Chapter 15
Maya
I stand in the center of my living room, the bag from work still hanging from my shoulder, and realize what's different. The air. My scent still lingers, but his is there too, woven through it. It’s subtle, barely there, but unmistakable.
I draw in a breath before I mean to, and some of the tension I've been carrying all day eases.
Elias moves past me to the kitchen, his footsteps almost silent on the hardwood. I watch him cross to the sink, filling a glass with water that catches the light from the single lamp I left on this morning.
“You want some?” he asks, holding up the glass.
I shake my head, suddenly unable to speak.
It’s too much—being here with him, watching him move through my space like he belongs, noticing how the air seems thicker where he stands.
On set, I could manage it—the blockers, the distance, the way we all pretended nothing had changed.
But here, with just the two of us and the scent of him lingering in the fabric of my couch and the mug he used this morning, it's harder to ignore.
I drop my bag on the small table by the door and kick off my shoes, padding across to the kitchen in socked feet. My throat feels tight, the constant tension under my skin sharper now that we’re alone.
“You should eat something,” Elias says, his voice low. “You barely touched lunch.”
The concern in his voice makes the omega preen. “I’m not really hungry,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. My stomach has been empty since the protein bar at lunch, the sandwich from Bash and Adrian barely making a dent in the hollow feeling that’s been building all day.
“Just something small, then,” Elias says, his eyes conveying his concern.
I nod, suddenly unable to argue. “There’s soup in the cabinet,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the far wall. “The kind in the packet. It’s easy.”
He moves to the cabinet, reaching for the shelf where I keep the emergency food—the soup packets, ramen, and protein bars I stock for nights when cooking feels like too much.
His height makes it easy, eliminating the stepstool I usually need.
I watch him for a moment, struck by the sheer physical contrast between us, from his height to the width of his shoulders.
“Which one?” he asks, glancing back at me and breaking my train of thought.
“Green package,” I say quickly. “With the noodles.”
He finds it easily, setting the packet on the counter.
He reaches for the kettle and carries it to the sink, filling it with cold water before carrying it back to it’s base.
The kettle clicks on with a soft whir, the sound cutting through the apartment.
Elias moves to the refrigerator, pulling out the small container of milk I keep for coffee.
“Do you use any milk?” he asks, holding it up.
I nod again, struggling to put the feeling into words. Having him here, making soup in my kitchen and moving through my space already feels familiar in a way I don't quite know what to do with. Like we’ve been doing this for months instead of days.
“I’ll need to stop by my place tomorrow,” he says as he measures the milk into the waiting mug. “To grab some more clothes.”
The statement catches me off guard, not because he sounds entitled to my space, but because he seems so certain he'll still be here tomorrow, as though staying was never really in question.
“I didn’t—“ I start, then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. Ask you to stay? Expect you to bring more things? Plan for you to be here over the weekend?
“I know,” he says. The words aren't defensive. Just matter-of-fact. “I've already decided I'm not leaving you to handle this alone.”
I stare at him, heat crawling up my neck. He's decided he isn't leaving, and instead of arguing, I'm standing here trying to figure out why I don't want him to.
“If that‘s what you want,” I say finally, the words coming out calmer than I expect.
He meets my eyes across the small space between us. “It is,” he says simply. “If it’s okay with you.”
The kettle clicks off with a soft beep, the sound cutting through the moment. Elias turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water over the soup mix. Steam rises between us, carrying the rich scent of broth and herbs. My stomach clenches, a sudden, sharp hunger making my mouth water.
“It’s almost ready,” he says as he stirs. “You should sit.”
I move to the small table by the window, settling into the chair with my back to the wall.
It’s my usual spot—the one that lets me see both the door and the kitchen, that gives me clear lines to every exit.
A habit from living alone, from being the kind of person who notices potential problems before they happen.
Elias brings the mug over to me. “Careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”
I nod, wrapping my hands around the ceramic. The warmth seeps into my palms, easing the slight chill that’s been following me since we left the studio. “Thanks,” I say softly.
He moves back to the kitchen, giving me space.
The soup is exactly what I didn’t know I wanted—rich and warm. I take another spoonful, the warmth settling deeper than I expected. I can't remember the last time I actually sat down to eat instead of grabbing something between scenes or swallowing it while checking the schedule.
“Good?” Elias asks from the kitchen, his back to me as he wipes down the counter.
I nod, then remember he can’t see me. “Yeah,” I say. “Really good. Thanks.”
He doesn’t answer, just keeps moving through the familiar routine of cleaning up—wiping counters, putting away the milk, hanging the dish towel on the hook by the sink.
I watch him over the rim of my mug, considering how quickly things have changed.
Three days ago, he was just security—the presence at the edge of the set, the watchful eyes tracking movement. Now he’s making soup in my kitchen, planning to stay the night again, moving through my space like he belongs here.
The thought should make me uneasy.
Instead, it leaves me with a quiet sense of contentment that I don’t know what to do with.
Like the omega has already claimed him in a way I'm not ready to think about.
I finish the soup, setting the empty mug on the table.
“You want more?” Elias asks as he turns from the sink.
I shake my head. “I’m good. Thanks.”
He nods, moving back to the counter to finish wiping it down.
I watch the familiar motion, struck by how small the kitchen feels with both of us in it. The distance I've worked so hard to maintain feels different here. Harder to hold onto.
It's easy to blame the omega for that.
But even as I think it, I know it's not that simple.
Because part of me had been noticing Elias long before any of this started.
Since the first time I noticed him watching from the edge of the set.
Since I started cataloging small details without meaning to—the habits, the routines, the way he always seemed to be paying attention even when he looked distracted.
It's not just the omega.
It's me too.
I push to my feet, suddenly unable to sit still. “I should change,” I say, the words coming out steadier than I expect. “These clothes have been on since early this morning.”
Elias nods, stepping back to give me room to pass.
But the kitchen is too small, the distance isn’t quite enough.
As I move past him, my arm brushes his—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything - But it sends a jolt through me.
My omega preens at the touch and the fact that he’s close enough to reach.
I don’t pull away immediately. Instead, I let the contact linger a beat longer than I should.
Elias notices. I can tell by the slight shift in his posture. His eyes find mine across the small space between us, holding my gaze.
“You should get comfortable,” he says. “It’s been a long day.”
“I won’t be long,” I say as I step back.
He nods, turning back to the counter. I watch him for a moment longer, thinking of how much has changed in the last few days.
Not just the facts of my presentation, but what I’m no longer pretending I don’t feel, and what I’m starting to stop running from.
The distance I’ve been maintaining since that moment in the security room isn’t enough anymore.
Not with what’s coming, not with the timeline shrinking by the hour, not with the fundamental shift in how I understand myself.
I head for the bedroom, surprised by how little I want this moment to end. That having him 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 change quickly, too tired to overthink the decision.
My usual sleep clothes—loose cotton pants and an old t-shirt that’s soft from too many washes.
Nothing fancy or elaborate, just comfort after a day of holding myself together.
My body feels different now, the heat that’s been building since this all started settled into something more manageable.
I tell myself it’s because he’s here.
The thought follows me out of the bedroom.
I don’t examine it too closely.
I head back to the living room, my gaze finding Elias immediately—on the couch, remote in hand, flipping through channels. He’s changed too, the jeans and button-down replaced by sweatpants and a gray t-shirt that stretches across his shoulders.
I stop short. It shouldn't feel strange.
He's been here since yesterday. He's made coffee in my kitchen, cooked dinner, fallen asleep on my couch.
And yet something about seeing him there now—relaxed, comfortable, flipping through channels like this is the most natural thing in the world—catches me off guard.
For a moment, he looks like he belongs here.
“You want the remote?” he asks, looking up at me as he holds it out towards me.
I shake my head, moving to the armchair instead of the couch. “You can pick. I’m not really watching anyway.”
He nods, turning back to the screen. The show he settles on is something I’ve never seen—a documentary about deep-sea exploration, all quiet narration and blue-tinted footage.
It’s exactly what I need—something calm and predictable that gives me space to breathe.
I sink deeper into the chair, letting the tension ease from my shoulders as the seconds pass.
Twenty minutes in, my eyes start to drift closed—the combination of warmth and the bone-deep contentment making it impossible to stay awake. The last thing that registers is Elias shifting on the couch as I drift toward sleep.
When I wake, the room is darker, the documentary replaced by the soft blue light of the television’s screensaver image.
I’m still in the armchair, but I’ve been covered with the blanket from the back of the couch—the soft one I keep for nights when the heating isn’t quite enough.
It carries Elias’s scent now, layered under mine.
Elias is exactly where I left him, though he’s shifted to the far end of the couch, putting more distance between us without making it obvious. He’s watching something on his phone, the screen’s light casting his face in sharp relief—highlighting his mouth and his eyes.
“You’re awake,” he says without looking up. “It’s almost eleven. You’ve been out for a while.”
I push upright, smoothing a hand over my hair out of habit before realizing it's hopeless. The carefully put-together version of me has disappeared somewhere during that nap. “Sorry,” I say softly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Don’t apologize,” he says simply. “You needed it.”
“Thanks,” I say, gesturing to the blanket. “For this.”
He nods once, turning back to his phone. This should be the part where it gets awkward. But it doesn’t. I push to my feet, suddenly unable to sit still. “I should get ready for bed,” I say.
Elias nods, not looking up from his phone. “I’ll be here,” he says simply. “Whenever you’re ready.”
I head for the bathroom, my thoughts circling everything that's changed in the last twenty-four hours. Not just what I know or what I’ve learned, but what I’m willing to consider, what I’m ready to admit, what lines I’m prepared to cross. I brush my teeth and wash my face on autopilot.
When I emerge, Elias is exactly where I left him. His phone is face-down on the coffee table. “You can change the channel,” I say as I move toward the bedroom. “If you want to watch something else.”
He looks up, meeting my eyes. “I’m good,” he says simply. “Get some sleep. I’ll see you in the morning.”
I don’t doubt him. “Goodnight,” I as I turn back towards my room. I'm surprised by how little I want this moment to end—or for this alpha to leave my space.
I close my room door behind me with a soft click.
I slide under the covers thinking about my day. I hear the television click off with a soft beep, followed by footsteps crossing the living room and, a moment later, the creak of the couch as he settles onto it.
He's staying. Not just for tonight. Not just until production wraps or the heat Nadia warned me about passes. Maybe for longer than either of us planned.
The certainty of it settles somewhere deep inside me.
I don't know what happens next. I don't know what any of this becomes.
But for the first time since everything started changing, I don't feel like I'm facing it alone.