Page 48 of Stream Heat
His scent, cedar and thunderstorms, filled my senses, instantly calming the inexplicable anxiety that had jolted me awake. My muscles relaxed, my breathing slowed, my racing heart settled into a steadier rhythm.
"What the hell are you doing?" I whispered to myself, even as I clutched the fabric tighter.
I should return it. I should have returned it days ago. Instead, I'd been sleeping with it every night, the garment tucked beside my pillow where I could breathe in his scent while pretending I wasn't doing exactly that.
A noise from the hallway made me freeze, footsteps, too heavy to be anyone but Reid or Ash. I quickly shoved the hoodie under my pillow like a guilty teenager hiding contraband, then sat perfectly still, listening.
The footsteps paused outside my door, hesitated, then continued down the hall. Only when they faded completely did I release the breath I'd been holding.
This was getting ridiculous. I was a grown woman, not some designation-addled teenager with her first alpha crush. I needed to get a grip.
I stood, stretching muscles stiff from sleep, and padded to the bathroom. The face that greeted me in the mirror looked better than it had a week ago, less hollow-eyed, less sickly pale, but still not entirely my own. There was something different in my expression, a softness that hadn't been there before.
It unsettled me.
After a quick shower, I pulled on leggings and an oversized t-shirt, determined to make use of the quiet house for some much-needed reflection. The kitchen was dark and empty, moonlight spilling through the windows onto gleaming countertops. I moved quietly, brewing coffee with practiced stealth.
As the machine hummed softly, I leaned against the counter, letting my gaze wander around the space that had becomestrangely familiar in such a short time. Theo's energy drink collection lined one shelf, meticulously organized despite his chaotic personality. Jace's tea infuser hung beside the sink, still damp from evening use. Malik's handwritten meal plan was magnetized to the refrigerator, each day's menu carefully balanced for nutrition. Ash's custom-built coffee grinder sat beside the machine, its sleek design a testament to his technical perfectionism.
And everywhere, subtle signs of Reid's influence, the strategic layout of the kitchen tools, the alpha-quality ingredients, the sense of deliberate care in every detail.
Five distinct personalities, somehow functioning as a cohesive unit. A real pack, not just a content creation team.
The coffee finished brewing, and I poured myself a mug, inhaling the rich aroma. As I turned to head back to my room, something caught my eye.
A snapback cap hanging on the hook by the door.
Reid's.
The one he'd worn during yesterday's tactical stream.
Before I could question the impulse, I reached for it, running my fingers along the brim. His scent clung to it, stronger than the hoodie, fresher. Without conscious decision, I found myself tucking it under my arm as I clutched my coffee mug.
Just borrowing it, I told myself. Just curious about the brand.
The lie was so transparent I didn't even bother finishing the thought.
Back in my room, I set the cap on my desk beside the coffee, trying to ignore the way my fingers lingered on the fabric. This was getting out of hand. First the hoodie, now the cap. What next? Stealing Theo's t-shirts? Hoarding Jace's sweaters?
The thought brought me up short because I realized with sudden clarity that I'd already been doing exactly that.
Ash's screwdriver set that I'd "borrowed" three days ago sat on my nightstand, though I had no technical projects requiring it. Malik's meditation cushion had somehow migrated to the corner of my room after I'd "moved it to vacuum." One of Theo's gaming magazines lay half-hidden under my bed where I'd been reading it before sleep.
I was nesting. The realization hit me with horrifying clarity. My Omega instincts, freed from years of chemical suppression, were driving me to collect items from the alphas around me, to surround myself with their scents, their possessions, their essence.
"Stop it," I hissed to myself, pushing away from the desk. "This isn't you."
But wasn't it? After eight years of pretending to be something else, how could I even be sure what "me" actually was?
I paced the room, coffee forgotten, cataloging the evidence of my unconscious hoarding with growing dismay. The withdrawal-destabilized system Dr. Patel had warned me about wasn't just making me physically hypersensitive, it was creating behavioral changes I hadn't even noticed. Creating an unconscious nesting drive I'd never experienced before.
A soft knock at my door nearly made me jump out of my skin.
"Quinn?" Ash's deep voice, unusually quiet. "You okay? Saw your light on."
I froze, looking frantically at the incriminating evidence scattered around my room, his screwdriver set, Reid's hoodie peeking out from under my pillow, the stolen snapback on my desk.
"Fine," I called back, trying to sound normal. "Just working on stream prep."
