She nods, watching me with worried eyes as I head for the door. “Maya,” she calls as I step outside. “Whatever happens... I’m here, okay? No matter what.”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak, and close the door behind me.
The late afternoon sun hits my face, warm but not overwhelming. I take a deep breath, testing. The air still carries a hundred different scents—the rubber from the tires of the equipment trucks, the artificial smoke from the special effects test earlier, the lingering traces of the lunch the craft services team served three hours ago—but they‘re not hitting me with the same force. It’s like someone turned down the sensitivity on my nose. Nadia's blockers are working.
I check my watch. 4:47. If I hurry, I can make it back to the set before the transition starts. I cut across the back lot again, staying close to the equipment trucks where there are fewer people. My head feels clearer, the weird heat under my skin cooling to something more manageable. Maybe this wasn't progressing as quickly as Nadia feared. Maybe the blockers would buy me enough time to finish what I started.
I’m almost to the side entrance when I see him—Elias Stone, standing at the edge of the parking area, watching me. My steps falter. The blocker in my system might as well be sugar for all the good it's doing now. Because the moment I see him, the tightness in my throat returns. The heat flickers back under my skin. And something in my chest wants to make that sound again—that soft, involuntary sound I still can't believe came from me.
I force myself to keep walking, to look straight ahead. If I don‘t acknowledge him, maybe he’ll leave me alone. Maybe he’ll decide he was wrong, that what he saw was just stress or exhaustion or—
“Maya.”
His voice stops me in my tracks. I turn, my heart hammering, to find him standing closer than I expected—close enough thatI can catch his scent. Not cologne or deodorant, but something underneath, something that’s just him. Clean. Controlled. Grounding. The blocker isn’t working for this. Nothing is.
“What?” My voice comes out sharper than I intended.
His expression doesn’t change. “You shouldn’t walk to the subway alone. Not right now.”
The words hit me like ice water. “Why not?”
“You know why.” His voice is matter-of-fact. “Pre-heat makes omegas vulnerable. Especially ones who‘ve never experienced it before.”
I glance around, making sure no one’s close enough to hear. “Keep your voice down,” I hiss. “And I‘m fine. I don’t need a ride. I don’t need anything from you.”
“You need to get home safely,” he says. “That’s all I’m offering.”
“I’m not an omega,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “Whatever you think you saw—“
“I didn’t think anything,” he interrupts. “I know what I saw. And so do Wells and Kane.”
Their names make my stomach drop. Adrian and Bash. They know. They’ve known since that moment in the security checkpoint, since the sound I couldn’t control.
“I have to go,” I say, stepping back. “I have work to do.”
“You’re not going back to set.” Elias doesn't phrase it like a question. “You’re going home. To rest. To figure out what happens next.”
The fact that he says it like the decision has already been made sends a flare of irritation through me. "You don't get to tell me what to do," I say. "I have responsibilities and people counting on me."
“People who will understand if you need to take a day,” he says. “The second AD already knows you’re not feeling well. I told her you’d be back tomorrow.”
“You what?” The word comes out too loud. I glance around again, lowering my voice. “You had no right to do that. No right to say anything about me to anyone.”
“It’s done,” he says simply. “Go home, Maya. Get some rest. We‘ll talk tomorrow.”
I want to argue. Want to tell him he’s overstepping, that he has no idea what I need or what I’m capable of. But the blocker is already wearing off, the sensitivity returning in waves. And underneath it all is that same, strange pull—the part of me that wants to step closer, not farther away. The part that recognizes something in him that my conscious mind refuses to name.
“I’m leaving,” I say instead. “Alone. Don‘t follow me.”
I turn and walk quickly toward the studio gate, my shoulders tight with the effort of not looking back. But I feel it—the weight of his eyes on me, watching as I go. Halfway to the gate, I risk a glance over my shoulder. He’s still there, standing exactly where I left him, his posture relaxed but his attention fixed entirely on me.
I push through the gate, flashing my ID at the guard without slowing down. The subway station is three blocks away. I can make it. I just need to keep moving, to focus on putting onefoot in front of the other. To ignore the growing awareness that someone is behind me—not hurrying to catch up, not calling my name, just... there. Present. Watching.
I should be angry. Should be creeped out. Should be planning the strongly worded email I’m going to send to HR about overprotective security guys who can’t take no for an answer.
But that's not what I feel. As I walk with Elias twenty paces behind me, the tightness in my throat eases. The heat under my skin settles into something more manageable. For the first time all day, I don't feel like I'm fighting my own body.
I should be relieved.
