Page 20 of Stream Heat (Omega Stream #1)
They were managing me. But not the way people do when they pity you, it was more like navigation, steering the ship through shark-infested water, making sure nothing tipped over.
And that realization made me want to claw my own skin off.
“Earth to Quinn,” Theo said, snapping his fingers. “Your turn to rate Jace’s performance. Solid eight out of ten, right? Man hasn’t screamed once.”
I shook it off, snapping into place. “Six point five, max. Anyone can avoid monsters by moving like a ninja on sedatives.”
Jace’s lips twitched. “Some of us prefer stealth over spectacle.”
“Boring but effective,” I shot back. “Like your fashion sense.”
This time the chat went ballistic. Flooded with ship names and commentary, half of them picking up on the way the guys were subtly propping me up.
JaceQuinn = strategic power couple
Quinn roasting everyone is LIFE
the way they all adjusted for her without making it obvious
I almost dropped the controller reading that. Was I leaking this much weakness, even with all the performances?
Before I could spiral, Reid steered the topic to tournament strategy, a question so familiar I snapped back to life.
“Still planning to run point on the eastern approach?” he asked.
“Obviously. Someone needs to cover your slow reaction time on the flanks.”
“My slow–” he started, throwing in outrage for the audience. “I have the fastest target acquisition on the team!”
“Second fastest,” I corrected, and the banter locked me back into my armor, piece by piece.
From that moment on, everything steadied. The chaos in my head became background noise, not the main event. We finished the stream, highlighted by Theo’s last-minute panic-run through the facility, and ended on a high.
“And that’s how it’s done,” he cheered, exaggerated drama. “Thank you, thank you, I’ll be here all week.”
“Only because we can’t figure out how to make you leave,” Reid replied, deadpan.
The post-game wrap-up blurred past, a haze of thanking subscribers, plugging next steps, normal closing chatter.
I realized it was the first time since the heat crash that I’d made it through a full stream without falling apart.
Malik’s breathing trick, Jace’s light control, the constant rebalancing from the others, maybe it was actually working.
“Same time tomorrow?” Theo called out for chat, already hyped for the next round.
“Assuming you all can keep up,” I added, one last shot before the curtain came down.
After the cameras cut, I went limp in my chair, the flood of adrenaline draining out.
“You did well,” Malik said, just like that, no fanfare.
Ash chimed in from his corner, “Stream metrics were insane. Best numbers all quarter. The Quinn effect is real, I’m telling you.”
“The lighting was a nice touch,” I told Jace, not sure how else to give him the credit without laying myself open.
He just nodded. “Audio compression helps, too. I’ll adjust it for tomorrow.”
Reid was already standing, looming, but not threatening. “Food’s arriving in twenty. Quinn, you joining us or taking it in your room?”
He let the question dangle in the air, an easy out if I needed it. But the thought of going back to that empty room made my skin crawl.
“I’ll join,” I said, surprising myself. “As long as Theo didn’t order that weird fermented stuff again.”
“One time!” Theo yelped. “It was a cultural experience.”
“It was a biohazard,” Reid grumbled, scooping up equipment.
We moved down the short hallway to the kitchen, a ragtag mob with me in the middle, Jace and Malik on either side, like a shield. Reid up front, Theo bouncing like a satellite, Ash bringing up the rear.
It wasn’t planned, not really, but my body knew the safety of the formation. My system eased. Scent, noise, temperature, it was all buffered just enough to make it tolerable.
In the kitchen, it was more of the same.
Jace flicked off the harsh overheads, trading them for the soft under-cabinet glow.
Malik put himself between me and the fridge, which hummed at a frequency that made me want to torch the building.
Reid’s voice dropped another octave, and I realized he’d switched up his cadence to avoid grating on my headache.
I watched them, and the longer I did, the more unsettled I got.
This was not standard alpha comfort behavior. This was pack behavior. Pack the way it was meant to be, the kind people wrote off as fairy tales. Not caretaking, not coddling, but the kind of primal, unconscious adjustment alphas made for someone in distress. Someone who belonged.
And worse, my body was responding. I didn’t feel pushed to the periphery anymore; the scents were… fine, even pleasant. Their voices, even loud, didn’t cut. I started to crave the comfort, hated to admit my system felt better in their orbit than anywhere else, even with strangers watching.
No. It wasn’t just withdrawal, and it wasn’t just heat. It was the part of my biology I’d spent a decade suppressing, the part that wanted to bond, to belong, to be claimed in a way that had nothing to do with sex and everything to do with safety.
And all five alphas, maybe without realizing, were already responding as if we were bonded. As if I belonged to them.
I started sweating. My hands went slick. The realization was oil on water, sliding under my ribcage, changing everything.
"Quinn?" It was Reid this time, staring hard, worried but not crowding me. "Preference on the drink order?"
I said the first thing that came to mind. “Whatever’s fine.” I could barely keep my voice steady.
This was supposed to be business. Six months, salvage the contract, and then we’d all go our separate ways.
But my system didn’t care about contracts. My Omega instincts were running wild, hungry for the kind of connection I'd nearly convinced myself I didn’t need.
The doorbell rang. Theo shot off to greet the delivery; the others reset into conversation and unpacking, but I just stood there, letting the panic dig deeper.
Because pack bonds didn’t have an opt-out clause. Once made, they didn’t break. They marked you, rewired you, became the backbone of your psyche. And despite all my best efforts, despite eight years of fighting my biology, I wanted it.
I wanted in.
I wanted the safety net of Reid's scent when I was seconds from spiraling. I wanted Jace's quiet, invisible touch, the way he fixed things without making me perform gratitude. I wanted Malik’s breathing patterns and steady hands. I wanted Theo’s impossible optimism and Ash’s practical problem solving.
That was the truth, and it hit harder than any withdrawal. I wanted to belong, wanted to trust, wanted to be taken care of. The realization scraped open a hole in my defenses that might never heal.
Jace materialized next to me, like he had a sixth sense for breakdowns. “You okay?” he asked, almost whispering.
I forced eye contact, hoping he couldn’t see how close I was to crumbling. “Just tired. The stream took more out of me than I thought.”
He accepted it, nodding once. “Eat first, then rest. Your system needs fuel to stabilize.”
So simple. No fuss, no strings, no noise. It made my chest ache.
“Thanks,” I said. “For earlier, too. With the lights.”
He held my gaze. “Anytime.”
We joined the others at the island, the wall of conversation and clatter barely registering.
I sat back and watched them. Reid passed me the food without asking, Theo kept his excitement at a human level, Malik steered conversation away from anything dangerous, Ash blocked the cold air from the newly opened door, Jace kept the lighting soft.
It was textbook. The formation, the choreography, the de-escalation tactics. All of it pointed in my direction, even if none of them admitted it out loud.
And every nerve ending screamed: Pack.
“Temporary,” I whispered to myself, uselessly.
But it was a lie.
I ate without thinking, body relaxing inch by inch. The banter, the tiny considerations, the way Reid didn’t hover but still watched me, it all built a buffer against the truth.
This was supposed to be a content strategy.
But from where I was sitting, it felt a lot more like the start of a family. And if I let it keep growing, I didn’t think I’d ever be able to leave.