They keep talking as I take the cutting board and move closer to them. He passes me the cheese before stepping aside, making space for me at the counter.
I reach for the knife, grounding myself in the simplicity of the task. Slice the cheese. Stack the pieces neatly onto the plate. Small, ordinary movements that should be enough to quiet my thoughts for a little while.
But it doesn’t. Because my body’s still responding to the alphas moving through the space around me. Adrian works at the counter to my left, slicing tomatoes while Bash measures ingredients into a bowl beside me. Behind us, Elias leans back against the counter, his presence comforting and familiar.
“Like this,” Adrian says, stepping closer to demonstrate a cutting technique. His arm brushes mine as he reaches for the knife—a brief, accidental contact that shouldn’t mean anything. But itsends a jolt through me anyway, my omega responding to the familiarity of the contact.
I don’t immediately pull away. Adrian meets my gaze, his expression softening as my pulse trips. “Better?” he asks, his voice low. I nod, not trusting myself to speak. His gaze returns to the counter a second later, as though nothing unusual had happened. Time slips by quickly as we settle into the rhythm of the kitchen together. Adrian works through the vegetables beside me while Bash focuses on the dressing nearby, and Elias stays at my back with that same grounding presence I’m starting to expect from him. I keep waiting to feel out of place, but the feeling never comes. The kitchen hums with activity, the whole routine feeling oddly effortless.
Elias was the first person who made this feel less terrifying. But being here with all three of them feels bigger somehow, in a way I can’t ignore anymore.
Like having all three here is helping in a way I never expected.
“That’s perfect,” Bash says, nodding toward the cheese I’ve been cutting. “Exactly the right width. Adrian would have made them paper-thin and then complained when they disintegrated.”
“I would not,” Adrian protests, though he’s smiling as he says it. “I have very specific sandwich requirements. There’s nothing wrong with that.”
“Nothing at all,” Bash agrees, his tone solemn. “Except the fifteen-minute lecture that comes with them. And the elaborate hand gestures. And the—“
“I do not use hand gestures,” Adrian interrupts, though the movement of his knife contradicting his statement. “That’s allyou. You’re the one who can’t talk about staging without acting out the entire scene.”
“At least I don’t narrate my sandwich assembly,” Bash shoots back. “Step one: bread. Step two: mayo, but only on the—“
“I do not narrate,” Adrian says, but he’s laughing now, the sound bright with amusement. “You’re making that up.”
“I’m not,” Bash says, turning to me with exaggerated seriousness. “Tell him, Maya. You’ve seen it. The man cannot make a sandwich without announcing each ingredient like it’s a revelation.”
The conversation flows around me, nothing more than meaningless chatter that they include me in effortlessly. They’re watching me, but not with the careful, assessing looks I’ve grown used to from them since this started. Their gazes have softened, carrying something that makes it feel like I matter beyond what's happening to my body.
The realization is impossible to ignore now that I’ve finally let myself see it clearly.
Maybe that's why being here feels different.
Not because they're treating me like an omega.
Because they're treating me like I belong.
“We should eat,” Adrian says, breaking my chain of thought. “Before Bash makes up any more stories about my sandwich habits.”
“I’m not making anything up,” Bash argues, though he’s already gathering plates from the cabinet. “Everything I’ve said is one hundred percent documented fact.”
“It is absolutely not,” Adrian says, still smiling. “Maya, you’re a witness to this slander. I expect a full character defense at dinner.”
“I’ll do my best,” I tease. “But I make no promises. I’ve seen your craft services requirements. They’re very specific.”
Adrian blinks, then a smile tugs at the corners of his mouth, like he wasn't expecting me to tease him back. Then he's laughing, the sound carrying easily through the kitchen. “You’ve been paying attention,” he says. “I’m impressed. Most people just think I‘m being difficult.”
“I notice things,” I say, suddenly unable to look at him. “It’s kind of my job.”
“Not just your job,” Bash says. “It’s who you are. You see people. The parts they’re trying to hide and the ones they don’t know are showing.”
The simple statement catches me off guard. Not because of the observation itself—I’ve been paying attention to them since the first week of filming, noticing the way Adrian’s posture shifts when he’s lying or how Bash’s voice drops slightly when he’s genuinely invested in a moment. Those small details are part of how I keep productions running smoothly, helping me anticipate problems before they happen.
But I never thought they noticed. Never imagined they saw me paying attention to the thousand little details that make up their performances.
They noticed me before my presentation ever gave them a reason to. Back when I was still just the beta managing schedules and solving problems behind the scenes.
“Food’s ready,” Adrian says, as he washes his hands at the sink. “You guys want to eat in here? Or the dining room’s set up if you’d rather.”
