We. There it is again—that simple assumption that we‘re in this together, that his plans include me without question.
I cut into the omelet, the first bite flooding my mouth with flavor—eggs fluffy without being dry, cheese melted to perfect stringiness, a hint of the green onions I keep meaning to use before they go bad. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I wanted, exactly what my body needed without my brain having to ask.
“It’s good,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it. “Really good.”
For a second, he looks pleased with himself. “Thanks,” he says, turning back to his own food. “Eat. We’ve got a long day ahead.”
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the soft scrape of forks against plates and the occasional comment about the food. He doesn’t push for conversation or try to fill the silence withmeaningless chatter. He simply eats, his gaze meeting mine every so often across the island.
Somehow, the silence never turns awkward.
“Shower’s all yours,” he says when we’ve finished, reaching for my empty plate. “I’ll clean up here.”
The argument forms and dissolves before it reaches my mouth. “Thanks,” I say instead, pushing back from the island. “I’ll be quick.”
The shower helps—hot water easing the last of the tension from my muscles, the familiar routine of washing my hair and scrubbing my face giving me something to focus on besides the strange new reality of my life. I’m careful to keep it brief despite the temptation to stay under the spray until the hot water runs out. We do have a schedule to keep, a production to coordinate, a job that doesn‘t care that my body’s decided to betray me in the most fundamental way possible.
I dress quickly—dark jeans, a loose button-down that won’t show wrinkles after twelve hours of filming, the comfortable boots I can stand in all day without my feet killing me. My usual uniform, the one that lets me move through the set without being noticed, without drawing attention to myself.
But that’s the problem, isn’t it? I‘m being noticed now. By Elias. By Adrian and Bash. By everyone who saw what happened in the security checkpoint, who heard that sound—that purr—that passed my lips before I could stop it.
I grab my bag from the hook by the door, checking to make sure I have everything I need for the day. Phone, keys, the small case of herbal blockers Nadia gave me. I dry-swallow two ofthem, grimacing at the chalky taste. They’re definitely working—I can feel it in the way the scents have dulled to something manageable, in the slight cooling of the heat under my skin—but not as strongly as yesterday. Not enough to completely mask what‘s happening.
Not enough to make me invisible again.
Elias is waiting by the door when I emerge from the bedroom, his own bag already slung over his shoulder. He’s added a dark jacket to his outfit, the small earpiece of his security team already in place. He looks comfortable in his own skin in a way I’ve never quite managed.
“Ready?” he asks as he meets my gaze.
I nod, suddenly aware of how close we’re standing—close enough to catch the cool stone and dark musk of his scent beneath the clean smell of his soap. “Just about,” I say, reaching for my keys on the hook by the door. “I think I’ve got everything.”
He doesn’t move to take them from me or rush me through the process. He just waits while I check my bag one last time, giving me all the time I need.
“We should go,” he says finally. “Traffic‘s going to be bad with the construction on Main.”
I nod, following him out the door and locking it behind us. The hallway is quiet, just the soft sound of our footsteps and the distant hum of the building’s ancient elevator. Neither of us speaks as we make our way downstairs, the distance between us charged with something I’m not ready to name.
His car is where he left it, parked across from my building. He unlocks it with a soft beep, moving to open the passenger door before I can reach for it myself.
“I can get my own door,” I insist.
“I know,” he says, but he doesn’t step back. Just holds it open, waiting for me to make the choice.
I slide into the seat without brushing against him, attempting to maintain the distance I’ve established. He closes the door behind me, then circles to the driver’s side, settling behind the wheel. “We need to talk about how this works at the studio,” I say as he starts the engine. “I can’t just... walk in with you. People will talk. They’ll assume things. They’ll—“
“I know,” he interrupts, his voice calm. “You want to go in separately. Maintain the appearance that nothing’s changed.”
The answer catches me off guard. I’d expected an argument, or at least a discussion. Instead, he understood exactly what I was asking for.
“It’s not about appearance,” I say, though we both know it’s not entirely true. “It‘s about boundaries. About keeping some part of this...” I gesture vaguely between us. “Private. Separate from work.”
He nods once, keeping his eyes on the road. “Makes sense,” he says simply. “You go in first. I’ll follow a few minutes later. We keep our distance on set. No special treatment, no obvious connection.”
I keep waiting for him to make this harder than it needs to be. So far, he hasn’t. Somehow, he keeps understanding what I’masking for, even when I’m still trying to make sense of it myself. “Thanks,” I say softly. He doesn’t answer, just keeps his eyes on the road as we pull into traffic.
We’re halfway to the studio when he speaks again. “The blockers,” he says. “They’re not working as well today.”
It’s not a question. I nod anyway, suddenly unable to look at him. “They’re helping,” I say. “Just not as much as yesterday.”
