She can be angry with me tonight. She can be angry tomorrow if she needs to be.
I'll still be here.
Chapter 8
Maya
I stand with my back pressed against my apartment door, breath coming too fast, skin prickling with that same strange heat. Elias’s scent still clings to my clothes—clean and controlled and nothing like the artificial smoke and coffee that usually cling to me after a day on set. I‘m finally alone, finally in my space, but somehow the silence feels wrong. I wait for the sound of his footsteps moving away, for the soft beep of his car unlocking, for proof that he’s actually left.
But nothing comes.
The hallway beyond my door remains silent. No footsteps, no voices, no retreating presence. Just the soft hum of the building’s ancient air conditioning and the distant sound of my neighbor’s TV bleeding through the wall.
I push away from the door, moving into my apartment with quick, purposeful steps. The herbal blocker I took this morning is definitely wearing off—I can feel it in the tightness returning to my throat, in the way the air suddenly seems too thick, too full of scents I shouldn’t be able to detect. The smell of the coffee I made this morning, hours old and stale. The lingering trace of the lotion I put on after my shower. The musty undertone of the building itself, concrete and paint and years of other people’s lives layered into the walls.
I drop my bag on the small table by the door and kick off my shoes, padding across to the kitchen in sock feet. My phonebuzzes in my pocket—Nadia, probably, asking if I made it home okay. I ignore it, moving to the sink instead to splash cold water on my face.
It doesn’t help. My skin still feels too sensitive, nerve endings too close to the surface. My thoughts keep circling back to the same moment—Elias standing at my door, calm and unmoving, telling me he‘s staying close. “This is me doing that,” he said, like it was already decided. Like my opinion was just a formality he was willing to acknowledge but not actually consider.
And the worst part is how my body responded. I should have been angry. I should have been frustrated. Instead, the moment he stepped closer, some tight knot inside me loosened, leaving behind a sense of relief I couldn't explain.
I latch onto the only explanation that makes sense. It’s the omega. It has to be.
I dry my face on a dish towel and move to the window, pulling back the curtain to look down at the street. His car is still there, parked across from my building just where he left it. The driver’s seat is empty. Which means—
I drop the curtain and turn back to the door, moving before I can talk myself out of it. This is ridiculous. He can’t just stand in the hallway all night. He can’t just decide he’s staying close without my permission. He can’t just—
I yank the door open, ready to tell him exactly that, and stop short.
He hasn’t moved. Almost like he settled there the second I closed the door and never intended to leave.
“You’re still here,” I say flatly.
He looks up, meeting my eyes. “Yes.”
“Why?” I step into the hallway, pulling the door mostly closed behind me. “I told you I wanted to be alone. I told you this conversation was over. I very clearly did not agree to whatever this is.”
He shifts slightly, straightening from his casual lean. “I told you I’d stay close in the evenings,” he says, his voice even. “This is me doing that.”
“That’s not an arrangement,” I say. “That’s you making a decision about my life without my input. There’s a difference.”
A flicker of amusement crosses his face before it's gone again. “We’ve established that. But the situation hasn’t changed. You’re still in pre-heat. You still need someone watching out for you. And I’m still here.”
I step closer without meaning to, close enough that I can catch his scent- rain-soaked stone layered over dark musk. The familiar note cuts through the chaos of my thoughts. “I don’t need a babysitter,” I say, though the words sound less certain than they did a minute ago. “I need you to respect my boundaries. To listen when I say no.”
“I’m listening,” he says. “But I’m also watching. And what I’m seeing is someone who’s running on fumes, who’s taking blockers that aren’t strong enough to handle what’s happening, and pushing herself past her limits because she’s afraid to admit she needs help.”
Each word tightens something in my chest. Because he’s right. I’m running on fumes. The blockers aren’t working completely. I’m pushing myself past my limits. But admitting that feels too much like admitting everyone else is right—that I can't handle my own job anymore.
“It’s not your problem,” I say firmly. “It’s mine. My body, my presentation, my—“
“Your heat,” he finishes for me. “Which affects everyone around you. Especially the alphas who are already responding to your scent.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “That’s not—they’re not—“
“They are,” he says simply. “And they’re being careful about it. Giving you space. Respecting your boundaries. But that won’t last if you go into full heat on set. The blockers will delay it, not stop it. And when your body decides it’s ready—“
“I’m not some passenger trapped inside my own body,” I say. “I still get to decide what happens next.”
