And something in me settles with him.
It’s not just my omega. It’s me too.
And that’s the part I’m starting to face.
Chapter 10
Maya
I wake to the smell of something warm and savory cutting through the thin edge of sleep. Not coffee—though that‘s there too, rich and bitter beneath the main note—but something more substantial. Eggs maybe, or toast with real butter instead of the sad margarine substitute I usually use. My body responds before my brain is fully online, stomach tightening with a sudden, sharp hunger that makes my mouth water.
I keep my eyes closed, listening to the soft sounds from my kitchen. The scrape of a spatula against a pan. The hum of the ancient refrigerator cycling on. The light footsteps of someone moving through a space that isn’t quite theirs. Elias.
It hits me all at once—where I am, what happened, what I agreed to. Not just letting him stay, but everything that led to it. The presentation. The purr. The impossible, unwanted truth of what’s happening to my body. I push myself up against my headboard, suddenly alert despite the bone-deep tiredness that’s been following me for days.
But that’s the thing. I don’t feel tired. Not the way I did yesterday, or the day before, or all the days stretching back to when this started. The constant tension under my skin has eased to something manageable. The tightness in my throat has loosened just enough that breathing feels effortless again. Even my thoughts seem clearer, the fog that’s been clouding my brain finally beginning to lift.
Part of me still wants to blame the omega's influence. I don't have another explanation for waking up feeling this different after one night. This strange, immediate improvement the moment I let Elias stay, the moment I stopped fighting. This sudden shift from barely functional to something close to normal.
A soft knock at my bedroom door cuts through my thoughts. Firm enough to make it clear he knows I’m awake. “Maya.” His voice comes through the door, calm and matter-of-fact. “You should get up if you want time to eat before we leave. We’ve got about twenty minutes.”
We.
The word sits heavily in my stomach. Like it's already decided. Like he's made plans for both of us without stopping to ask if that's what I want.
But isn’t it? Didn’t I agree to this—to him staying, to him driving me to work, to him being part of whatever this is becoming? The memory of last night plays in my head—Elias making dinner, washing dishes, and paying attention to the boundaries I set.
“Coming,” I call back, my voice sounding strange in my own ears. “Just give me a minute.”
“I’ll keep it warm,” he says, and then his footsteps move away, back toward the kitchen.
I sit on the edge of my bed, suddenly uncertain. This is new territory—having someone in my space, someone making decisions about my morning, someone acting like my day is already mapped out and settled. It should make me angry.
Instead, it makes me feel... cared for. In a way I don’t expect.
I push to my feet, moving to the dresser for clean clothes. Whatever this is—whatever’s happening between us—it doesn‘t change the fact that I have a job to do. A production to coordinate. A life that existed before Elias Stone decided to be part of it.
The smell hits me again as I step into the hallway—stronger now, rich and buttery and so much more appealing than it should be. My stomach clenches, a sudden, sharp hunger making my mouth water. I follow it to the kitchen, drawn by something deeper than thought.
Elias stands at the stove, his back to me as he flips what looks like an omelet. He’s changed into fresh clothes—dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that sits across his shoulders with the kind of ease that suggests it’s been washed a hundred times. His hair is damp at the edges, like he’s already showered, the clean scent of my soap cutting through the richer smell of food.
“You‘re up,” he says without turning around. “Coffee’s on the counter. Omelet‘s almost done.”
I move to the coffee pot, pouring myself a mug. The liquid is hot against my palms, the smell rich and bitter and exactly what I need to jumpstart my brain. “Thanks,” I say, the word coming out softly. “You didn’t have to do all this.”
He glances over his shoulder, meeting my eyes briefly before turning back to the pan. “I know,” he says simply. “I wanted to.”
The answer catches me off guard. He says it like it’s the simplest thing in the world, wanting to help without expecting something in return.
He plates the food, an omelet on one side, toast on the other, and a small pile of the grapes I keep forgetting to eat tucked into the remaining space. The gesture is small, almost thoughtless. That's what makes it mean more.
“Sit,” he says, nodding toward the island. “Eat while it’s hot.”
The familiar protest rises before I can stop it—that I’m capable of making my own breakfast, taking care of myself, and making my own decisions. But he isn't acting like I can't. He's just making breakfast.
“Thanks,” I say instead, picking up my fork. “This looks good.”
He nods once, turning back to the stove where a second omelet is already taking shape. “Eat,” he says. “We don’t have much time.”
