I force myself to focus on the room rather than the shift in my body. The entryway opens to a living area—not the dramatic,overwhelming space I half-expected, but something warmer. The furniture is arranged in easy, inviting clusters that make the enormous room feel lived-in rather than staged. Books are stacked on side tables with remotes within easy reach. The room is filled with the kind of small details no one stages. Books stacked where someone had actually been reading. Remotes within easy reach. A blanket folded over the arm of the couch.
“We’re in the kitchen,” Adrian says, already moving down the hallway. “Come on. Bash will want to say hi.”
I follow him automatically, my attention catching on the effortless way he moves through the space—entirely at ease in a way that makes the massive house feel warmer somehow.
Elias falls into step behind me and we reach the kitchen three steps later, the space opening up to reveal Bash at the island, his attention focused on the tray of cookies in front of him. He looks up as we enter, a smile spreading across his face.
“There she is,” he says. “The woman of the hour. We were starting to think you’d changed your mind.”
His words make heat crawl up my neck. “There was traffic,” I say automatically. “It was worse than we expected.”
He nods once, not calling me on the obvious deflection. “Well, you’re here now,” he says, pushing the tray toward me. “That‘s what matters. Do you want a cookie? They’re still warm.”
I want to refuse. Want to maintain the distance between us, to keep pretending this is just a normal hangout rather than the step across the line it really is. But the smell hits me before I can form the words—rich chocolate and warm butter and something deeper that makes my mouth water despite myself.
“Thanks,” I say, reaching for one. “They look good.”
Elias reaches past me to take one from the tray too, his arm brushing lightly against mine before he settles beside the island. His movement is casual. Familiar in a way that makes warmth spread unexpectedly through my chest.
“They are good,” Adrian says, plucking one from the tray. “Bash has hidden talents. Baking is just one of them.”
Something shifts in Bash's expression, a rare hint of self-consciousness slipping through his usual composure. “It’s just cookies,” he says, his voice carrying a hint of embarrassment. “Nothing special.”
But it is special. That's the part that catches in my chest—the obvious effort, the way he noticed what snacks I tend to reach for on set and remembered. No one asked him to do this. He just did. Because somewhere along the way, he decided I mattered enough to pay attention to.
“Thanks,” I say again. “Really. It is special.”
The compliment seems to catch him off guard. After a moment, he nods once. “Anytime,” he says. We stand in relative silence for a moment, the only sound the soft crunch of cookies.
“The theater’s all set up,” Adrian says finally, breaking the moment. “If you’re ready to get started. Documentary’s cued, lights are dimmed, blankets are pre-warmed. All the important details covered.”
The casual statement unsettles me in a way I can’t quite sort through. Not just at being included, but at being thought of. At the simple fact that he noticed what would make this easier,what would help me feel more comfortable in a situation that’s anything but.
“Thanks,” I say, the word coming out steadier than I expect. “That sounds perfect.”
Adrian nods, already moving toward the hallway. “This way,” he says, not waiting for us to follow. “It’s just down the hall.”
Bash falls into step beside me as we move down the hall after Adrian, Elias settling at my back like he’s instinctively positioning himself close.
"You okay?" Bash asks in a low tone. "We can pause the movie. Switch rooms. Grab food first. Whatever makes this easier."
“I’m okay,” I say, and mean it. “The documentary sounds perfect. Really.”
He studies my face for a long moment, then nods once. “Okay,” he says simply. “But if that changes—if you need air or space or just a minute to breathe—say the word. No questions, no pressure. Just... we’re here. However, you need us to be.”
Warmth moves through me before I can push it back. “Thanks, I will.”
He nods again, then turns his attention back to the hallway, giving me space to process his words. We reach the theater three turns later, Adrian pushing open a door at the end of the hall. The space beyond is darker than I expected—not the bright, open room I half-imagined but something more enclosed. Comfortable seating is arranged in a semicircle. A massive screen dominates the far wall. Lights dimmed to just the right level—present enough to see by but low enough not tocompete with the image on the screen. It's a space designed for immersion, narrowing the world down to just what’s happening on the screen.
“Pick your spot,” Adrian says, gesturing to the seating arrangement. “Middle’s usually best for viewing, but whatever works for you. We’re not picky.”
The offer feels more weighted than the words would suggest. A few months ago, I would have picked the seat closest to the exit without thinking about it. Now I find myself studying the arrangement for an entirely different reason.
Because this isn't really about the screen.
It's about where I fit within the space they've made for me.
“The middle’s good,” I say finally, moving toward the center of the semicircle. “If that’s okay with everyone.”
