Ben partners me for the contact improvisation section, his hands steady and safe on my waist. "Lean on me." A whisper. "I've got you."
And he does. For the past week, he's been subtly supporting me—a hand on my back during scene study, sharing his lunch when I "forget" mine, making sure I have a ride back to the dorms after late rehearsals.
"You don't have to take care of me." Yesterday's conversation.
"I'm not." His response was quick, hands forming a frame around the words. "I'm being selfish. You make me better on stage, so I need you functional."
But the way he looks at me says otherwise.
Afternoon rehearsal for Medea is where I come alive. Whatever's killing my body can't touch me when I'm her. For three hours, I'm not a dying omega—I'm an ancient force of vengeance.
"From the beginning," Marcus calls. "Vespera, I want to see that thing you did yesterday—where you go completely still before the explosion."
The thing I did yesterday was almost faint, had to lock my knees to stay upright, and turned it into a character choice. But it worked.
Ben crosses to me for our confrontation scene, and the chemistry is undeniable. Every accusation Medea hurls at Jason, every defense he makes—we're electric together.
"Brilliant," Marcus says when we finish. "The sexual tension even through the hatred—maintain that."
Sexual tension. Ben catches my eye and grins, not embarrassed at all.
"Method acting?" His wink is theatrical, hands spreading in mock innocence.
"You wish."
But there is something there. Has been building all week. The way he finds excuses to touch me—adjusting my scarf, fixing my hair, his hand on my lower back guiding me through doorways. The way I've started looking forward to seeing him each morning, how his Beta scent has become something comforting instead of just neutral.
It's nothing like the explosive chemistry with the Alphas. It's gentler, warmer, like sunshine instead of lightning. It doesn't make my body betray me, doesn't override my will. It just... is.
Thatnight,weeatin his room—well, he eats and I push food around—while running lines. His roommate is never there, always with his boyfriend, so it's just us. Comfortable. Easy.
"Can I ask you something?" A break in the lines.
"Sure."
"The Alphas who did this to you—do you miss them?"
The question catches me off guard. "What?"
"I mean, I know they hurt you. I know you ran. But the bond... doesn't it make you miss them anyway?"
Thinking about lying happens. But he's been nothing but honest with me.
"Every second." The admission. "My body screams for them constantly. Even knowing what they did, what they are, the biological pull is..." A trail off. "It's like being addicted to something that's poisoning you."
"That sounds like hell."
"It is."
He moves closer on the bed, not quite touching but close enough that I can feel his warmth. "Is there anything that helps?"
"Distraction. Work. The show." A pause. "You."
"Me?"
"You're... calm. Safe. You don't make my biology go haywire. You just make me feel like a person."
"You are a person." Softly. "A brilliant, strong, slightly terrifying person who's going to make everyone cry when you perform Medea."
