Surprise flashes in Adrian’s eyes and he nods once. “We’ll be there,” he says simply. Bash doesn’t speak, but his gaze briefly meets mine.
Then they’re moving away, cutting through the crowd easily, heading for the craft table on the far side of the set. I watch them go, my gaze lingering longer than it should.
For years, I’ve been the person who noticed everyone else. The one tracking schedules, moods, problems, and details no one thought to pay attention to.
I’m still not sure what to do with the realization that someone might be paying attention to me, too. I’m navigating the growing presence of all three alphas in my space, whether I want to or not.
I push the thought away, forcing myself back to the present. But as I make my way to the production office, checking items off lists and answering questions and keeping things moving, I’m aware of a truth I’m not ready to face.
I can’t manage this alone anymore.
The realization follows me through the afternoon, lingering at the edges of every conversation and every task. Because admitting it—even to myself—would make everything feel a little too real. So I keep moving, one step at a time, through a world that’s exactly the same and completely different all at once.
And try not to think about what happens next.
Chapter 13
Maya
I gather my things—tablet, phone, the small bottle of water I’ve been nursing since lunch—and head for the set. The corridor outside the production office is quiet, most of the crew already gathered for the afternoon’s first scene. I can hear them before I see them—the murmur of conversation, the creak of equipment being adjusted, and the director’s voice cutting through the noise.
I pause at the edge of the active set, suddenly aware that I’m not quite ready to step back into the middle of everything. Adrian and Bash are already in position—Adrian at one end of the constructed hallway, Bash at the other. They’re not in costume yet, just the jeans and t-shirts they changed into after lunch, but they’re already in character—shoulders tight, expressions guarded, the distance between them charged with unspoken tension.
The director stands by the monitors, head bent in conversation with the script supervisor. He gestures to the scene, his expression focused despite the obvious frustration in his posture. Something about the staging isn’t working, it’s the kind of invisible problem that slows down filming without anyone being able to name exactly what’s wrong.
I settle into a spot behind the cameras where I can see the scene without getting in anyone's way. My tablet boots up with a soft chime, the schedule loading automatically. Scene twelve:confrontation in the hallway. I check the time—1:17. We’re running thirteen minutes behind.
“We’re going again,” the director calls, stepping back from the monitors. “And let’s get some actual tension this time, yeah? These two have been lying to each other for most of the movie. This is the moment it all comes out. It should feel like something.”
The crew resets the scene quickly. Lights adjust, cameras reposition, and the set quiets as everyone settles into position. Adrian and Bash take their marks—Adrian at the far end of the hallway, Bash emerging from the doorway of the fake apartment.
“Scene twelve, take four,” the assistant director calls. “And... action.”
They move with the kind of precision that makes good actors worth their contracts. Adrian starts forward first, his character’s steps are quick with barely controlled anger. Bash meets him halfway, his expression shifting from casual to guarded as Adrian gets closer.
“You knew,” Adrian says, his voice carrying just enough to reach the microphones without projecting. “You knew the whole time, and you didn’t say anything.”
Bash hesitates, the moment stretching just slightly too long. “I didn’t know how to tell you,” he says finally. “Not without—“
“Without me realizing you’ve been lying since we met?” Adrian interrupts, the line coming a beat too early. “That’s the point, Michael. You don’t get to decide what I can handle. You don’t get to make that call.”
The conversation continues, technically perfect but somehow missing the edge it needs. They’re too far apart physically, the emotional beats of the scene landing before they’ve had time to build. I can see it in the director’s expression—the slight frown that says he knows something’s off but can’t quite put his finger on what.
“Cut,” he says finally. “That’s... better, but not quite there. Let’s try it with more... I don’t know. More something.”
The crew resets for another take, the same process with slightly different camera angles. Adrian and Bash return to their starting positions, their expressions resetting to neutral. Someone adjusts a light. The boom operator shifts position. Everything changes, but nothing really does.
I’m so busy dissecting the scene that Nadia is suddenly just... there.
“You’re ignoring my texts,” she says, her voice low enough that only I can hear it. “Which is rude, by the way. Very rude. Incredibly rude. But also concerning, because the last time you went radio silent, you had walking pneumonia and were literally collapsing in the craft services line.”
I should have known Nadia wouldn't let that slide. I haven’t looked at my phone since this morning—since that moment in the parking lot when Adrian and Bash found me getting out of Elias’s car, when everything got even more complicated than it already was.
“Sorry,” I say, keeping my eyes on the set. “It’s been crazy. The schedule’s tighter than we thought, and the director wants to add that night sequence, and—“
“And how are the blockers holding up?” Nadia cuts in, her voice still low but sharper now. “Because you don’t look fine. You look like they’re starting to slip.”
I swallow, suddenly aware of how close she‘s standing—close enough that she could catch the change in my scent if the blockers weren’t still working just enough to mask the worst of it.
