m not supposed to want this. Despite my curiosity about how it works and how it would feel, I’ve spent my entire adult life avoiding exactly this kind of situation—close proximity, alpha exposure, the slippery slope of interdependence.
But it’s harder to stay cynical when they make space for me, when they laugh at my jokes. When Finn slips a chocolate bar onto my desk. When Rory fixes the door hinge to stop it squeaking. When Theo steals my phone to delete blurry photos and says he’s “ saving my dignity .” When Jax doesn’t say anything, but always notices when I look overwhelmed and changes the subject for me.
It’s small stuff, but it adds up; and now, even my stupid, stubborn scent is betraying me.
This room smells like home, and the mess of scented blankets, stolen hoodies and oven-mitts in the corner makes me feel safe.
I’m not in heat. I’m not bonded, either.
But I’m in a house with four alphas, and I’m starting to feel less like a guest and more like something else.
Not quite pack. Not quite not.
It’s confusing, and kind of nice, and really, really dangerous.
I bury my face in the pillow, breathe in the warmth, and mutter into the darkness.
“I swear to god, if one of you claims me by accident, I’m burning this house down.”
No one hears me.
But I’m pretty sure the nest does.