Chapter 22
Maya
The first thing I notice is the absence of the pressure that’s been living under my skin for days. My body feels like it belongs to me again, at least temporarily. My thoughts aren’t immediately tangled. Even the light coming through the gap in the curtains seems less aggressive than usual.
I lie there for a long time, just breathing, trying to understand what’s different.
Then it hits me.
I slept.
Not the fitful, interrupted sleep I’ve been managing since this started, where every sound jerks me awake and every shift in temperature sends me searching for blankets or throwing them off.
Real sleep. The kind that leaves you rested instead of exhausted, the kind where your muscles feel loose instead of wound tight.
The kind that only happened after spending an entire evening surrounded by three specific alphas.
My stomach drops.
I push myself upright against the headboard, suddenly wide awake. My sheets are cool beneath my palms. The room holds that particular stillness of early morning, the kind where the rest of the world hasn’t quite caught up yet. Everything should feel peaceful. Calm. Settled.
Instead, I feel the first curl of unease working its way through my chest.
Because this isn’t just about physical relief anymore.
This isn’t just my omega responding to compatible scents or the chemical compatibility Nadia explained.
This is my body responding to them specifically.
To Bash’s bergamot-and-spice. To Adrian’s warm amber and cedar. To Elias’s cool stone and musk.
This is my body deciding it belongs with them.
And I don’t know what to do with that.
My thoughts turn to last night, replaying fragments in vivid detail.
Bash's arm around my shoulders, the reassuring weight of it making my omega practically melt. Adrian’s hand in mine, his thumb brushing slow circles across my knuckles while we watched a movie I barely remember.
The way I’d reached for both of them without thinking, without hesitation, without any of the distance I’ve been clinging to since this started.
Falling asleep against Bash’s chest like it was the most natural thing in the world.
Like I trusted him.
Like I trusted all of them.
That’s the part that frightens me. Not the closeness by itself. The ease of it. How completely my body surrendered the tension it’s been holding for weeks.
Because last night didn’t feel like instinct or biology or any of the things I’ve been telling myself. It felt like choice. It felt like something I wanted, not something happening to me.
And that’s the part I can’t seem to breathe around.
My phone sits on the nightstand beside me, screen dark.
I should text them. Bash asked me to let them know when I got home, and I never did.
The thought sends another curl of unease through my stomach.
I pick up the phone, thumb hovering over the screen, and then set it down again without unlocking it.
I’m not ready.
Not for their messages, not for whatever casual warmth they’ll offer, not for the way my omega will preen at even the smallest contact.
I need to think. Really think, without their scents filling my apartment or their hands reaching for mine or their presence pulling me out of my own head the way it does every time they’re close.
I need a plan.
The omega center.
The thought arrives fully formed, like it’s been waiting beneath the surface all along.
Professional heat support. Neutral alphas trained to handle presentations without attachment.
Structured arrangements with clear boundaries, medical oversight, rooms designed specifically for this purpose.
No emotional entanglement. No working relationships complicated beyond repair.
No waking up one morning to find I’ve built my entire life around three men I met on a film set because my body decided it wanted them before my brain caught up.
I could call today. Make an appointment.
Get myself on a list. The centers have waiting periods, but first presentations usually get priority, especially for omegas with high-stress jobs.
Nadia would help me navigate the paperwork.
I could be in a neutral environment with trained professionals before my heat fully hits, handling this the way responsible adults are supposed to handle biological imperatives.
Safely. Impersonally. Without risking everything I’ve built.
The plan holds together for about thirty seconds before the first fracture appears.
The centers work for most people. They’re designed to.
But they work for omegas who haven’t already responded to specific alphas.
Mine has.
I push the blankets aside before the thought can settle any deeper.
The floor is cool beneath my feet as I cross to the bathroom.
My reflection looks different this morning—less hollow around the eyes, less of the constant tension that’s been living in my jaw for days.
I look like someone who actually slept. Someone who isn’t fighting herself every second of every hour.
Someone who might be starting to accept what’s happening to her.
I brush my teeth harder than I need to, focusing on the mint sting and the mechanical routine instead of the realization taking shape beneath it. By the time I finish, my jaw aches from clenching, but at least the mint has burned everything else away for a few precious seconds.
The apartment smells like coffee when I step into the hallway.
Not the kind I make—weak, utilitarian, and barely worth drinking.
This is something richer, something that fills the entire space with warmth the moment I cross the threshold.
I follow it to the living room, drawn by scent, the way I’ve been drawn to everything in relation to these alphas since this started.
Elias stands at the kitchen counter, already showered and dressed in dark jeans and a gray Henley. He’s arranging muffins on a plate—the same blueberry ones from the bakery down the street. Two of them this time, instead of one.
He looks up when I appear in the doorway.
“Morning,” he says. His voice carries its usual evenness, nothing in it suggesting yesterday changed anything between us. “Coffee’s fresh. Muffins are still warm.”
Something inside me softens at the gesture. “You didn’t have to do that,” I say. “The muffins. You already got them yesterday.”
He shrugs once. “They’re good. And you need to eat before we head to set.” He pushes the plate toward me across the counter, then reaches for a mug. “Do you want cream?”
I nod, unable to look at him directly. “Please.”
He measures the cream without asking how much, which means he’s been paying attention to how I take my coffee. The realization lingers longer than it should.
I take the mug from his hand, our fingers brushing in the exchange. The contact lasts half a second and sends a jolt through me.
“Thanks,” I say softly.
He nods once, turning back to his own coffee.
The silence between us feels comfortable in a way that would have been unimaginable two weeks ago.
We move around the small kitchen without bumping into each other, familiar enough with each other’s patterns by now that the space feels shared instead of crowded.
I take a muffin from the plate and break it in half. The blueberries inside are still warm, the sugar on top catching the morning light. I eat standing at the counter because sitting down feels like admitting how normal this has become, and I’m not ready for that admission yet.
Elias doesn’t push. He drinks his coffee leaning against the counter opposite me, his posture relaxed, his focus occasionally drifting to the window where sunlight spills across the floor. He looks like he belongs here.
“We should leave in twenty,” he says after a while. “Traffic gets worse after seven-thirty.”
I nod, swallowing the last bite of muffin. “I just need to change.”
“Take your time.”
I don’t, though. I change quickly—jeans, a soft sweater, boots I can stand in for twelve hours without complaining.
I brush my hair and tie it back, the way I always do for workdays.
I check my phone once, see three unread messages from Bash and Adrian, and slip it into my pocket without opening them.
When I emerge, Elias is waiting by the door with his keys in hand. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Ready.”
The drive to the studio is quiet. Elias keeps the radio low, some morning news program murmuring beneath the sound of the engine.
I watch the city pass outside the window and try not to think about how many times we’ve done this now.
How many mornings he’s driven me to work without complaint, how many evenings he’s brought me home, how many hours he’s spent in my apartment.
The parking garage beneath the studio feels colder than the morning air outside, all concrete and exhaust fumes and the particular mustiness of underground spaces. Elias parks in his usual spot, close to the elevator, and cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the muffins. For driving. For...” I gesture vaguely, unable to find the right word for everything else.
He studies my face for a long moment, his dark green eyes calm and focused in a way that makes me want to look away and lean closer at the same time. “Anytime,” he says simply.
Then he’s opening his door, and the moment breaks.
We walk to the elevator together, his presence grounding beside me. A few steps and then we’re in the main building, the familiar hum of early-morning set life rising around us. Equipment carts rolling across concrete. Distant voices calling check numbers. The smell of coffee from craft services.
I feel them before I see them.