I've memorized the way he likes it: dark roast, brewed strong, with just a hint of vanilla and a splash of oat milk.Not too sweet, not too bitter. The perfect balance of bold and smooth. I've been making it for him almost every morning since I moved in, and at this point, I could probably do it in my sleep.
The craft services station has a small warming plate and a decent espresso machine, which is all I really need. I work quickly, falling into the familiar rhythm of preparation—heating the croissants until they're warm and flaky, arranging the fruit in an appetizing display, coaxing the espresso machine into producing something actually drinkable. My hands move with practiced confidence, and for a few minutes, I forget about the chaos of the set and just focus on what I do best.
This is my element. This is where I feel most myself—creating something with care, making something that will bring comfort to someone I love. The rest of the world can be complicated and confusing, but this? This I understand.
Once everything is assembled—the coffee steaming gently, the food arranged on one of the nicer plates I found behind the catering setup—I make my way across the set toward where Julian is sitting in the makeup chair. His eyes are closed, his jaw tight, while a nervous-looking makeup artist attempts to touch up his foundation.
"Mr. North?" the makeup artist ventures timidly. "Someone brought breakfast for you."
"I don't need anything," Julian says without opening his eyes. His voice is clipped, dismissive. "I'm not in the mood."
"Just set it on the side," he adds with a sigh, clearly assuming I'm some anonymous crew member. "I'll deal with it later."
I smile and say nothing, setting the plate and coffee cup on the small table beside the makeup station. The aroma of fresh coffee and warm pastry drifts upward, and I watch Julian's nose twitch slightly—that same wolf-like instinct that Tank has, recognizing a familiar scent even with his eyes closed.
I'm about to step away when his hand shoots out, catching me around the waist. His grip is firm but gentle, and he pulls me closer without opening his eyes.
"Sweet Ditzy?" he murmurs, his lips pursing into a pout that's entirely too adorable for a man who was radiating murder vibes thirty seconds ago.
I groan. "I thought we agreed that Sweet Queen or Sweet Vixen was better. Sweet Ditzy makes me sound like I have the intelligence of a particularly confused goldfish."
His eyes fly open, surprise flickering across his features when he realizes it's actually me. "Why are you here? You're supposed to be resting at the back. Shoots are boring—you don't need to be on your feet."
"You don't make it look boring," I counter, gesturing vaguely at the set around us. "Besides, it's your job. It's interesting to see all the work that goes into these productions." I nudge the plate closer to him. "And I figured you were probably hungry. You didn't get to eat this morning, and you definitely didn't get coffee. That's practically a war crime for someone with your caffeine dependency."
Julian's gaze drops to the food I've prepared—the golden croissants, the colorful arrangement of fruit, the cup of coffee that's still steaming gently. Something in his expression shifts, softening from irritation to something warmer.
"You made this?" he asks. "The croissants?"
"Last night. I couldn't sleep, so I baked. And then I figured, why let them go to waste when my grumpy Alpha clearly needs sustenance?" I reach for the coffee cup and hold it out to him. "Your favorite. Dark roast, hint of vanilla, splash of oat milk. Just the way you like it."
He takes the cup, his fingers brushing mine in the exchange, and for a moment, he just looks at me. Really looks, with an intensity that makes my skin warm.
"Did you eat?" he asks suddenly.
I blink. "What?"
"Breakfast. Did you eat breakfast?"
"Uh..." I try to remember. The morning had been such a rush—getting dressed, packing supplies, following Julian to the set. "Not... really? I had some water, I think."
His frown deepens. He turns to the makeup artist, who's been watching our exchange with poorly concealed fascination. "Five minutes."
She nods quickly and scurries away, probably grateful for an excuse to escape the tension.
Julian pats his lap. "Sit."
Heat floods my cheeks. "But... there are people around?" I gesture at the crew members milling about the set, some of whom are definitely watching us with curious expressions.
"I don't care." His hand finds my hip, guiding me closer. "They won't notice. And even if they do, I've been an ass all morning. They probably expect me to be demanding." His lips quirk into something that's almost a smile. "Sit, Rosemarie."
The way he says my name. Full and proper, not the nickname. It does things to me that I'm not prepared to examine in a public setting.
I settle onto his lap, my back against his chest, hyperaware of every point of contact between us. His arm comes around my waist to steady me, and his chin rests on my shoulder like it belongs there.
"Now," he murmurs against my ear, reaching for the fruit container, "eat."
He picks up a strawberry and brings it to my lips, holding it there with patient expectation. My face burns—being fed in public, surrounded by strangers, is not exactly something I'm accustomed to—but my stomach chooses that moment to growl traitorously, reminding me that I am, in fact, starving.
