“I’m fine,” I say automatically. Then, catching myself: “Not fine, exactly. But functional. The tablets are helping.”
“Tablets?” Adrian’s brow furrows. He moves to the third chair. Not as close as Bash, but not as far as Elias would have stayed. Somewhere in the middle—close enough to talk normally, far enough that I don’t feel crowded.
“From Nadia,” I explain. “Herbal blockers. They’re not real suppressants, but they help with the...” I gesture vaguely. "Everything."
They exchange another look, longer this time.
“That’s not really how it works,” Adrian says gently. “Blockers can help with symptoms, but if you’re really in pre-heat—“
“I’m not in pre-heat,” I interrupt. “I’m just... reacting to stress. Or not sleeping enough. Or—“
“Maya.” Bash’s voice is softer now, the teasing edge gone. “You purred. In the security room. With us. That’s not something that happens to betas. That’s not something that happens because you’re tired.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I don’t know what that was. It could have been anything. A cough, or—“
“It wasn’t a cough,” Adrian says. “And it’s okay. Really. Whatever’s happening—whatever you’re feeling—it’s okay.”
The simple acceptance in his voice makes something in my chest ache. Not in a bad way—in a way that makes me want to lean toward him, not away. In a way that makes the tightness in my throat ease just slightly.
I want to blame the response on the omega, on whatever is changing inside me, because the alternative is admitting that some part of me genuinely wants to lean toward them.
“I should get back,” I say, standing up too quickly. The movement makes my head swim. “We’ve got the stunt sequence after lunch, and I need to confirm the props with—“
“Hey.” Bash stands too. “It’s okay. We’re not pushing. We’re just...” He hesitates, looking to Adrian.
“Checking in,” Adrian finishes for him. “Making sure you’re okay. That’s all.”
I don't know why that matters as much as it does. “I’m fine,” I say again. “Really. The tablets are working. I can get through the day. Through the production. Through whatever this is.”
They exchange another look, longer this time.
“We believe you,” Adrian says finally. “But if you need anything—anything at all—we’re here. Okay?”
I nod, not trusting myself to speak. There’s something in their faces—this attention, this focused concern—that makes my throat tight in a way that has nothing to do with whatever’s happening to my body.
“Thanks,” I manage finally. “I should really get back.”
They step aside without crowding me or pushing, just staying close enough to be there if I stumble.
It's nothing like my interaction with Elias. With Adrian and Bash, there's room for disagreement. Room to make my own choices.
It should make me feel better, like nothing has really changed.
It doesn't.
The rest of the day passes in a blur of tasks and questions and moments where the sensitivity spikes without warning. The blockers help—they really do—but they don’t fix whatever’s happening. Don’t stop the constant awareness of where certain people are, what they’re doing, how they’re moving through the space.
I know where they are without looking for them. Adrian is by the monitors. Bash is near the stunt team. Elias is somewhere at the edge of the set. I know it the same way I know when a camera is rolling or a light has shifted—a piece of information that simply exists in the background of my mind.
It’s like my body has developed a new sense—one tuned specifically to the three of them.
By four o’clock, I’m running on fumes—physically exhausted from the constant effort of ignoring this new awareness, mentally drained from proving, hour after hour, that the changes in my body haven’t changed what I can do. The blockers are wearing off, the sensitivity returning in waves. Each one hits harder than the last, leaving me shaky and disoriented.
I need a minute. Just one minute to regroup, to catch my breath, to figure out how I’m going to make it through the next two hours without breaking down.
I slip away from the set, heading for the small storage room behind the green screen. It’s not much—just a converted closet with a single chair and a desk lamp—but it’s isolated. Somewhere I can be alone with my thoughts for five minutes without someone asking if I’m okay or why I look so tired or if I‘m sure I should be here.
I close the door behind me, leaning back against it with a sigh. The room is dark except for the small lamp on the desk, casting long shadows across the concrete floor. I close my eyes, just for a second. Just long enough to let my thoughts settle.
