Chapter 18
Maya
The kitchen feels lived-in, golden light catching on the countertops as Adrian moves between the stove and the island.
He holds a knife as he cuts tomatoes into neat slices.
Bash stands at the island, his attention focused on whatever he‘s mixing in the bowl in front of him.
Their conversation shifts between the documentary and tomorrow's filming, their voices blending into a familiar hum.
I pause at the doorway for a second, just watching them. Elias stops beside me, close enough that I can feel the heat radiating from him through the space between us.
“There she is,” Adrian says, looking up with a bright smile. “Perfect timing. I was just about to send a search party.” His gaze flicks to Elias, then back to me. “You guys want to help? Or just supervise from a safe distance?”
“I can help,” I say, already stepping farther into the kitchen. “What can I do?”
Adrian smiles a little at that, like he’d already known I wouldn’t be able to sit still while they worked.
“Perfect,” he says, already reaching for a cutting board.
“You can start with the cheese. Bash likes it thin enough to see through, but I think we can compromise on ‘not falling apart’ as a baseline.”
I cross the room quickly, drawn closer by his smile. Bash looks up as I approach, his expression softening. “Hey,” he says. “You’re just in time. Adrian was about to start talking about his sandwich philosophy again, and I’ve already heard it fourteen times this week.”
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
The exchange is simple, ordinary even, but I still find myself caught off guard by how natural it feels to step into it.
“I have not,” Adrian protests, unable to hide his grin. “And it’s not a philosophy. It’s a system. There’s a difference.”
“There’s really not,” Bash says, but he’s smiling too. “But go ahead. Enlighten us. I’m sure Maya’s dying to know the proper order for a club sandwich.”
They keep talking as I take the cutting board and move closer to them. He passes me the cheese before stepping aside, making space for me at the counter.
I reach for the knife, grounding myself in the simplicity of the task. Slice the cheese. Stack the pieces neatly onto the plate. Small, ordinary movements that should be enough to quiet my thoughts for a little while.
But it doesn’t. Because my body’s still responding to the alphas moving through the space around me. Adrian works at the counter to my left, slicing tomatoes while Bash measures ingredients into a bowl beside me. Behind us, Elias leans back against the counter, his presence comforting and familiar.
“Like this,” Adrian says, stepping closer to demonstrate a cutting technique. His arm brushes mine as he reaches for the knife—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But it sends a jolt through me anyway, my omega responding to the familiarity of the contact.
I don’t immediately pull away. Adrian meets my gaze, his expression softening as my pulse trips.
“Better?” he asks, his voice low. I nod, not trusting myself to speak.
His gaze returns to the counter a second later, as though nothing unusual had happened.
Time slips by quickly as we settle into the rhythm of the kitchen together.
Adrian works through the vegetables beside me while Bash focuses on the dressing nearby, and Elias stays at my back with that same grounding presence I’m starting to expect from him.
I keep waiting to feel out of place, but the feeling never comes.
The kitchen hums with activity, the whole routine feeling oddly effortless.
Elias was the first person who made this feel less terrifying. But being here with all three of them feels bigger somehow, in a way I can’t ignore anymore.
Like having all three here is helping in a way I never expected.
“That’s perfect,” Bash says, nodding toward the cheese I’ve been cutting. “Exactly the right width. Adrian would have made them paper-thin and then complained when they disintegrated.”
“I would not,” Adrian protests, though he’s smiling as he says it. “I have very specific sandwich requirements. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Nothing at all,” Bash agrees, his tone solemn. “Except the fifteen-minute lecture that comes with them. And the elaborate hand gestures. And the—“
“I do not use hand gestures,” Adrian interrupts, though the movement of his knife contradicting his statement. “That’s all you. You’re the one who can’t talk about staging without acting out the entire scene.”
“At least I don’t narrate my sandwich assembly,” Bash shoots back. “Step one: bread. Step two: mayo, but only on the—“
“I do not narrate,” Adrian says, but he’s laughing now, the sound bright with amusement. “You’re making that up.”
“I’m not,” Bash says, turning to me with exaggerated seriousness. “Tell him, Maya. You’ve seen it. The man cannot make a sandwich without announcing each ingredient like it’s a revelation.”
The conversation flows around me, nothing more than meaningless chatter that they include me in effortlessly.
They’re watching me, but not with the careful, assessing looks I’ve grown used to from them since this started.
Their gazes have softened, carrying something that makes it feel like I matter beyond what's happening to my body.
The realization is impossible to ignore now that I’ve finally let myself see it clearly.
Maybe that's why being here feels different.
Not because they're treating me like an omega.
Because they're treating me like I belong.
“We should eat,” Adrian says, breaking my chain of thought. “Before Bash makes up any more stories about my sandwich habits.”
“I’m not making anything up,” Bash argues, though he’s already gathering plates from the cabinet. “Everything I’ve said is one hundred percent documented fact.”
“It is absolutely not,” Adrian says, still smiling. “Maya, you’re a witness to this slander. I expect a full character defense at dinner.”
“I’ll do my best,” I tease. “But I make no promises. I’ve seen your craft services requirements. They’re very specific.”
Adrian blinks, then a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, like he wasn't expecting me to tease him back. Then he's laughing, the sound carrying easily through the kitchen. “You’ve been paying attention,” he says. “I’m impressed. Most people just think I‘m being difficult.”
“I notice things,” I say, suddenly unable to look at him. “It’s kind of my job.”
“Not just your job,” Bash says. “It’s who you are. You see people. The parts they’re trying to hide and the ones they don’t know are showing.”
The simple statement catches me off guard.
Not because of the observation itself—I’ve been paying attention to them since the first week of filming, noticing the way Adrian’s posture shifts when he’s lying or how Bash’s voice drops slightly when he’s genuinely invested in a moment.
Those small details are part of how I keep productions running smoothly, helping me anticipate problems before they happen.
But I never thought they noticed. Never imagined they saw me paying attention to the thousand little details that make up their performances.
They noticed me before my presentation ever gave them a reason to. Back when I was still just the beta managing schedules and solving problems behind the scenes.
“Food’s ready,” Adrian says, as he washes his hands at the sink. “You guys want to eat in here? Or the dining room’s set up if you’d rather.”
“Here’s good,” The response slips out faster than I mean for it to. “If that‘s okay with everyone.”
“Here’s perfect,” Bash says, already moving toward the island. “More casual. Less ‘first date at my parents’ house’ energy.”
Adrian snorts. “Your parents would just be excited you brought someone home at all.”
“I bring people home,” Bash says automatically, already moving plates onto the island.
Adrian gives him a look. “Coworkers with food poisoning don’t count.”
Bash pauses. “They appreciated me.”
“I’m sure they did.”
Elias huffs a laugh beside me, and the easy rhythm of the evening continues.
For once, I don't find myself waiting for it to disappear.
Conversation continues easily as we move to the island together, the three of them settling around me with a familiarity that feels strangely natural. Bash stays close on my right, Elias takes the seat beside me, and Adrian remains across from me, watching me more than the food.
Adrian passes the plates over to me. “Dig in,” he says. “It’s nothing fancy, but it should hit the spot.”
I look down at the food—simple sandwiches cut into neat triangles with a small salad on the side, the kind of meal that doesn’t require me to worry about making a mess of myself while I eat.
“Thanks,” I say. “This looks perfect.”
“It’s just sandwiches,” Adrian says. “Nothing special.”
But it is special. They’ve been adjusting around me all night without hesitation, making this easier for me in a hundred small ways I don’t think they even realize they’re doing.
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the occasional comment about the food, the documentary, or tomorrow’s filming schedule.
“Water?” Adrian asks, already reaching for the pitcher before I can answer.
“You look like you could use some.” The question catches me off guard.
Not because he offered—people hand each other water all the time—but because he noticed I needed it before I did.
“Thanks,” I say, as I accept the glass he offers, “I didn’t realize I was thirsty. ”
“Your body’s working harder than normal,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Even with the blockers. It’s burning through fluids faster. You need to stay hydrated.”
I hear the words differently than I would have a week ago.
Less like someone trying to manage me and more like someone genuinely paying attention.
And somehow, that makes it easier to accept.
To take the water and actually drink it instead of deflecting or making excuses or any of the hundred ways I would usually avoid admitting I need help.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He nods once, not making a big deal of the moment. Then he’s back to his sandwich, attention shifting to whatever Bash is saying about tomorrow’s scenes. The conversation moves on, but I find myself watching him for a moment longer.
Time passes as the conversation drifts from food to filming before Bash launches into a story from his last project.
They keep noticing my needs before I even realize them myself - my glass never stays empty for long.
They see me.
Not just the production coordinator who keeps schedules running and problems from spiraling.
Me.
The version that gets quiet when she's overwhelmed. The version that overthinks everything. The one who’s scared and trying so hard not to ask for help even when it’s exactly what she needs.
And somehow, they stay anyway.
If this were only biological—just my omega responding to compatible alpha scents and instincts—it wouldn’t feel like this. Being seen wouldn’t make my chest tighten the way it does, and that unfamiliar ease wouldn’t feel so dangerously close to comfort.
Whatever's happening between the four of us is getting harder and harder to dismiss as instinct alone.
“We should probably clean up,” Adrian says, setting down his glass. “We’ve got an early call tomorrow.”
The simple statement cuts through my thoughts.
Tomorrow means filming and stepping back into the real world that’s waiting beyond this house and whatever’s happening between us.
The routine of it should feel grounding, like proof that this is only temporary, rather than the beginning of a future I never planned for.
But even as the thought creeps in, I know it isn’t that simple.
I don’t want to go back to keeping distance between us or constantly monitoring every shift in closeness like it’s dangerous.
I don't want to lose the strange sense of calm that's settled over me here, surrounded by people who somehow make everything feel easier.
I want them to stay close.
“I can help,” I say, already reaching for the empty plates. “It’s the least I can do after... everything.”
Adrian nods, but his attention lingers on me for a second too long, like he caught whatever crossed my face before I could hide it. “Actually,” he says after a pause, “we could still watch something lighter before bed. If you want.”
The offer is casual enough that he could still pretend it means nothing if I turn him down. But I notice the intent way he watches my expression before he continues.
"I was hoping you'd stay a little longer," he says finally, his voice low, like he's not entirely sure he should admit it. His gaze holds mine as he speaks. “If that’s okay. If you’re up for it. If you’re not too tired.”
I can't stop the small smile that tugs at my lips.
For the last hour, I've been trying not to think about the evening ending.
Apparently, I wasn't the only one.
“I’m not tired,” I say, and mean it. “Another movie sounds perfect.”
Relief flickers across his expression, like he'd been hoping I would say yes.
Then he smiles, the expression reaching his eyes in a way that makes my stomach flip unexpectedly.
“Great,” he says as he pushes to his feet and starts gathering plates from the island.
Bash follows a second later with an exaggerated sigh about doing manual labor, Elias moving beside him without complaint.
I find myself trailing after them before I can overthink it.
The kitchen falls back into order quickly, and somehow the easy familiarity of working beside them follows us into the hallway.
We head for the theater together, and the hallway feels different from the way it did an hour ago.
The distance between us hasn't changed. Adrian is still a few steps ahead, Bash beside him, Elias close enough behind me that I can feel his presence without looking.
I'm aware of every inch of space between us now.
For the first time, I find myself wishing there were less of it.