Chapter 10
Maya
I wake to the smell of something warm and savory cutting through the thin edge of sleep.
Not coffee—though that‘s there too, rich and bitter beneath the main note—but something more substantial.
Eggs maybe, or toast with real butter instead of the sad margarine substitute I usually use.
My body responds before my brain is fully online, stomach tightening with a sudden, sharp hunger that makes my mouth water.
I keep my eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds from my kitchen. The scrape of a spatula against a pan. The hum of the ancient refrigerator cycling on. The light footsteps of someone moving through a space that isn’t quite theirs. Elias.
It hits me all at once—where I am, what happened, what I agreed to.
Not just letting him stay, but everything that led to it.
The presentation. The purr. The impossible, unwanted truth of what’s happening to my body.
I push myself up against my headboard, suddenly alert despite the bone-deep tiredness that’s been following me for days.
But that’s the thing. I don’t feel tired.
Not the way I did yesterday, or the day before, or all the days stretching back to when this started.
The constant tension under my skin has eased to something manageable.
The tightness in my throat has loosened just enough that breathing feels effortless again.
Even my thoughts seem clearer, the fog that’s been clouding my brain finally beginning to lift.
Part of me still wants to blame the omega's influence.
I don't have another explanation for waking up feeling this different after one night.
This strange, immediate improvement the moment I let Elias stay, the moment I stopped fighting.
This sudden shift from barely functional to something close to normal.
A soft knock at my bedroom door cuts through my thoughts. Firm enough to make it clear he knows I’m awake. “Maya.” His voice comes through the door, calm and matter-of-fact. “You should get up if you want time to eat before we leave. We’ve got about twenty minutes.”
We.
The word sits heavily in my stomach. Like it's already decided. Like he's made plans for both of us without stopping to ask if that's what I want.
But isn’t it? Didn’t I agree to this—to him staying, to him driving me to work, to him being part of whatever this is becoming? The memory of last night plays in my head—Elias making dinner, washing dishes, and paying attention to the boundaries I set.
“Coming,” I call back, my voice sounding strange in my own ears. “Just give me a minute.”
“I’ll keep it warm,” he says, and then his footsteps move away, back toward the kitchen.
I sit on the edge of my bed, suddenly uncertain. This is new territory—having someone in my space, someone making decisions about my morning, someone acting like my day is already mapped out and settled. It should make me angry.
Instead, it makes me feel... cared for. In a way I don’t expect.
I push to my feet, moving to the dresser for clean clothes. Whatever this is—whatever’s happening between us—it doesn‘t change the fact that I have a job to do. A production to coordinate. A life that existed before Elias Stone decided to be part of it.
The smell hits me again as I step into the hallway—stronger now, rich and buttery and so much more appealing than it should be. My stomach clenches, a sudden, sharp hunger making my mouth water. I follow it to the kitchen, drawn by something deeper than thought.
Elias stands at the stove, his back to me as he flips what looks like an omelet.
He’s changed into fresh clothes—dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that sits across his shoulders with the kind of ease that suggests it’s been washed a hundred times.
His hair is damp at the edges, like he’s already showered, the clean scent of my soap cutting through the richer smell of food.
“You‘re up,” he says without turning around. “Coffee’s on the counter. Omelet‘s almost done.”
I move to the coffee pot, pouring myself a mug. The liquid is hot against my palms, the smell rich and bitter and exactly what I need to jumpstart my brain. “Thanks,” I say, the word coming out softly. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He glances over his shoulder, meeting my eyes briefly before turning back to the pan. “I know,” he says simply. “I wanted to.”
The answer catches me off guard. He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, wanting to help without expecting something in return.
He plates the food, an omelet on one side, toast on the other, and a small pile of the grapes I keep forgetting to eat tucked into the remaining space. The gesture is small, almost thoughtless. That's what makes it mean more.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the island. “Eat while it’s hot.”
The familiar protest rises before I can stop it—that I’m capable of making my own breakfast, taking care of myself, and making my own decisions. But he isn't acting like I can't. He's just making breakfast.
“Thanks,” I say instead, picking up my fork. “This looks good.”
He nods once, turning back to the stove where a second omelet is already taking shape. “Eat,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”
We. There it is again—that simple assumption that we‘re in this together, that his plans include me without question.
I cut into the omelet, the first bite flooding my mouth with flavor—eggs fluffy without being dry, cheese melted to perfect stringiness, a hint of the green onions I keep meaning to use before they go bad.
It’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted, exactly what my body needed without my brain having to ask.
“It’s good,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Really good.”
For a second, he looks pleased with himself. “Thanks,” he says, turning back to his own food. “Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the soft scrape of forks against plates and the occasional comment about the food. He doesn’t push for conversation or try to fill the silence with meaningless chatter. He simply eats, his gaze meeting mine every so often across the island.
Somehow, the silence never turns awkward.
“Shower’s all yours,” he says when we’ve finished, reaching for my empty plate. “I’ll clean up here.”
The argument forms and dissolves before it reaches my mouth. “Thanks,” I say instead, pushing back from the island. “I’ll be quick.”
The shower helps—hot water easing the last of the tension from my muscles, the familiar routine of washing my hair and scrubbing my face giving me something to focus on besides the strange new reality of my life.
I’m careful to keep it brief despite the temptation to stay under the spray until the hot water runs out.
We do have a schedule to keep, a production to coordinate, a job that doesn‘t care that my body’s decided to betray me in the most fundamental way possible.
I dress quickly—dark jeans, a loose button-down that won’t show wrinkles after twelve hours of filming, the comfortable boots I can stand in all day without my feet killing me. My usual uniform, the one that lets me move through the set without being noticed, without drawing attention to myself.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I‘m being noticed now. By Elias. By Adrian and Bash. By everyone who saw what happened in the security checkpoint, who heard that sound—that purr—that passed my lips before I could stop it.
I grab my bag from the hook by the door, checking to make sure I have everything I need for the day.
Phone, keys, the small case of herbal blockers Nadia gave me.
I dry-swallow two of them, grimacing at the chalky taste.
They’re definitely working—I can feel it in the way the scents have dulled to something manageable, in the slight cooling of the heat under my skin—but not as strongly as yesterday.
Not enough to completely mask what‘s happening.
Not enough to make me invisible again.
Elias is waiting by the door when I emerge from the bedroom, his own bag already slung over his shoulder. He’s added a dark jacket to his outfit, the small earpiece of his security team already in place. He looks comfortable in his own skin in a way I’ve never quite managed.
“Ready?” he asks as he meets my gaze.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—close enough to catch the cool stone and dark musk of his scent beneath the clean smell of his soap. “Just about,” I say, reaching for my keys on the hook by the door. “I think I’ve got everything.”
He doesn’t move to take them from me or rush me through the process. He just waits while I check my bag one last time, giving me all the time I need.
“We should go,” he says finally. “Traffic‘s going to be bad with the construction on Main.”
I nod, following him out the door and locking it behind us. The hallway is quiet, just the soft sound of our footsteps and the distant hum of the building’s ancient elevator. Neither of us speaks as we make our way downstairs, the distance between us charged with something I’m not ready to name.
His car is where he left it, parked across from my building. He unlocks it with a soft beep, moving to open the passenger door before I can reach for it myself.
“I can get my own door,” I insist.
“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. Just holds it open, waiting for me to make the choice.
I slide into the seat without brushing against him, attempting to maintain the distance I’ve established.
He closes the door behind me, then circles to the driver’s side, settling behind the wheel.
“We need to talk about how this works at the studio,” I say as he starts the engine.
“I can’t just... walk in with you. People will talk. They’ll assume things. They’ll—“
“I know,” he interrupts, his voice calm. “You want to go in separately. Maintain the appearance that nothing’s changed.”