Chapter 12
Maya
I sit on the narrow bench behind the lighting rig, phone balanced in my palm, screen lit with the two new contacts I didn’t ask for.
“My alpha” stares back at me in Adrian’s clean, efficient font—a joke, it has to be—while Bash‘s straightforward entry sits just beneath it, as if distance on the screen might create actual space between them.
I should delete them both. Swipe my finger across the screen and erase the evidence that this morning happened at all.
But my thumb hovers over the delete button, refusing to press down.
The lighting rig casts long shadows across my hiding spot, the thin beam of sun making it through the tangle of cables and equipment just enough to warm my face without being visible from the main set.
I chose this place carefully—a quiet corner in the controlled chaos of lunch break.
Somewhere I could eat the protein bar in my bag and check tomorrow’s schedule without the questions, the looks, the way people have been moving around me since yesterday.
Or maybe it’s just been since this morning. Time feels slippery these days.
My finger slides down the screen to the conversation with Nadia—ten unread messages, each one more concerned than the last. I should answer.
Tell her the blockers are working, that I’m fine, that whatever’s happening isn’t a problem I can’t handle.
But that would be a lie, and Nadia has always been able to spot those.
The phone dims automatically, the screen darkening to save battery. I don’t unlock it again.
I’m not going to text Adrian or Bash. What would I even say?
I don’t need a lift? Stop acting like this means something when it’s just my body betraying me?
The contacts aren’t about convenience or safety or any of the practical things I could explain to myself.
They’re a line crossed—not by them, but by me. Because I kept them.
Because I wanted to.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket, pulling out my water bottle instead.
The herbal blocker I took this morning sits bitter in my throat—still there, still working, but not as strongly as yesterday.
I can feel it in the tightness returning to my chest, in the way the air suddenly seems too full of scents I shouldn’t be able to detect.
The sharp chemical tang of the equipment around me.
The lingering note of coffee from the cup in my bag.
The faint trace of soap from my shower this morning, clinging to my skin hours later.
It’s the omega. It has to be.
That’s the explanation I keep coming back to, the one that makes all of this easier to understand.
And I can handle it. I’ve been handling it for days—keeping my distance, maintaining my routines, making sure nothing slips just because my scent has changed. I can get through this production. I can get through this presentation. I can get through whatever’s coming next.
I have to.
The alternative isn't something I'm ready to think about.
I take another drink of water, forcing myself to focus on the sensation—cold liquid, smooth plastic, the simple act of swallowing. Instead of the constant awareness of where certain people are on set.
“So this is where you hide.” Adrian’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up, my body responding before my brain can catch up.
He stands at the edge of my hiding spot, one shoulder propped against the metal frame of the lighting rig holding a plate in his hand. He’s changed out of his costume into his regular clothes—dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that fits across his shoulders.
Bash is with him, half a step behind and slightly to the side.
He’s dressed more formally—dark slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show the edge of his real tattoo, not the fake one the makeup team applied this morning.
He holds two paper plates balanced in one hand, a bottle of water tucked under his arm.
My mouth goes dry. “I’m not hiding,” I say, the words coming out calmer than they have any right to. “I’m eating lunch.”
Adrian’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s convenient,” he says, nodding toward the plate in Bash’s hand. “Because we brought food.”
The sight of them standing there with food in their hands makes it harder to cling to the distance I've been trying to maintain.
Not because I need the lunch.
Because they noticed I hadn't shown up for it.
“I have food,” I say, gesturing to the protein bar still in my bag. “And I’m fine. Really. The blockers are working. I don’t need...”
But the words die in my throat as Bash steps forward and holds out one of the plates. “It’s just food, Maya,” he says, his voice lower than Adrian’s. “No agenda. No pressure. Just... we were grabbing lunch and thought you might want something that didn’t come out of a wrapper.”
“I didn’t ask you to bring me food,” I say, confused.
“We know,” Adrian says, dropping onto the bench beside me without being invited. He’s near enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the thin space between us. “Consider it a bribe. We’re about to ask for a huge favor, and we wanted to get on your good side first.”
Something in my chest loosens just slightly. This, at least, is familiar—Adrian’s ability to make even awkward situations feel manageable. I’ve watched him do it a hundred times on set, with directors, producers, and co-stars who needed reassurance, redirection, or just a moment to breathe.
“A favor,” I repeat, watching as Bash settles on my other side. “What kind of favor?”
Adrian’s smile widens slightly. “We need your help with a scene,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “The one coming up after lunch. The director wants more tension, but it’s not landing right. We thought maybe you could watch the rehearsal, tell us what you’re seeing?”
I stare at him, confusion replacing wariness. “You want me to direct your scene?”
“Not direct,” Bash says. “Just... watch. Tell us if it’s working. You’ve got a good eye for this stuff. Always have.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “The director would have better notes. Or the script supervisor, or—“
“Neither of them knows us as well as you do,” Adrian interrupts. “You know our rhythms. How we move together. What feels right and what doesn’t. That’s all we’re asking for, Maya. Just your eyes on the scene, telling us what you see.”
I instantly realize they’ve been watching me watch them.
“I guess I could watch,” I say slowly. “As long as the second AD doesn’t need me for anything else.”
Adrian’s face brightens—not the practiced smile he uses for photos or interviews, but something genuine, something that reaches his eyes. “Perfect,” he says, reaching for the plate Bash is still holding. “Now eat. Our omega needs to keep her strength up.”
The words hit like ice water. Our omega. Not a question or a possibility but a statement of fact, delivered with the same confidence as everything else Adrian says. Like it’s already decided, already settled. Like I’ve agreed to something fundamental without having the conversation first.
“I’m not—“ I start, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s not—we haven’t—“
“It’s just a joke,” Adrian says quickly, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Bad timing. I’m sorry.”
But it’s not just a joke, and we both know it. It touches something neither of us is willing to say out loud yet, something that’s been sitting between us ever since the security room. That my body’s responding to them in ways I can’t control, no matter how hard I try to push it back.
“Here,” Bash says, his voice cutting through the moment. He holds out the plate again. “Try it before it gets cold. Craft services actually made something edible for once.”
Our fingers brush as I take the plate—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But instead of pulling away immediately, I let the touch linger for a fraction of a second too long.
My omega notices.
So does Bash. I can tell by the slight shift in his expression—that watchfulness giving way to something warmer. His eyes find mine across the small space between us, holding my gaze.
“You should try it,” he says, his voice lower now. “It’s actually good.”
I look down at the plate—a simple sandwich, cut into neat triangles, with a small pile of apple slices arranged beside it. Nothing fancy or elaborate. Like he noticed what I usually grab from craft services and got it for me.
“Thanks,” I say. I pick up one of the triangles, taking a bite before I can talk myself out of it. The bread is soft, the filling rich without being overwhelming. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
“It’s good,” I say.
Adrian’s smile returns, warmer now. “Told you,” he says, smirking at bash. “I have excellent taste in lunch partners.”
Something in my chest tightens—that same mix of confusion and warmth.
Not at being included—I’ve been part of Adrian’s orbit since the first week of filming, drawn into conversations and jokes and moments of connection without ever quite understanding why he noticed me in the first place.
But this is different. This is him making space for me without being asked.
This is them choosing to be here, even when I’ve given them every reason to walk away.
“So,” Adrian says, pulling a similar sandwich from his own plate. “You and Elias, huh?”
I nearly choke on my bite of apple, heat crawling up my neck for what feels like the hundredth time today. “It’s not—we’re not—that’s not what this is.”
Bash raises an eyebrow. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like he spent the night at your place, drove you to work, and is currently lurking near the craft table making sure no one gets too close to our favorite production coordinator.”
“Assistant production coordinator,” I correct automatically. “And he’s not lurking. He’s working. It’s his job to keep an eye on things.”