Chapter 8
Maya
I stand with my back pressed against my apartment door, breath coming too fast, skin prickling with that same strange heat.
Elias’s scent still clings to my clothes—clean and controlled and nothing like the artificial smoke and coffee that usually cling to me after a day on set.
I‘m finally alone, finally in my space, but somehow the silence feels wrong. I wait for the sound of his footsteps moving away, for the soft beep of his car unlocking, for proof that he’s actually left.
But nothing comes.
The hallway beyond my door remains silent. No footsteps, no voices, no retreating presence. Just the soft hum of the building’s ancient air conditioning and the distant sound of my neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall.
I push away from the door, moving into my apartment with quick, purposeful steps.
The herbal blocker I took this morning is definitely wearing off—I can feel it in the tightness returning to my throat, in the way the air suddenly seems too thick, too full of scents I shouldn’t be able to detect.
The smell of the coffee I made this morning, hours old and stale.
The lingering trace of the lotion I put on after my shower.
The musty undertone of the building itself, concrete and paint and years of other people’s lives layered into the walls.
I drop my bag on the small table by the door and kick off my shoes, padding across to the kitchen in sock feet. My phone buzzes in my pocket—Nadia, probably, asking if I made it home okay. I ignore it, moving to the sink instead to splash cold water on my face.
It doesn’t help. My skin still feels too sensitive, nerve endings too close to the surface.
My thoughts keep circling back to the same moment—Elias standing at my door, calm and unmoving, telling me he‘s staying close.
“This is me doing that,” he said, like it was already decided.
Like my opinion was just a formality he was willing to acknowledge but not actually consider.
And the worst part is how my body responded. I should have been angry. I should have been frustrated. Instead, the moment he stepped closer, some tight knot inside me loosened, leaving behind a sense of relief I couldn't explain.
I latch onto the only explanation that makes sense. It’s the omega. It has to be.
I dry my face on a dish towel and move to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down at the street. His car is still there, parked across from my building just where he left it. The driver’s seat is empty. Which means—
I drop the curtain and turn back to the door, moving before I can talk myself out of it. This is ridiculous. He can’t just stand in the hallway all night. He can’t just decide he’s staying close without my permission. He can’t just—
I yank the door open, ready to tell him exactly that, and stop short.
He hasn’t moved. Almost like he settled there the second I closed the door and never intended to leave.
“You’re still here,” I say flatly.
He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?” I step into the hallway, pulling the door mostly closed behind me. “I told you I wanted to be alone. I told you this conversation was over. I very clearly did not agree to whatever this is.”
He shifts slightly, straightening from his casual lean. “I told you I’d stay close in the evenings,” he says, his voice even. “This is me doing that.”
“That’s not an arrangement,” I say. “That’s you making a decision about my life without my input. There’s a difference.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before it's gone again. “We’ve established that. But the situation hasn’t changed. You’re still in pre-heat. You still need someone watching out for you. And I’m still here.”
I step closer without meaning to, close enough that I can catch his scent- rain-soaked stone layered over dark musk.
The familiar note cuts through the chaos of my thoughts.
“I don’t need a babysitter,” I say, though the words sound less certain than they did a minute ago.
“I need you to respect my boundaries. To listen when I say no.”
“I’m listening,” he says. “But I’m also watching. And what I’m seeing is someone who’s running on fumes, who’s taking blockers that aren’t strong enough to handle what’s happening, and pushing herself past her limits because she’s afraid to admit she needs help.”
Each word tightens something in my chest. Because he’s right. I’m running on fumes. The blockers aren’t working completely. I’m pushing myself past my limits. But admitting that feels too much like admitting everyone else is right—that I can't handle my own job anymore.
“It’s not your problem,” I say firmly. “It’s mine. My body, my presentation, my—“
“Your heat,” he finishes for me. “Which affects everyone around you. Especially the alphas who are already responding to your scent.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “That’s not—they’re not—“
“They are,” he says simply. “And they’re being careful about it. Giving you space. Respecting your boundaries. But that won’t last if you go into full heat on set. The blockers will delay it, not stop it. And when your body decides it’s ready—“
“I’m not some passenger trapped inside my own body,” I say. “I still get to decide what happens next.”
Something flashes in his eyes—frustration, maybe, or understanding. “That’s not how it works for omegas during presentation.” he says.
“I’m not an omega,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. “And even if I were, that doesn’t mean I stop being a person. It doesn’t mean I stop making my own choices.”
“Of course not,” he says. “But it does mean your body has different needs and limits. Things you can’t push through, no matter how determined you are.”
The compassion in his voice makes something in my chest ache.
It has to be the omega.
But even as I think it, I know it’s not that simple.
Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to name—wants him here.
Wants his steadiness, his certainty, his calm in the face of everything that’s changing.
Wants the way my body relaxes when he’s near, the way the tightness in my throat eases when he speaks.
I keep telling myself it’s the omega.
It’s the only explanation I’m willing to accept.
“You’re not going to leave, are you?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
He meets my eyes steadily. “No.”
The word hangs between us. He’s not leaving. Not tonight, not while I’m in pre-heat, not until I’m safe. And something in me—something deeper than thought, more fundamental than choice—responds to that certainty with a wave of relief so strong it makes my knees weak.
He wasn't going anywhere.
I could keep standing in this hallway arguing until one of my neighbors complained, or I could take control of the parts of this situation that were still mine to decide.
If he insisted on staying, then he was doing it on my terms.
“Fine,” I say, the word coming out harder than I mean. “But this is my decision. Not yours. I’m letting you stay because I choose to, not because you’ve backed me into a corner or manipulated me into it. And there are rules.”
A flicker of approval crosses his face. “What rules?”
“No following me at work,” I say, the list forming as I speak.
“No telling people I’m in pre-heat or taking blockers or anything else about what’s happening to me.
No making decisions about my life without asking me first. And the second this is over—the second my body settles and I’m not...
whatever this is anymore—you go back to normal.
To how things were before. No special treatment, no watching from the edges, no... whatever this is.”
He studies my face for a long moment. “Those are your conditions?”
I nod, once. “Take it or leave it.”
“Then I’ll take it,” he says. “On one addition.”
I raise an eyebrow. “You don't get to add conditions.”
“Then don't think of it as a condition,” he says. “Think of it as the reason I'm agreeing to yours.”
That makes me pause. “What addition?” I question cautiously.
“You tell me when the blockers start to wear off,” he says. “Before they do, not after. So I can help you before things get bad, not when they’re already falling apart.”
The worst part is that it makes sense. “Fine,” I say finally. “I can do that.”
He nods, once. “Then we have a deal.”
Just like that. There’s no argument, no pushback, and no attempt to manipulate or pressure me. Just acceptance, simple and clear.
It should make me feel better, like I’ve maintained some control over a situation that’s spiraling away from me.
It doesn’t.
“If I’m staying,” he says, breaking the moment, “I should grab my bag from my truck.”
The matter-of-fact statement cuts through my thoughts. “Your bag?” I ask, confused. “You brought a bag?”
He nods. “Change of clothes. Toothbrush. The basics.”
I go very still. “You planned for this,” I say, the realization clicking into place. “You brought a bag because you thought I might let you stay. You had this whole... scenario worked out in your head.”
“Not a scenario,” he says. “A possibility. One of several. I’m always prepared, Maya. It’s what I do.”
The simple statement makes my stomach flip. He planned for this. Thought it through. Considered the angles, outcomes, and possibilities.
I should find that annoying.
Instead, it leaves me with the strange certainty that if something goes wrong, he’ll already have a plan for that too.
“Give me your key,” he says, holding out his hand. “I’ll lock up behind me while I get my things.”
I hesitate, then reach into my pocket, pulling out my key ring. Our fingers brush as I hand it over, the contact sending a jolt through me that has nothing to do with anger or frustration or any of the things I should be feeling.
He’s back five minutes later, a small duffel bag in one hand, my keys in the other. He pauses at the threshold, meeting my eyes with that same focused attention.
“Last chance to change your mind,” he says. “Once I cross this line, things get more complicated.”
I recognize what he’s doing. He’s giving me an out—a real one, not just words. A chance to step back from whatever this is becoming.
“I know,” I say. “I’m not changing it.”
He nods once, then steps across the threshold without hesitation.
Something tightens in my chest.
Five minutes ago, I was arguing with him in the hallway. Now he's standing in my apartment with an overnight bag by the door like this is the most natural thing in the world.
He sets his bag down by the door and hands me back my keys, our fingers brushing again. This time, the contact lasts a beat longer, his skin warm against mine.
“Thank you,” he says simply.
“For what?”
“Trusting me.” The words are quiet but certain. “It matters.”
Something in my chest twists—that same mix of confusion and warmth. “Don’t make me regret it,” I say, though we both know it’s too late for that.
He doesn’t answer. Instead, he moves past me and into the apartment, his gaze sweeping over the space.
I watch him, suddenly aware of how he changes the room just by being in it—how the air feels different, charged with a new energy.
How every shift of his movement seems to pull at my attention, making it impossible not to track where he is.
I still want to blame it on the omega. It would be easier if I could.
But that explanation doesn't sit as comfortably as it used to.
Because part of me—a part I’m not ready to name—has been aware of him since the first time I noticed him watching from the edges of the set. Since I noticed how he always seems to know when something’s wrong before anyone says a word.
And that’s the part I’m not ready to face.