Unscripted Bonds

Chapter 1

Maya

I tighten my grip on the coffee in my left hand and check the location of props on the marker sheet with my right.

Call time is in ten minutes, which means the lighting crew is already on set, techs are running final checks, and somewhere deeper in the building, the director is getting her notes in order.

I’ve been awake since four-thirty, running through the day’s checklist before the rest of the world decided to join me.

That’s how it works when you’re the assistant production coordinator—you’re either running three steps ahead of everyone else, or you’re failing.

Two more quick sips, and I cap the coffee, dropping it into the side pocket of my bag.

My eyes are starting to feel grainy from staring at the tablet screen.

Four months of twelve-to-fourteen hour days will do that to you.

I’ve got dark circles I stopped trying to cover up months ago.

At this point, they practically come with the job.

“Collins!”

I don’t look up from the tablet. “Behind the camera three monitor, doing the prop inventory.”

“Did you confirm the backup stunt cables?”

“Yesterday at three. They’re in the green room waiting for the safety check.”

“Perfect.”

Whoever it is moves on, and I keep working. That‘s the rhythm of my life on set—questions, answers, and movement. The magic of filmmaking happens when everyone knows their lane and stays in it. I could do mine in my sleep.

I make my way around the perimeter of the set, checking off items on my list. The massive warehouse has been transformed into the interior of a high-tech villain’s lair, all sleek metal and blinking lights that will get enhanced with CGI later.

Right now, it‘s just wires and hollow plastic. But I can see the finished product in my head—that’s part of the job, too.

My foot catches on a cable, and I stumble forward, bracing myself against a faux control panel. My vision blurs for a second, then clears. That’s the third time today. I rub at my eyes, hoping the director doesn’t spot me looking like I’m about to face plant.

The truth is, I’ve been off all week. Not sick, exactly—no fever, no coughing, no telltale signs of anything—but something isn’t right.

My balance has been just slightly off, like my body is a half-step out of sync with my brain.

I’ve been waking up with a tightness in my throat that loosens as the day goes on.

And my dreams have been strange, impossible to remember once I wake up, though the unease always lingers.

I figure it’s probably just the late nights catching up with me. Production is in week sixteen of an eighteen-week schedule. We’ve all been running on fumes for a while.

I pivot to check the lighting setup and nearly run into a grip carrying a section of railing. I side-step at the last second, but not before catching the scent of the aftershave he’s wearing. The scent catches in my throat, sharp and citrusy, almost overwhelming for a second.

“Sorry,” I mutter, blinking hard.

He nods, not really paying attention, and continues past. But the scent lingers. Not bad, just unusually noticeable. I've worked with him for three weeks, and suddenly I could probably identify his aftershave in a lineup.

I shake my head, clearing it, and get back to the inventory. One prop missing—a small data chip that’s supposed to be at station three. I turn, intending to check if it’s been moved, and find myself face-to-face with Adrian Wells.

“Hey,” he says, smiling. His voice is warm. “You’re Maya, right? Production coordinator?”

“I’m just the assistant,” I say automatically, stepping back.

The way he says my name catches me off guard.

Like he's known it longer than the thirty seconds we've been standing here. That’s not typical. Most of the actors barely notice we’re here at all, just background noise to their performances.

“Yeah, but you’re the one keeping this whole thing from falling apart,” he says. “Seriously, without you, we’d be standing around waiting for coffee and wondering why the set isn’t built yet.”

I blink. That’s...specific. And exactly right. But how does he know that?

Adrian’s eyes crinkle at the corners when he smiles.

He’s wearing the first act costume—dark jeans, a white button-down that‘s been rumpled to look lived-in, and a pair of boots with dirt already worn into the seams. His sandy hair is pushed back from his forehead, a little longer than the clean-cut hero types usually wear it.

The look shouldn't work as well as it does.

“There you are!”

The voice belongs to Sebastian Kane. He appears at Adrian‘s side, one arm slung casually over the other man’s shoulders.

Bash—everyone calls him Bash, even in official communications—is the exact opposite of Adrian in almost every way.

Where Adrian is steady, Bash is electric, always moving, always talking.

His blue eyes are bright with mischief, like he‘s in on a joke you haven’t heard yet.

“You ready for the stunt sequence?” Bash asks Adrian. “I’ve been practicing my safe-fall all morning.”

“You‘ve been flirting with the stunt coordinator all morning,” Adrian replies. “Which is not the same thing.”

They laugh together, a comfortable sound that makes it clear they‘ve been friends for a while. I step back again, giving them space. They’re the leads—Bash is playing the cocky antihero, Adrian the more serious protagonist who’s trying to save the world from whatever disaster we‘re filming this week. They’re the center of everything.

I’m just part of the machine that keeps them in focus.

Bash‘s eyes find mine, and he grins. “Maya, right? The one who found my missing watch last week?”

“It was under the craft services table,” I say. “In the napkin box.”

“That‘s the one!” His smile widens. “You’re a lifesaver. I thought I was going to get fired for losing a prop that cost more than my first car.”

“It happens,” I say, because it does. And then I freeze. The scent that hits me is so strong it momentarily knocks every other thought out of my head.

It's coming from both of them, a scent unlike anything I've encountered before.

“Maya?” Adrian‘s brow furrows with concern. “You okay?”

I realize I’ve been staring at them, mouth half-open, for several seconds too long. “Fine,” I say quickly. “Just a long morning.”

“Take a break,” Bash says. “Even superheroes need to sit down sometimes.”

“We‘re not the superheroes in this movie,” Adrian points out.

“Speak for yourself,” Bash replies. “My character definitely has superpowers. They’re just...” He waves a hand. “More subtle. The power of being really, really charming, for example.”

Adrian rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling. “We‘d better get to set,” he says to me. “Thanks for keeping us organized.”

They move away, and I stand there, fighting the strange, spinning sensation in my head. What the hell was that? I've worked around hundreds of people over the years and never once had a reaction like that.

“You look like you’re about to fall over.”

Nadia’s voice cuts through my confusion. She appears at my side, linking her arm through mine and steering me toward the chairs set up behind the monitors. “When’s the last time you ate something that wasn‘t coffee?”

“Breakfast,” I say automatically. “Bagel. Cream cheese.”

“Mmmhmm.” She guides me to a chair and pushes me into it. “And that breakfast was...?”

“Yesterday morning?”

She shakes her head, reaching into her bag to pull out a protein bar. “Eat. You’re turning gray.”

Nadia Reeves is playing the female lead in this blockbuster-to-be, but more importantly, she’s been my best friend since we were five.

We grew up next door to each other, went to the same schools, applied to the same colleges.

She was always going to end up on camera—even as a kid, she had that indefinable quality that made people stop and look. I was always going to end up behind it.

I take the protein bar and tear it open. “I’m fine,” I tell her. “Just tired.”

“You‘re not fine,” she says, dropping into the chair next to mine. “Something's been up with you all week. I can tell.”

“It’s nothing.” I take a bite of the bar. It's chocolate peanut butter, and I have to force myself not to inhale the entire thing in one go.

“Your scent’s changing,” Nadia says, her voice lower now.

I almost choke. “What?”

She rolls her eyes. “Not like that. I’m not picking up anything weird. But you smell different. More...” She pauses, thinking. “Present, I guess? Like usually I can barely tell you’re there, scent-wise. But this week, it’s stronger.”

I swallow hard. “That’s not a thing.”

“It absolutely is,” she says. “Betas have weaker scents. Everyone knows that.”

I‘ve heard it, of course—the whole hierarchy of secondary genders, with alphas and omegas at the extremes and betas making up the comfortable middle. Strong scents, weak scents, compatibility, attraction. But it’s never been something I’ve thought about for myself.

I'm a beta. None of that has ever felt particularly relevant to my life.

“It’s probably just because we‘ve been in this stuffy warehouse for four months,” I say. “Everyone smells different.”

She gives me a look that says she doesn’t believe me, but she lets it go. “Director’s calling me. Eat the rest of that, or I’m telling your mom you’re skipping meals again.”

I make a face at her back as she walks away, but I do eat the protein bar. And she‘s right—I feel better almost immediately, the weird dizziness receding. I check my watch—fifteen minutes until we start filming. Just enough time to finish the prop inventory and check in with the second AD.

I’m halfway across the set when I see Elias Stone moving along the edge of the room.

He’s the head of security for the production—a former military guy, from what I’ve heard, though no one seems to know exactly what branch or for how long.

He’s quiet with eyes that seem to take in everything at once.

I’ve only spoken to him maybe three times in four months, and each time he’s been polite but distant, like he’s keeping track of the interaction rather than actually participating in it.

Today, though, when his gaze lands on me, I stop short. Today, though, when his gaze lands on me, I stop short. For a second, I can't look away. The reaction is so unexpected it leaves me unsettled.

Then he turns and continues his circuit of the set, and the moment passes. But my heart is still racing, and my palms feel damp. What was that?

I force myself to keep moving, to focus on the task at hand.

The thing about being a beta on a film set is that you’re the baseline—the reliable middle that keeps everything from flying apart.

Alphas and omegas are the ones who create the drama, who pull focus, who drive the story forward with their intensity and their chemistry.

That’s why they’re the actors, the directors, the producers.

The center of attention. Betas like me are the infrastructure.

We make sure the lights turn on, the coffee stays hot, and the paperwork gets filed. We don’t get noticed.

I’ve never minded that. I like knowing exactly where I fit, what I‘m supposed to do. It’s comfortable.

But lately...

I shake my head, pushing the thought away. I’m just tired. Everyone gets a little run-down toward the end of a production. It’s normal. It doesn’t mean anything.

I reach the prop table and start counting the items laid out for the next scene. My head feels clearer now that I’ve eaten, and the strange moment with Elias is already fading, becoming just another weird interaction in a day full of them. At least my head feels clear again.

But as I work my way through the inventory, scents keep pulling my attention. Fresh coffee from craft services. Artificial smoke drifting from special effects. The faint trace of perfume from one of the makeup artists as she hurries past, lingering in the air long after she's gone.

It's unsettling, like suddenly discovering you can hear a frequency no one else can. I focus harder on the list in front of me, checking off items one by one and concentrating on the details I can control.

By lunch, the dizziness has faded, but the strange sensitivity hasn't.