Page 136 of Pack Frenzy
At 4 am, I give up pretending sleep’s an option.
The hoodie helps, but only for about five minutes before that itch under my skin is back—low and insistent, like an alarm I can’t shut off.
The room looks fine. Normal. Nothing out of place.
So why does every corner feel like it’s watching me?
I throw the blanket off again and start pacing. The air smells stale—wrong. I crack up the ceiling fan cause I’m pretty sure if I try the window, the guy’s house alarm will go off. Even at full speed and wobbling, the fan doesn’t help. I pull the hoodie tighter, fingers fisting in the hem like I can hold onto his scent.
My eyes land on the pile of extra pillows shoved against the wall beside my dresser—half hiding the tote I never unpacked after the bay. The pirate flag from mini-golf sticks out like it’s saluting me, a tiny shred of black plastic glory. One of the shark plushies leans against it, grinning like it knows something I don’t.
I should leave them alone. But I’m already moving before the thought finishes.
I start arranging them without really knowing why, shifting them into a corner, layering one over another until the space feels smaller.
Safer. The pirate flag ends up stuck near the top like a victory banner, the shark squished beneath a pillow as the world’s weirdest guard dog. Still, it’s missing something.
I tiptoe downstairs, looking around for something that I don’t know what. Then I spot Eli’s Churro. The little stuffed penguin from the fair, and I snatch it up off the kitchen counter, holding it to my chest. And I grab the anime cloak Eli was wearing last night, then Cassian’s T-shirt, which I spot in the laundry basket as I make my way back to my room.
Carefully, I lay everything out just so, including the manga books of the anime we watched together.
It’s only when I step back that I realize what I’ve done.
A nest.
A freakingnest.
I huff out a laugh that sounds a little too close to a sob. “You’ve officially lost it, Jess.”
Except—My body doesn’t agree. The longer I look at it, the more my chest loosens. My palms tingle, my pulse slows. Something inside melikesthis.
I crouch, tug the comforter from my bed, and drag it over, ignoring how the fabric snags. It lands in a heap, and I sink my fingers into it, smoothing it out like it matters.
The hoodie’s scent wraps around me, but it’s not enough. I need more.
The compulsion hits like hunger. I’m back in the hallway before I realize it, barefoot, half-possessed. Cassian’s sweatshirt hangs off a hook near the door, smelling faintly of amber and leather. Eli’s flannel is draped over the back of the couch, still carrying that faint citrus-clean scent that’s so him.
By the time I get back to my room, my arms are full.
I drop everything onto the nest and crawl in after it, arranging, tucking, layering, until it feels right. Surrounded by them—by their scents, their warmth, the quiet weight of belonging—I finally breathe again.
For a minute, it’s perfect.
Then the air thickens. My skin flushes hot. The little pulse between my thighs starts to ache, slow and insistent.
No. Not now.
I press my face into Rowan’s hoodie, trying to drown it out. But it’s too late. The heat rolling under my skin isn’t a metaphor anymore.
Something deep inside me wakes up and stretches, purring.
Perfect.
The nest should’ve helped.
For a while, it does. I curl into it until the edges blur, every breath thick with their scents—Rowan’s rain-and-wood calm, Cassian’s leather and amber, Eli’s clean spice. My brain finally stops clawing at itself. My pulse settles.
Then the air shifts.
