“You needed rest,” he says. It’s not an apology. It’s not even an acknowledgment that he might have been wrong. It’s just astatement of fact, delivered in that same even tone. “Presenting takes energy. Your body’s going through a fundamental change. Pushing through it will only make things worse.”
“I’m not presenting,” I say, the lie bitter on my tongue. “And even if I were, that’s my decision to make. Not yours. Not anyone else’s.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “You purred, Maya. In a room with two alphas. That’s not something that happens to betas.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I think you do.” He takes a half-step closer, close enough that I can catch his scent—that clean, controlled note that cuts through the chaos of the set. “And I think you’re scared. That’s understandable. But pretending nothing’s happening won’t make it go away.”
Something in my chest twists—a mix of anger and something else I don’t want to name. “I’m not scared,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. “I’m angry. There’s a difference.”
“Fair,” he says. “But anger doesn’t change the facts. You’re in pre-heat. Your body’s preparing for a fundamental shift. And you’re trying to work fourteen-hour days in the middle of it.”
The word—heat—tightens something in my chest. I step back, bumping into the prop table behind me. “Stop,” I say firmly. “Just stop. You don’t get to diagnose me. You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You’re security, not my doctor. Not my...” I stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. Not my alpha feels too loaded, too presumptuous, even in the privacy of my own head.
“Not your anything,” he finishes for me, his voice firm. “I know that. But I’m responsible for the safety of everyone on this set. Including you. Especially now.”
“I don’t need special treatment,” I say. “I don’t need to be watched or protected or—“
“Everyone needs someone,” he interrupts. “Especially when they’re going through something they don’t understand.”
The certainty in his voice sends an unexpected warmth through me. It’s infuriating. It’s the omega. It has to be. This strange, unwanted response to his presence, to his scent, and attention.
It can’t be me.
“I have to get back to work,” I say, stepping around him. “And you have actual security things to do. People to watch who aren’t me.”
He doesn’t try to stop me. Doesn‘t follow. But I feel his eyes on my back as I walk away, that same gaze following me across the set.
I push through the rest of the morning in a daze, checking items off lists, answering questions, keeping things moving. The tablets are definitely working—the scents aren’t hitting me with the same overwhelming force, the sensitivity has dulled to something I can push through—but the awareness remains. That constant, background knowledge of where certain people are, what they’re doing, how they’re moving through the space.
I know, without consciously tracking it, that Adrian is in makeup. That Bash is running lines with the script supervisor by the craft table. That Elias is making his circuit of the set,stopping to talk to the stunt coordinator, checking the rigging for the afternoon’s sequence.
I know it without looking, without asking anyone, without any of the cues I'd normally use to keep track of the production's moving parts.
It’s like my body has developed a new sense—one tuned specifically to the three of them.
By lunch, I’m exhausted—not just from the work, but from the constant effort of ignoring this new awareness.
I grab a sandwich from craft services and retreat to the small break area behind the lighting rigs. It’s one of the few relatively quiet spots on set—a leftover from the early days of production when we were still figuring out the space. Now it’s mostly used by people who need five minutes to themselves, who need a break from the constant movement and noise.
I sink into one of the folding chairs, letting my head fall back against the wall. My eyes feel grainy, my thoughts moving sluggishly. I should eat. Should drink some water. Should check the afternoon schedule.
Instead, I close my eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to catch my breath.
“Look who it is.” Bash’s voice cuts through my moment of peace. “The woman of the hour. Or should I say, the woman who’s supposed to be at home resting?”
My eyes fly open. Bash stands at the entrance to the break area, one shoulder propped against the metal frame of the lighting rig. Behind him, slightly more hesitant, is Adrian.
“I took the subway,” I say angrily. “I did not get a ride from your security buddy. Though I’m sure he told you all about it.”
They exchange a look—that same wordless communication I noticed yesterday.
“We heard,” Adrian says carefully. “It’s already making its way around set. It didn’t come from him.”
“So what are you doing here?” Bash asks, dropping into the chair across from mine. “If you’re really not feeling well, I mean. Not that we’re not glad to see you. We are. Very glad. Extremely glad. But also confused. And maybe a little concerned. But mostly glad.”
The rapid-fire delivery tugs at something inside me, making it harder than it should be to stay annoyed.
