Chapter 20
Elias
The credits roll across the screen in soft blue light, names I don’t recognize scrolling past in a steady stream.
My attention is fixed on Maya, asleep in the center of the couch with her head tilted toward Bash’s shoulder and her hand still loosely curled around Adrian’s.
Neither of them has moved since she fell asleep twenty minutes ago.
They sit perfectly still, like they're afraid any movement might break the moment.
I watch as Adrian’s thumb moves slightly against Maya’s hand. He doesn’t seem to realize he’s doing it, his attention is still fixed on her face. The movement is almost imperceptible—a light brush of skin against skin—but Maya shifts in response, a small sound escaping her.
Bash notices immediately. His head turns toward the sound, eyes sharp with concern before he can soften his reaction. He doesn’t pull away or move closer, just watches her face until her breathing evens out again. Then his eyes lift, meeting mine over her head.
She feels safe enough to sleep.
The realization hits harder than it should.
I've been watching her since the first week of filming.
At first because it was my job. Then because I started noticing things.
The way she always arrived before everyone else.
The way she solved problems before they reached anyone important enough to complain about them.
The way she'd skip lunch when the schedule got tight and somehow still make sure everyone else ate.
Somewhere along the way, paying attention to her stopped being strictly professional.
I’ve never seen her look as peaceful as she does right now.
Adrian’s hand shifts again and his eyes lift to mine, the question in them clear.
“It’s okay,” I say. “Let her sleep.”
He nods once, his attention returning to Maya’s face.
Bash shifts slightly beside her, resettling his arm across her shoulders when the blanket begins to slip from her lap.
Neither of them speaks, both of them focused entirely on Maya’s face—the way her lashes rest against her cheeks, the slight part of her lips, the single strand of hair that’s fallen across her forehead.
Time passes quickly. The credits continue rolling, light shifting across the walls in soft blue patterns. No one moves to turn off the screen or end the moment. We just sit in the near-dark, the three of us watching Maya with the same intense focus.
“She’s been sleeping poorly for days now,” Bash says finally, his voice low enough that it barely carries across the small space between us. “I can tell by her eyes.”
Adrian nods without looking up. “Since the first presentation symptoms,” he says. “Her body’s burning too much energy to sleep deeply. And the blockers make it worse. They dull the instincts but don’t actually reduce the physical strain.”
They're both right, but we have other things to talk about. I want to maintain the peace we’ve managed to create for her.
“This can’t become a competition,” I say suddenly.
Adrian’s head lifts immediately, his gaze swinging towards me. Bash goes still beside Maya, his expression shifting.
“We're all paying attention to the same things,” I continue, keeping my voice low enough that it won’t wake Maya. “The way she settles when we're together. The difference between tonight and how she was two days ago. The fact that she's asleep right now.”
Neither of them argues.
“If we want this to work, we need to stop thinking about who she reaches for first and start thinking about what she needs.”
“It’s already happening,” Bash says after a moment, his voice low.
“The competition, I mean. I keep catching myself watching how she responds to you two. Noticing who makes her smile fastest, who she leans toward first.” He shakes his head slightly, frustration edging into his tone.
“It’s fucked up. She’s already overwhelmed enough without us making it worse. ”
Embarrassment flickers across Adrian’s face.
“Part of me has been fighting possessiveness harder than I expected,” he admits, his voice low.
“Not toward Maya herself, but toward the situation. I’m terrified of failing her, of pushing too hard or not enough or—“ He stops, frustration clear in the set of his shoulders. “I’m terrified she’ll panic and disappear.
That she’ll decide this is all too overwhelming and choose distance instead. ”
The vulnerability in his voice surprises me.
Adrian doesn’t show this side of himself often—the part that worries and second-guesses and cares too deeply to risk being casual about it.
He’s good at making people comfortable, at reading rooms and adjusting to fill whatever space the moment needs.
But this—the raw concern beneath his confidence—is something I’ve never seen.
“I’ve been so focused on making things easier for her that I haven’t stopped to process how deeply attached I already am,” Bash says after a moment, his voice deliberately even.
“She already feels like home.” The words land heavily between us, weighted with a sincerity that makes the air feel suddenly thicker.
Adrian’s expression softens at that, understanding replacing the frustration in his eyes. “Yeah,” he says simply. “She does.”
I nod once, the certainty behind the statement settling somewhere deep in my chest. I'd known it longer than I wanted to admit. “She doesn’t need perfection from us,” I say.
“She needs consistency. Safety. Stability. She needs to know the people around her are steady enough to hold her together when her heat fully hits.”
They’re both watching me now.
“You've seen it,” I say. “The way she settles with Bash. The way she looks for you when she's uncertain.”
Neither of them looks away.
“And when she starts spiraling, she comes to me.”
The words aren't a boast.
Just a fact.
“Those things don't have to compete with each other.”
Surprise flickers across Bash’s face . He looks down at Maya, then back at me. “We haven’t talked about it,” he says. “Any of it. Not what happens after filming wraps, whether she’ll want bonding immediately during her heat, or how to support her without making her feel trapped.”
“We should,” Adrian says. “All of it. The practical concerns, the emotional ones, everything. She deserves to know we’re thinking about the future, not just reacting to the situation.”
They’re both right. Maya’s heat is coming—Nadia confirmed it’s only days away, not weeks—and none of us have discussed what happens when it hits.
Whether she’ll want to be bonded immediately.
How to support her without making her feel like she’s losing control of the situation.
What happens after, when the immediate crisis has passed and we’re left with whatever we’ve become.
For the first time, I realize none of us are worried about whether we'll still want her when this is over.
The only question is whether she'll still want us.
“I’m already thinking long-term,” I say. “I’ve had intentions way before she presented as an omega.”
Adrian nods once. “Same here,” he says.
“Me too,” Bash says, his voice careful. “It’s not just about her heat or the compatibility or even how she makes me feel. It’s about who she is. How she moves through the world. The kind of person she’s been all along, not just who she’s becoming.”
I agree. This isn’t just about Maya’s presentation or her omega instincts or even the compatibility between us.
It’s about the person she’s always been—the one who notices details others miss, who solves problems without drawing attention, who creates space for everyone else while asking for almost nothing in return.
“We need to tell her,” I say after a moment. “About what we’re thinking. About the future. She deserves to know this isn’t just instinct or proximity or any of the things she’s been telling herself.”
“We will,” Adrian says. “When she’s ready to hear it. When she’s not so overwhelmed by everything else.”
Bash’s arm tightens slightly around Maya’s shoulders, a brief, unconscious movement he doesn’t seem to realize he’s making. “We should get her to bed,” he says. “This couch isn’t doing her back any favors, and she needs real rest before tomorrow.”
He’s right. Maya’s been running on empty for days, pushing through exhaustion and fear and the constant strain of her changing body. She needs real sleep in a real bed, not the half-conscious dozing that happens when her body finally gives out.
“I’ll take her,” Adrian says, already starting to move. “My room’s closest, and the bed’s already—“
“Wait,” I say. “We should ask first. When she wakes up. She’s been making her own decisions this whole time. We shouldn’t stop that now.”
Embarrassment flashes across Adrian’s face. He nods once, settling back into the couch. “You’re right,” he says. “We wait for her.”
The room falls silent again.
Adrian settles into the couch. Bash's arm remains draped across Maya's shoulders. The three of us return to watching her sleep.
A week ago, this conversation would have gone differently.
Three alphas interested in the same omega should've been a problem.
Instead, we're discussing how to make her feel safe. How to support her through her heat. How to give her room to make her own choices.
The realization is impossible to ignore. Somewhere along the way, we stopped thinking like three separate people moving toward the same goal.
We're already functioning like a pack.
We just haven't said it out loud yet.
Maya shifts slightly in her sleep, a small sound escaping her. All three of us respond immediately—Bash stilling completely beside her, Adrian lowering his voice, and me reaching across the small space between us to pull the blanket higher around her shoulders.
The movement is instinctive. None of us planned it or looked to see what the others would do first. We just responded, each of us moving toward Maya's need without hesitation.
We're already functioning like a pack.
We just haven't said it out loud yet.
Maya's eyes flutter a moment later, her breathing changing as awareness starts to return. I watch the shift happen—the gradual transition from deep sleep to the edge of consciousness, her body responding to the room before her mind fully catches up.
She's waking up.