Page 58 of Scrum Heat

Because she just made me come in my pants, and I am absolutely,hopelesslyin love with her now.

Chapter Fifteen

Finn

Frankie’s passed out cold.

Not in a bad way. Not in anoops, I broke herway. More in acurled 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 claimkind of way.

And that’s dangerous.

Because I could stay. Iwantto 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’mnotboth 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.Suspiciouslysticky.

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.

Safebecauseof 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—

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