Chapter 12 #2
“Including you?” Adrian asks. “Because that’s a new development. Last I checked, security wasn’t responsible for making sure specific crew members got home safely or had someone watching their back during pre-heat.”
The word—pre-heat—makes something in my stomach twist. Not embarrassment or anger, but a strange sense of relief. For a moment, I don’t have to dance around it or pretend I don’t recognize the changes unfolding inside my own body.
“He’s just being careful,” I say, though we all know it’s not that simple. “Making sure I’m okay. That’s all.”
“Sure,” Bash says. “But you are okay, right? The blockers are working? You’re not pushing yourself too hard?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. Then, catching myself: “Not fine, exactly. But managing. The blockers are helping. I can get through the day, through the production, through whatever this is.”
They exchange a look—that same wordless communication I noticed in the security checkpoint.
“You know you don’t have to do this alone, right?” Adrian says, his voice dropping slightly. “Whatever’s happening—whatever you need—we’re here. Both of us.”
Something loosens in my chest at his words. “I know,” I say, and mean it.
Something shifts in Adrian’s expression—relief, maybe, or understanding. He nods once, then turns back to his sandwich, giving me space to process. Bash does the same, focusing on his food instead of my face.
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the occasional comment about the food or the scene coming up. It feels... normal. In a way I would have never expected.
And that’s when I notice the blockers are wearing off. I can feel it in the way scents are getting stronger, in the restless awareness humming beneath my skin.
But I don’t feel as overwhelmed as I did yesterday. The tension that's been riding under my skin all week has eased enough for me to breathe through it.
It’s like my muscles have been holding tension I didn’t even know was there until their presence made it ease. Like having them here is helping, even when I’m trying so hard not to need them.
“Hey,” Adrian says, his voice cutting through my thoughts. “Are you okay? You got quiet all of a sudden.”
I look up, suddenly aware that I’ve been staring at my half-eaten sandwich. “I’m fine,” I say automatically. “Just thinking about the scene. The one you wanted me to watch.”
Disbelief flashes in his eyes. But he doesn’t push back.
Just nods once, accepting the deflection without challenging it.
“It’s the confrontation in the hallway,” he says.
“Right after Bash’s character finds out mine’s been keeping secrets.
The director wants more tension, but it’s not landing.
Something about the interaction feels off. ”
“I can take a look,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “After lunch. If you want.”
“We want,” Bash says simply. “Your eyes on this would help. They always do.”
The statement makes something in me tighten—confusion and warmth settling in at once.
I’ve been watching them since the first week of filming.
Noting the way Adrian’s posture changes when he’s lying, how Bash’s voice drops half an octave when he’s fully connected to a scene.
Small things. The kind of details most people miss.
The kind of observations that help me anticipate problems before they happen, that let me keep things running smoothly when everything else is chaos.
I never considered the possibility that they'd been paying attention long before my presentation. Before my body started changing. Back when I was still the beta who kept everything running without expecting anyone to notice.
The realization settles heavily in my stomach.
I’m not sure what to do with it.
“I should get back,” I say, checking my watch. “The second AD’s probably wondering where I am.”
Adrian nods, gathering the empty plates. “We’ll walk you,” he says, not quite a question. “Safety in numbers and all that.”
“I don’t need an escort,” I remind them.
“We know,” Bash says simply. “We’re going the same way. That’s all.”
It’s not, and we all know it. This is them making a choice to be there if I need them.Simply because they want to. Because they’ve decided I’m worth the effort, even when walking away would be easier.
We head back toward the busy part of the set together.
Adrian and Bash match my pace, settling on either side of me as naturally as if they'd always walked there.
Adrian keeps up a steady stream of conversation—stories from morning filming, questions about the afternoon schedule, the kind of easy, meaningless chatter that gives me space to breathe without having to contribute.
Bash is quieter, his attention more focused on our surroundings than the conversation. But every few minutes, his gaze finds mine.
We reach the active set area five minutes later, the controlled chaos of afternoon filming already in motion.
Lights are being adjusted, cameras repositioned, and the director is deep in conversation with the script supervisor by the monitors.
I should go to the production office—check the schedule, confirm the prop placements, and answer the fifty questions that have probably built up since lunch.
But I don’t move. Instead I stand at the edge of the set, suddenly aware that I’m not ready for this moment to end. That having them here—having this pocket of relative normal in the middle of everything that’s changing—makes the constant, crawling tension under my skin ease.
“I should—“ I start, then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. Should get back to work? Should thank them for lunch? Should acknowledge that whatever’s happening between us already feels bigger than I’m ready to name?
“Scene twelve,” Adrian says. “After they reset the lights. We’ll be by the craft table if you want to take a look.”
It’s an out—a chance to step back, to maintain the distance I’ve been keeping, to pretend this lunch was just a moment of normal in a situation that’s anything but. I should take it. Should nod and smile and move on to the next task, the next problem, the next thing that needs my attention.
But I don’t. Can’t. Not when every instinct is telling me to stay close, to keep this connection open, to not let this moment end before I’m ready.
“I’ll find you,” I say instead. “After they’re done with the reset.”
Surprise flashes in Adrian’s eyes and he nods once. “We’ll be there,” he says simply. Bash doesn’t speak, but his gaze briefly meets mine.
Then they’re moving away, cutting through the crowd easily, heading for the craft table on the far side of the set. I watch them go, my gaze lingering longer than it should.
For years, I’ve been the person who noticed everyone else. The one tracking schedules, moods, problems, and details no one thought to pay attention to.
I’m still not sure what to do with the realization that someone might be paying attention to me, too. I’m navigating the growing presence of all three alphas in my space, whether I want to or not.
I push the thought away, forcing myself back to the present. But as I make my way to the production office, checking items off lists and answering questions and keeping things moving, I’m aware of a truth I’m not ready to face.
I can’t manage this alone anymore.
The realization follows me through the afternoon, lingering at the edges of every conversation and every task.
Because admitting it—even to myself—would make everything feel a little too real.
So I keep moving, one step at a time, through a world that’s exactly the same and completely different all at once.
And try not to think about what happens next.