Chapter Fifteen
Finn
F rankie’s passed out cold.
Not in a bad way. Not in an oops, I broke her way. More in a curled up like a sleepy kitten, low-key purring, body draped over the bed like she owns it and might actually file a long-term tenancy claim kind of way.
And that’s dangerous.
Because I could stay. I want to stay.
But if I stay any longer, I’m going to do something stupid—like scent her pillow, or rub my cheek on her shoulder, or even make that pathetic little noise my brothers mock me for when I’m overwhelmed and in love and trying to pretend I’m not both of those things at the same time.
So I do the hardest thing I’ve done all day— yes, harder than not rutting like a feral teenager with a thigh kink and a dream —and I slide out from under her.
I step out of the bed as quietly as possible and pull the blanket up over her, tucking her in. She hums in her sleep, face burrowing deeper into the pillow like she’s trying to absorb it via osmosis.
I smile, and then head over to the nest.
I mean, technically, it’s a mess of towels, hoodies, and rogue snacks; but whatever.
I crouch down and rummage through it until I find my favorite peppermint-scented blanket—the soft one I only bring out for thunderstorms and FIFA losses. I reach for the corner and pull it out from the pile—
And it’s... sticky. Suspiciously sticky.
Not the whole thing—just a few rogue patches.
I stare at it for a second, consider my life choices, then decide to move on without further investigation.
I bring it back to the bed, unfold it gently, and drape it over her for additional warmth and coziness.
I pause as I look down at her. She’s all flushed cheeks and messy hair and slightly parted lips, and she’s breathing in that slow, steady way that makes something deep in my chest ache.
She looks soft. Safe.
Safe because of me.
And that might be the best feeling I’ve ever had in my whole alpha-coded, feelings-heavy, rugby-loving life.
I step back and allow myself one last look and one last sniff of the sleepy, post-orgasm omega, then I shut the door behind me.
Deep breath. Lock it down.
And do what I always do when my brain is loud and my heart is louder:
I bake.
*
Fifteen minutes later, I’m in clean shorts, a fresh T-shirt, and standing in the kitchen measuring flour like it’s going to give me the answers to life, love, and omega-induced spiritual collapse.
The muffins I’m making are technically for the team.
Emotionally, they’re for me. Existentially, they’re an apology to the universe for the things I almost did on that mattress.
Stress-baking is kind of a personality trait at this point. Rory punches walls, Theo flirts with lawsuits, Jax disappears into the woods like a reclusive fairytale lumberjack—
And I bake.
“Double chocolate chip with protein powder,” I mutter to myself, adding a dash of cinnamon, because Frankie said she liked it in her tea.
This obviously means I’m now in love and should start looking at engagement rings.
The house is quiet. Rory’s not here—at the gym, I think—and Theo’s passed out. The scent of leftover alpha testosterone is fading, and the early evening sunlight is pouring through the big window over the sink in that warm, golden way that makes it feel like the house is taking a nap.
I keep myself busy and focused, my brain not registering anything until there’s a shuffle from behind and the faint creak of the floorboard near the pantry.
I don’t need to turn around to know who’s moving behind me.
“Hey, Jax.”
He doesn’t answer right away.
Classic Jax—king of dramatic pauses.
I turn my head over my shoulder just as he steps into view: barefoot, shirtless, and lightly glistening. His expression is the usual mix of bored, serene, and faintly disappointed in society.
He steps close to the sink, grabs a glass, fills it with water, and then downs it in one go.
Then, finally:
“You good?”
My gaze flicks to the mixing bowl. It does not save me.
“Yeah. Yeah, I’m good. Totally fine. Helping. Frankie, I mean. Helping her was… great.”
Jax raises a brow.
I crack.
“Okay, I may have just had a religious experience involving an omega, my thigh, and a lounge set.”
He blinks. Once.
“...She okay?”
“Yeah. She’s fine. She’s sleeping, now—looks like she invented dreams while haunting my soul.”
He nods, rinses the glass, and sets it aside. “You smell like slick.”
“I do not !” I groan. “I scrubbed! Twice! And I used my citrus body wash!”
He leans against the counter. “Didn’t work.”
I sigh.
“She scented me through layers , Jax. I was wearing a shirt, and she was wearing shorts—until she wasn’t. Ugh . I feel like a walking biology experiment.”
He shrugs. “Could’ve been worse.”
“How?”
“She could’ve asked for your knot.”
I fumble the whisk and catch it mid-air, somehow managing a squeak that makes me want to move out of my own body.
Silence stretches again, the kind Jax wears like a hoodie, then a full minute of nothing but the sound of batter being stirred and the distant hum of the dishwasher. He watches me stir, his arms folded like he’s seeing straight through to the spiralling.
I keep my hands busy. Moving. Lifting. Measuring. Stirring.
Stir a little too hard.
Then, so quiet it’s almost background noise:
“You like her.”
I nod once. There’s no point denying it.
I glance over at him, then back down at the batter. “You remember rugby camp? When we were thirteen?”
“When Joel Hargrave called me a freak for skipping the team party?”
“Yeah. You stayed out back, behind the cafeteria with that pocket knife and survival manual.”
Another nod. “Figured I’d carve something useful or die trying. And then, you found me.”
“I think you were reading about how to build a shelter from two sticks and an angry squirrel.”
His mouth twitches—barely. “You brought muffins.”
“Triple berry,” I grin. “With oat crumble.”
“You said the best teams look out for each other.”
I shake my head, smile crooked. “I said packs, didn’t I?”
He raises a brow again. “You said teams. But I heard it.”
More silence. Then he says, evenly:
“You want her.”
I pause, wooden spoon mid-air, then nod. “Yeah. I really do.”
His gaze stays on me, unreadable. Then, calmly:
“So does Rory.”
I nod again. “I know.”
“And Theo.”
“That one’s not subtle.”
He shrugs. “I don’t think any of us are, anymore.”
I look at him carefully. “And you?”
Jax tilts his head, like he’s weighing a weather system.
“Don’t you?”
He pushes off the counter. I watch as he picks up a spoon and starts folding the batter gently—no commentary, no fanfare. Just Jax, being Jax.
Always quiet. Always present.
That’s the thing about him. He doesn’t rush, doesn’t push, doesn’t chase—but when he’s in, he’s in.
So when he finally says, “She likes cinnamon, right?” I know exactly what he means.
We don’t talk about the logistics, about what it might mean to share, or what happens when four alphas want the same omega.
We don’t say that she’ll be part of the pack— our pack. Not yet.
But I feel it. The beginnings of something.
I watch as he continues to fold the batter like it’s sacred. I add the chocolate chips with a smile.
And together, we make muffins for the girl we’re both starting to fall for.