Page 179 of Scrum Heat

“Oh, God,” I say. “That’s me. That’s the garlic knots!Pray.”

I open the oven door, and there’s smoke. It’s not billowing, exactly, but certainly enough to qualify as a health risk. Jax swoops in with a dish towel and the reflexes of a man who’s lived through too many kitchen fires; andthat’swhen the front door opens.

Frankie follows the scent of chaos and catastrophe like a bloodhound and steps into the kitchen still in her work clothes—blouse slightly wrinkled, claw clip holding back a halo of loose strands, mascara barely hanging on after what was probably a hell of a day.

She stops in the doorway, takes in the haze of garlic-scented smoke, the flour coating half the floor like we’ve summoned a demon via sourdough, and a singed oven mitt lying on the stove in what I’m almost sure is defeat.

We all freeze—

And then she grins.

Full wattage, tired but genuine. The kind that short-circuits my entire nervous system.

“You guyscooked?” she asks, incredulous.

“Weattempted,” I say, wiping my hands on a towel that is somehow both wetandburnt.

“Finn assaulted the potatoes,” Rory adds from his perch by the sink, where he’s nursing a shallow cut.

“Yeah, well, Jax incinerated a wooden spoon,” Finn fires back. “And we’re not even sure how.”

“I regret nothing,” Jax says flatly, stacking meatballs onto a tray with calm precision.

Frankie laughs—reallylaughs—and the room shifts as all the tension in her shoulders melts into something warm and light.

“You did all this forme?”

“You’ve had a rough week,” I say, stepping closer, ducking to kiss her temple. “We wanted you to come home to something that wasn’t trauma.”

“Mission mostly accomplished,” Rory mutters.

“I feel so loved,” she says, eyes shiny now, voice soft. “Like…aggressivelyloved.”

Dinner is edible. Mostly. We end up with garlic knots that are slightly charred, definitely crispy, allegedly intentional; dense meatballs, a salad Jax claims full ownership of despite the fact it’s 80% croutons, and mashed potatoes that havetexture.

That’s all I’ll say.

We eat on the floor around the coffee table, because the dining table is still a crime scene, and absolutely no one wants to touch it.

“I swear,” Frankie says mid-bite, “if I ever go missing, just follow the trail of over-seasoned food and emotionally unstable alpha devotion.”

“I prefer the term enthusiastic,” I reply.

“Is that what we’re calling your seasoning choices now?” Rory says, chewing thoughtfully. “Because my sinuses are sweating.”

“I have a refined palate,” I argue.

“You dumped half a bottle of cayenne into the sauce.”

“I was expressingpassion.”

Jax grunts. “You were trying to impress Frankie with your forearms and forgot the lid was open.”

“Okay,” Finn chimes in, fork raised like he’s solving world peace, “but if she passes out from spice-induced respiratory failure, I get to take over content management.”

“Fair,” Frankie says with a mouthful of garlic knot.

We fall into easy conversation—legs stretched out, laughter echoing. For a moment, it’s just… us. Our pack. No board meetings, no OSC letters, no mothers with vendettas or betas named Nigel. Just a kitchen full of smoke and terrible decisions and people who love each other too much to pretend otherwise.

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