He nods, eyes still on the road. “Makes sense,” he says. “You’ve had a long week.”
The conversation dies there, neither of us pushing to fill the silence, but I keep thinking about the question. Not my plans for the weekend, but whether he was trying to find his place in them. The thought should make me uneasy. Instead, it settles somewhere warm.
Like part of me had already started making space for him without realizing it.
Chapter 15
Maya
I stand in the center of my living room, the bag from work still hanging from my shoulder, and realize what's different. The air. My scent still lingers, but his is there too, woven through it. It’s subtle, barely there, but unmistakable. I draw in a breath before I mean to, and some of the tension I've been carrying all day eases.
Elias moves past me to the kitchen, his footsteps almost silent on the hardwood. I watch him cross to the sink, filling a glass with water that catches the light from the single lamp I left on this morning.
“You want some?” he asks, holding up the glass.
I shake my head, suddenly unable to speak. It’s too much—being here with him, watching him move through my space like he belongs, noticing how the air seems thicker where he stands. On set, I could manage it—the blockers, the distance, the way we all pretended nothing had changed. But here, with just the two of us and the scent of him lingering in the fabric of my couch and the mug he used this morning, it's harder to ignore.
I drop my bag on the small table by the door and kick off my shoes, padding across to the kitchen in socked feet. My throat feels tight, the constant tension under my skin sharper now that we’re alone.
“You should eat something,” Elias says, his voice low. “You barely touched lunch.”
The concern in his voice makes the omega preen. “I’m not really hungry,” I say, though we both know it’s not true. My stomach has been empty since the protein bar at lunch, the sandwich from Bash and Adrian barely making a dent in the hollow feeling that’s been building all day.
“Just something small, then,” Elias says, his eyes conveying his concern.
I nod, suddenly unable to argue. “There’s soup in the cabinet,” I say, gesturing vaguely toward the far wall. “The kind in the packet. It’s easy.”
He moves to the cabinet, reaching for the shelf where I keep the emergency food—the soup packets, ramen, and protein bars I stock for nights when cooking feels like too much. His height makes it easy, eliminating the stepstool I usually need. I watch him for a moment, struck by the sheer physical contrast between us, from his height to the width of his shoulders.
“Which one?” he asks, glancing back at me and breaking my train of thought.
“Green package,” I say quickly. “With the noodles.”
He finds it easily, setting the packet on the counter. He reaches for the kettle and carries it to the sink, filling it with cold water before carrying it back to it’s base. The kettle clicks on with a soft whir, the sound cutting through the apartment. Elias moves to the refrigerator, pulling out the small container of milk I keep for coffee. “Do you use any milk?” he asks, holding it up.
I nod again, struggling to put the feeling into words. Having him here, making soup in my kitchen and moving through my space already feels familiar in a way I don't quite know what to do with. Like we’ve been doing this for months instead of days.
“I’ll need to stop by my place tomorrow,” he says as he measures the milk into the waiting mug. “To grab some more clothes.”
The statement catches me off guard, not because he sounds entitled to my space, but because he seems so certain he'll still be here tomorrow, as though staying was never really in question.
“I didn’t—“ I start, then stop, not sure how to finish the sentence. Ask you to stay? Expect you to bring more things? Plan for you to be here over the weekend?
“I know,” he says. The words aren't defensive. Just matter-of-fact. “I've already decided I'm not leaving you to handle this alone.”
I stare at him, heat crawling up my neck. He's decided he isn't leaving, and instead of arguing, I'm standing here trying to figure out why I don't want him to.
“If that‘s what you want,” I say finally, the words coming out calmer than I expect.
He meets my eyes across the small space between us. “It is,” he says simply. “If it’s okay with you.”
The kettle clicks off with a soft beep, the sound cutting through the moment. Elias turns back to the counter, pouring the hot water over the soup mix. Steam rises between us, carrying the rich scent of broth and herbs. My stomach clenches, a sudden, sharp hunger making my mouth water.
“It’s almost ready,” he says as he stirs. “You should sit.”
I move to the small table by the window, settling into the chair with my back to the wall. It’s my usual spot—the one that lets me see both the door and the kitchen, that gives me clear lines to every exit. A habit from living alone, from being the kind of person who notices potential problems before they happen.
Elias brings the mug over to me. “Careful,” he says. “It’s hot.”
