Adrian is in makeup. Bash is at the craft table with the script supervisor, his copy of the sides folded back at the spine. Elias is moving through the far end of the set in a slow, methodical loop. I haven’t looked up once, but I know exactly where all three of them are.
I refuse to acknowledge why.
I push the thought away, focusing on the task in front of me. Whatever’s happening—whatever I’m becoming—it doesn’t change the fact that I have a job to do. A production to coordinate. A life that existed before any of this started.
So I keep moving, one step at a time, through a world that’s exactly the same and completely different all at once.
Chapter 11
Bash
I turn to Adrian, as we pass through the employee entrance. “She arrived with Stone,” I say, keeping my voice casual. “In his car. From her apartment. Where he stayed last night.”
Adrian’s jaw tightens. “Yeah,” he says. “I noticed.”
We head toward the main set together, keeping our pace normal despite the conversation. The morning crew is already working, moving equipment into place for the first scene. A PA hurries past with an armful of props, nodding quickly as we step aside. The second AD is by the monitors, checking something on her tablet.
“I don’t think it’s just him,” I say, the words coming out before I can stop them. “The way she reacts. It’s not just Stone.”
Adrian looks at me, eyes sharp. “What do you mean?”
“She responds to us too,” I say. “Not as obviously, maybe. But there’s something there. In her scent, the way she goes still when we’re close, how she doesn’t fully disengage even when she’s trying to. She can’t help it.”
Adrian studies my face for a long moment, then nods once.
“Our omega has good taste in alphas, then,” he says, the words casual but his eyes anything but. “At least we know she’s being careful about who she keeps nearby.”
Our omega. The phrase hits like a physical thing. Not “the omega” or “Maya” or any of the neutral terms we’ve been using since this started. Our omega. Like it’s already decided, already settled. Like the line between possibility and reality has already been crossed.
I don’t correct him. Can’t, really. The truth is, hearing Adrian say it feels a little too right.
“I’m gonna check something with production,” I say, stepping away. “I’ll catch up with you.”
Adrian nods, eyes already moving back toward the direction of the parking lot where we last saw Maya a moment ago. I turn away, heading for the corner behind the lighting rigs where the Wi-Fi is strongest. Not to check production notes like I told Adrian, but to finally look up the question that’s been living in the back of my head since Maya purred in the security room.
My phone is already in my hand, the search bar open before I reach my destination. “Omega presentation timeline” feels too clinical, too detached from what’s actually happening. “Omega preheat blockers effectiveness” is closer, but still not quite right. In the end, I type “help omega friend presenting,” and press enter before I can overthink it.
The results load instantly—dozens of forums, medical sites, support groups. I click the first link, a health blog with a clean layout and what looks like actual citations. The text is dense, clinical in places, but I skim it quickly, looking for the parts that matter.
Blockers don’t fully suppress preheat. That’s the first thing that jumps out at me. They can delay symptoms, make them moremanageable, but they don’t stop the process once it’s started. And the longer it goes on, the less effective they become. Over time, the body adapts, and the blockers become less effective. What works on day one barely helps by day three.
Once the process starts, it tends to accelerate rather than stabilize. The body keeps moving forward whether the omega is ready or not. And the longer the omega resists, the harder the eventual heat hits them.
My stomach tightens as I scan the next section. The typical preheat period is usually ten to twelve days. There’s not enough time for Maya to finish the production and pretend everything's under control. She’s already several days in, assuming we count that moment in the security room as the start.
I scroll faster, looking for exceptions, for alternatives, for anything that might give her more time. But the text just gets more specific, more certain. Once the preheat starts, nothing can fully stop the heat from coming without medical-grade suppressants. And those require a prescription, a doctor’s visit, a formal diagnosis of what’s happening to her body.
Things she’s not ready to admit, let alone act on.
I close the browser, suddenly aware of how long I’ve been standing here. The set is fully active now, crew moving equipment into position, actors heading to makeup for the first scene. I check my watch—8:27. Thirteen minutes until call time, just enough to find Adrian and figure out what to do with what I’ve learned.
He’s by the craft table when I spot him, deep in conversation with the director. His posture is relaxed, his smile easy, but I cansee the tension in his shoulders, the way he’s holding himself together. He notices me watching, says something to make the director laugh, then steps away with forced casualness.
“What did you find?” he asks when he reaches me, his voice low enough that only I can hear it.
“Not good,” I say, keeping my tone neutral despite the knot in my stomach. “The blockers she’s taking—they’re not going to hold. They delay symptoms, they don’t stop them. And the longer this goes on, the less effective they become.”
His eyes narrow slightly. “How much time are we talking?”
