“Neither of them knows us as well as you do,” Adrian interrupts. “You know our rhythms. How we move together. What feels right and what doesn’t. That’s all we’re asking for, Maya. Just your eyes on the scene, telling us what you see.”
I instantly realize they’ve been watching me watch them.
“I guess I could watch,” I say slowly. “As long as the second AD doesn’t need me for anything else.”
Adrian’s face brightens—not the practiced smile he uses for photos or interviews, but something genuine, something that reaches his eyes. “Perfect,” he says, reaching for the plate Bash is still holding. “Now eat. Our omega needs to keep her strength up.”
The words hit like ice water. Our omega. Not a question or a possibility but a statement of fact, delivered with the same confidence as everything else Adrian says. Like it’s already decided, already settled. Like I’ve agreed to something fundamental without having the conversation first.
“I’m not—“ I start, heat crawling up my neck. “That’s not—we haven’t—“
“It’s just a joke,” Adrian says quickly, but his eyes don’t leave mine. “Bad timing. I’m sorry.”
But it’s not just a joke, and we both know it. It touches something neither of us is willing to say out loud yet, something that’s been sitting between us ever since the security room. That my body’s responding to them in ways I can’t control, no matter how hard I try to push it back.
“Here,” Bash says, his voice cutting through the moment. He holds out the plate again. “Try it before it gets cold. Craft services actually made something edible for once.”
Our fingers brush as I take the plate—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But instead of pulling away immediately, I let the touch linger for a fraction of a second too long.
My omega notices.
So does Bash. I can tell by the slight shift in his expression—that watchfulness giving way to something warmer. His eyes find mine across the small space between us, holding my gaze.
“You should try it,” he says, his voice lower now. “It’s actually good.”
I look down at the plate—a simple sandwich, cut into neat triangles, with a small pile of apple slices arranged beside it. Nothing fancy or elaborate. Like he noticed what I usually grab from craft services and got it for me.
“Thanks,” I say. I pick up one of the triangles, taking a bite before I can talk myself out of it. The bread is soft, the fillingrich without being overwhelming. It’s exactly what I didn’t know I needed.
“It’s good,” I say.
Adrian’s smile returns, warmer now. “Told you,” he says, smirking at bash. “I have excellent taste in lunch partners.”
Something in my chest tightens—that same mix of confusion and warmth. Not at being included—I’ve been part of Adrian’s orbit since the first week of filming, drawn into conversations and jokes and moments of connection without ever quite understanding why he noticed me in the first place. But this is different. This is him making space for me without being asked.
This is them choosing to be here, even when I’ve given them every reason to walk away.
“So,” Adrian says, pulling a similar sandwich from his own plate. “You and Elias, huh?”
I nearly choke on my bite of apple, heat crawling up my neck for what feels like the hundredth time today. “It’s not—we’re not—that’s not what this is.”
Bash raises an eyebrow. “No? Because from where I’m standing, it looks a lot like he spent the night at your place, drove you to work, and is currently lurking near the craft table making sure no one gets too close to our favorite production coordinator.”
“Assistant production coordinator,” I correct automatically. “And he’s not lurking. He’s working. It’s his job to keep an eye on things.”
“Including you?” Adrian asks. “Because that’s a new development. Last I checked, security wasn’t responsible for making sure specific crew members got home safely or had someone watching their back during pre-heat.”
The word—pre-heat—makes something in my stomach twist. Not embarrassment or anger, but a strange sense of relief. For a moment, I don’t have to dance around it or pretend I don’t recognize the changes unfolding inside my own body.
“He’s just being careful,” I say, though we all know it’s not that simple. “Making sure I’m okay. That’s all.”
“Sure,” Bash says. “But you are okay, right? The blockers are working? You’re not pushing yourself too hard?”
“I’m fine,” I say automatically. Then, catching myself: “Not fine, exactly. But managing. The blockers are helping. I can get through the day, through the production, through whatever this is.”
They exchange a look—that same wordless communication I noticed in the security checkpoint.
“You know you don’t have to do this alone, right?” Adrian says, his voice dropping slightly. “Whatever’s happening—whatever you need—we’re here. Both of us.”
