Or maybe it’s just been since this morning. Time feels slippery these days.
My finger slides down the screen to the conversation with Nadia—ten unread messages, each one more concerned than the last. I should answer. Tell her the blockers are working, that I’m fine, that whatever’s happening isn’t a problem I can’t handle. But that would be a lie, and Nadia has always been able to spot those.
The phone dims automatically, the screen darkening to save battery. I don’t unlock it again.
I’m not going to text Adrian or Bash. What would I even say? I don’t need a lift? Stop acting like this means something when it’s just my body betraying me? The contacts aren’t about convenience or safety or any of the practical things I could explain to myself. They’re a line crossed—not by them, but by me. Because I kept them.
Because I wanted to.
I tuck the phone into my back pocket, pulling out my water bottle instead. The herbal blocker I took this morning sits bitter in my throat—still there, still working, but not as strongly as yesterday. I can feel it in the tightness returning to my chest, in the way the air suddenly seems too full of scents I shouldn’t be able to detect. The sharp chemical tang of the equipment around me. The lingering note of coffee from the cup in my bag. The faint trace of soap from my shower this morning, clinging to my skin hours later.
It’s the omega. It has to be.
That’s the explanation I keep coming back to, the one that makes all of this easier to understand.
And I can handle it. I’ve been handling it for days—keeping my distance, maintaining my routines, making sure nothing slips just because my scent has changed. I can get through this production. I can get through this presentation. I can get through whatever’s coming next.
I have to.
The alternative isn't something I'm ready to think about.
I take another drink of water, forcing myself to focus on the sensation—cold liquid, smooth plastic, the simple act of swallowing. Instead of the constant awareness of where certain people are on set.
“So this is where you hide.” Adrian’s voice cuts through my thoughts. I look up, my body responding before my brain can catch up.
He stands at the edge of my hiding spot, one shoulder propped against the metal frame of the lighting rig holding a plate in his hand. He’s changed out of his costume into his regular clothes—dark jeans and a gray t-shirt that fits across his shoulders.
Bash is with him, half a step behind and slightly to the side. He’s dressed more formally—dark slacks and a button-down with the sleeves rolled up to show the edge of his real tattoo, not the fake one the makeup team applied this morning. He holds two paper plates balanced in one hand, a bottle of water tucked under his arm.
My mouth goes dry. “I’m not hiding,” I say, the words coming out calmer than they have any right to. “I’m eating lunch.”
Adrian’s smile doesn’t waver. “That’s convenient,” he says, nodding toward the plate in Bash’s hand. “Because we brought food.”
The sight of them standing there with food in their hands makes it harder to cling to the distance I've been trying to maintain.
Not because I need the lunch.
Because they noticed I hadn't shown up for it.
“I have food,” I say, gesturing to the protein bar still in my bag. “And I’m fine. Really. The blockers are working. I don’t need...”
But the words die in my throat as Bash steps forward and holds out one of the plates. “It’s just food, Maya,” he says, his voice lower than Adrian’s. “No agenda. No pressure. Just... we were grabbing lunch and thought you might want something that didn’t come out of a wrapper.”
“I didn’t ask you to bring me food,” I say, confused.
“We know,” Adrian says, dropping onto the bench beside me without being invited. He’s near enough that I can feel the warmth of him through the thin space between us. “Consider it a bribe. We’re about to ask for a huge favor, and we wanted to get on your good side first.”
Something in my chest loosens just slightly. This, at least, is familiar—Adrian’s ability to make even awkward situations feel manageable. I’ve watched him do it a hundred times on set, with directors, producers, and co-stars who needed reassurance, redirection, or just a moment to breathe.
“A favor,” I repeat, watching as Bash settles on my other side. “What kind of favor?”
Adrian’s smile widens slightly. “We need your help with a scene,” he says, the words coming out in a rush. “The one coming up after lunch. The director wants more tension, but it’s not landing right. We thought maybe you could watch the rehearsal, tell us what you’re seeing?”
I stare at him, confusion replacing wariness. “You want me to direct your scene?”
“Not direct,” Bash says. “Just... watch. Tell us if it’s working. You’ve got a good eye for this stuff. Always have.”
The compliment catches me off guard. “The director would have better notes. Or the script supervisor, or—“
