Chapter 17 #2
“I’m okay,” I say, and mean it. “The documentary sounds perfect. Really.”
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay,” he says simply. “But if that changes—if you need air or space or just a minute to breathe—say the word. No questions, no pressure. Just... we’re here. However, you need us to be.”
Warmth moves through me before I can push it back. “Thanks, I will.”
He nods again, then turns his attention back to the hallway, giving me space to process his words.
We reach the theater three turns later, Adrian pushing open a door at the end of the hall.
The space beyond is darker than I expected—not the bright, open room I half-imagined but something more enclosed.
Comfortable seating is arranged in a semicircle.
A massive screen dominates the far wall.
Lights dimmed to just the right level—present enough to see by but low enough not to compete with the image on the screen.
It's a space designed for immersion, narrowing the world down to just what’s happening on the screen.
“Pick your spot,” Adrian says, gesturing to the seating arrangement. “Middle’s usually best for viewing, but whatever works for you. We’re not picky.”
The offer feels more weighted than the words would suggest. A few months ago, I would have picked the seat closest to the exit without thinking about it. Now I find myself studying the arrangement for an entirely different reason.
Because this isn't really about the screen.
It's about where I fit within the space they've made for me.
“The middle’s good,” I say finally, moving toward the center of the semicircle. “If that’s okay with everyone.”
“It’s perfect,” Adrian says, already settling into the seat to my left. “Best view in the house.”
Bash takes the spot to my right, close enough that I could reach him without fully extending my arm.
“Sound good to you too?” he asks, his tone casual.
“We can adjust if needed.” I nod, suddenly unable to look at him.
“It’s good,” I say, the words coming out more evenly than I expect.
“Thanks.” Elias moves last, choosing the seat beside Adrian.
“I’ll grab those blankets,” Adrian says, pushing to his feet before I can respond.
“Be right back.” He’s gone before I can tell him not to bother.
Bash settles more comfortably into his seat before turning his head my way.
“You want something to drink?” he asks. “Water? Soda? We’ve got pretty much everything. ”
“Water’s good,” I say automatically. “Thanks.”
He nods, already reaching for the bottle on the side table.
“Here,” he says, passing it over to me. “ Be careful, it’s cold.
” Our fingers brush as I take it—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything.
But it sends a jolt through me. My omega melts beneath the attentiveness of it—the touch, the attention, the fact that he noticed what I needed before I said a word.
I don’t pull away immediately. I let the contact linger longer than I mean to, acutely aware of every point where we touch.
Bash notices. His expression warms. “You okay?” he asks, his voice low.
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. Adrian returns a few minutes later, two blankets balanced in his arms. “Options,” he says, holding them out to me.
“In case you get cold. The AC runs a little strong in here.” Something deep inside me softens as my omega responds to the consideration in the gesture, to the instinctive way they keep taking care of me without making it feel overwhelming.
“Thanks,” I say, taking them before I can second-guess myself. “That’s... really thoughtful.”
Our fingers brush as he passes them over—another brief, accidental touch that affects me far more than it should.
The blankets settle across my lap with surprising warmth, the fabric impossibly soft against my oversensitive skin.
The scents lingering in the material hit me first—warm amber and cedar layered with the sharper blend of bergamot and black pepper.
The constant tension beneath my skin loosens slightly, the restless edge dulling just enough to make me realize how tightly wound I've been all afternoon.
“Better?” Adrian asks as he watches my face. I nod, settling deeper beneath the blankets as some of the tension beneath my skin finally eases.
“Good,” he says, settling back into his seat.
“We’re starting in three, two...” The screen lights up before he finishes, the documentary's opening credits filling the frame with blue-green images of coral reefs.
The sound follows a beat later—softer than I expected, balanced to fill the space without overwhelming it.
Adrian reaches for the remote, dimming the lights further with a single click.
The room darkens around us until the television becomes the only real source of light, casting soft blue-green shadows across the couch. I force my attention toward the documentary—the drifting schools of fish, the coral swaying beneath the current, the steady cadence of the narrator’s voice.
I should be letting this pull me out of my own head. Should be taking advantage of the first real moment of calm I’ve had in days. But I can’t. Not when every movement beside me keeps pulling my attention away from the screen and back toward the three alphas surrounding me.
Time passes quickly. The documentary moves from coral to fish to the larger ecosystem of the reef.
Adrian makes occasional comments—observations about particular species or behaviors, easy, meaningless chatter.
Bash is quieter, his attention more focused on the screen than the conversation.
But every few minutes, his gaze finds mine, checking in without making a point of it.
Elias says almost nothing, but I’m aware of him with each shift of position, each breath, each moment when the distance between us changes by fractions of an inch.
Twenty minutes in, Bash pushes to his feet. “Snack break,” he says, his tone warm and relaxed. “These documentaries always make me hungry. Anyone else?”
No one answers immediately—just a series of noncommittal sounds that could mean anything. But Bash is already moving, cutting through the darkness toward the doorway.
He’s back five minutes later, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. “Fruit,” he says, setting it on the table within my reach. “And some of those crackers you liked at craft services last week. Nothing fancy, but it should keep us going until dinner.”
Something inside me softens at the realization that he remembered. “Thanks,” I say, while reaching for an apple slice. “This is... really nice.”
He nods once, not making a big deal of the moment. “Eat,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Your body’s burning energy faster than normal. Even if you don’t feel hungry, you need the fuel.”
It’s not pushy —just a simple statement of fact. And somehow, that makes it easier to accept. “It’s good,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Really fresh.”
For a moment, Bash looks pleased by the acknowledgment. “I’m glad,” he says simply. “There’s more when you’re ready.”
We settle back into the documentary, the four of us sharing the tray.
They let the silence settle naturally between us instead of trying to fill it with meaningless chatter.
Just four people watching a film, sharing food, existing in the same space without drama or tension or any of the things I’ve been afraid of since I started changing.
But even as the room settles back into silence, I can feel something shifting inside me. The restless pressure beneath my skin has eased into something softer. My thoughts don’t feel as tangled. My breathing comes easier. Like my body has finally stopped fighting itself long enough to settle.
And maybe the most unsettling part is how naturally it happens here. Surrounded by them. By their warmth, their scents, the attention woven through every small interaction. My omega responds to all of it instinctively, sinking deeper beneath the blankets as a low sense of calm spreads through me.
Elias’s presence made this easier to endure, but this is something else entirely. The warmth filling my chest, the way my omega keeps relaxing deeper into the space around me, the strange sense of rightness settling beneath my skin all feel too specific to ignore.
Nadia was right all along.
My body isn’t responding to the blockers.
It’s responding to them.
Time passes. The documentary moves from reef to open ocean, the narrator’s voice a steady presence beneath the shifting images.
An hour in, the documentary shifts to a segment on whale migration—massive bodies moving through deep blue water with grace. The narrator’s voice drops slightly, taking on the reverent tone people use when discussing things too large to comprehend fully.
“They’re amazing,” Adrian says, his voice low. “Aren’t they? The way they move. Like they’re part of the water itself.”
I nod, drawn into the moment despite myself.
“They’re my favorite,” I say, the words coming out in a rush.
“Since I was a kid. I used to have books—” I stop abruptly, suddenly aware of what I’m revealing.
Not the polished, capable version of myself I show everyone else, but the person underneath it.
The one with favorite animals and childhood memories and all the small, ordinary details that make someone real.
But no one pushes the moment into something heavier. The admission is met with easy acceptance and the unspoken understanding that any version of me is welcome here.
“That makes sense,” Bash says after a moment. “You’ve got the same... I don’t know. Grace, I guess. The way you move through a space. Like you’re part of it rather than moving through it.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I’m not—that’s not—“
“It’s a compliment,” Adrian says quickly. “A really good one. Bash doesn’t give those out often, so you should definitely take it.”