Page 38 of Scrum Heat

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 exactlynotthere 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 wordpack, 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,reallydangerous.

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.

Chapter Eleven

Jax

The locker room is loud.

Not the sound—sound, I can block out. It’s theenergy, all twitchy and wired, the palpable charge in the air. The weight of expectation and the way everyone’s vibrating with the same pre-match adrenaline.

Velcro tears. Boots thump. Someone’s already spilled half a scoop of pre-workout across the floor.

I sit on the bench and tape my wrist. Left first, tight and neat, like always.

Rory’s pacing. He always does. Big strides, eyes sharp, already playing half the game in his head. Theo’s flexing in the mirror, telling a story to some of our teammates that I’m ninety percent sure didn’t happen. Meanwhile, Finn’s breathing through one nostril in sets of four.

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