Page 177 of Scrum Heat

Chapter Forty-Two

Finn

There’s a pie cooling on the counter, two trays of cookies stacked behind it, and a lemon drizzle loaf in the oven because Jax casually mentioned he liked the one Rory’s mom made, and I—being an emotionally complex alpha with a spatula—took that personally.

Theo says I’m stress-baking. Rory calls it “aggressively wholesome.”

I call it preparing for Frankie’s return from war.

Because that’s exactly what today is. Frankie’s been gone since this morning, driving back to her childhood home to confront a woman who not only ran full-blown troll accounts targeting her own daughter, but who also genuinely believes a beta named Nigel is a suitable mating option.

We all offered to go with her, but this was something Frankie needed to do alone. I got that. And if I couldn’t be there to personally kick Nigel in the taint, then the least I could do was make sure the house smelled like vanilla, comfort, and a littlebit of passive-aggressive love when she walked back through the door.

I feel it, then. The bond hums low in my chest, pulsing warm and fast like an incoming tide.

She’s close.

I wipe flour off my shirt (pointless, it’s baked into the fibers of my soul now), glance at the lemon drizzle (perfection), and check the oven timer again even though it beeped three minutes ago and Iknowit did.

The front door opens, and I don’t even get a word out.

Frankie comes through to the kitchen and launches herself at me like a small, furious missile in denim and hope, arms locked around my middle, face pressed into my chest like she’s trying to absorb me. I catch her without hesitation, wrapping my arms around her and kissing the crown of her head as I hold her tight.

Her heart’spounding,and I rest my chin on top of her head.

“I’ve got you,” I murmur. “Right here. You’re okay.”

She exhales hard against my shirt, her fingers fisting at the back of it. The bond between us flares and then settles again.

“I’m okay,” she repeats after me, her voice slightly muffled. “I’m just—tired. Mad. But okay.”

“You don’t have to be okay yet,” I say into her hair. “You just have to behome.”

She nods, still clinging, and I swear I’d stand here all night like this if she needed.

She sniffs. Then sniffs again and tilts her head back just enough to meet my eyes.

“You smell like sugar.”

“And flour,” I grin. “And maybe victory.”

“You baked?”

“Of course,” I confirm. “Cookies, pie, loaf. We’re covered. If the apocalypse hits, we can barter with snickerdoodles.”

She laughs—hoarse but real—and it’s like every worry in my chest exhales.

“I love you,” I say softly, brushing a piece of her hair back.

She doesn’t hesitate. “I love you, too.”

Then I kiss her. It’s soft, sweet, and tastes like home. Like powdered sugar and a second chance at peace.

When we finally pull apart, she looks over my shoulder. “Are those… the peanut butter ones with the chocolate centers?”

“Yep.”

“And is that… lemon drizzle?”

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