“Here’s good,” The response slips out faster than I mean for it to. “If that‘s okay with everyone.”
“Here’s perfect,” Bash says, already moving toward the island. “More casual. Less ‘first date at my parents’ house’ energy.”
Adrian snorts. “Your parents would just be excited you brought someone home at all.”
“I bring people home,” Bash says automatically, already moving plates onto the island.
Adrian gives him a look. “Coworkers with food poisoning don’t count.”
Bash pauses. “They appreciated me.”
“I’m sure they did.”
Elias huffs a laugh beside me, and the easy rhythm of the evening continues.
For once, I don't find myself waiting for it to disappear.
Conversation continues easily as we move to the island together, the three of them settling around me with a familiarity that feels strangely natural. Bash stays close on my right, Elias takes theseat beside me, and Adrian remains across from me, watching me more than the food.
Adrian passes the plates over to me. “Dig in,” he says. “It’s nothing fancy, but it should hit the spot.”
I look down at the food—simple sandwiches cut into neat triangles with a small salad on the side, the kind of meal that doesn’t require me to worry about making a mess of myself while I eat.
“Thanks,” I say. “This looks perfect.”
“It’s just sandwiches,” Adrian says. “Nothing special.”
But it is special. They’ve been adjusting around me all night without hesitation, making this easier for me in a hundred small ways I don’t think they even realize they’re doing.
We eat in relative silence, the only sound the occasional comment about the food, the documentary, or tomorrow’s filming schedule. “Water?” Adrian asks, already reaching for the pitcher before I can answer. “You look like you could use some.” The question catches me off guard. Not because he offered—people hand each other water all the time—but because he noticed I needed it before I did. “Thanks,” I say, as I accept the glass he offers, “I didn’t realize I was thirsty.”
“Your body’s working harder than normal,” he says, his tone matter-of-fact. “Even with the blockers. It’s burning through fluids faster. You need to stay hydrated.”
I hear the words differently than I would have a week ago. Less like someone trying to manage me and more like someone genuinely paying attention. And somehow, that makes it easierto accept. To take the water and actually drink it instead of deflecting or making excuses or any of the hundred ways I would usually avoid admitting I need help.
“Thank you,” I say, surprised by how much I mean it.
He nods once, not making a big deal of the moment. Then he’s back to his sandwich, attention shifting to whatever Bash is saying about tomorrow’s scenes. The conversation moves on, but I find myself watching him for a moment longer.
Time passes as the conversation drifts from food to filming before Bash launches into a story from his last project.
They keep noticing my needs before I even realize them myself - my glass never stays empty for long.
They see me.
Not just the production coordinator who keeps schedules running and problems from spiraling.
Me.
The version that gets quiet when she's overwhelmed. The version that overthinks everything. The one who’s scared and trying so hard not to ask for help even when it’s exactly what she needs.
And somehow, they stay anyway.
If this were only biological—just my omega responding to compatible alpha scents and instincts—it wouldn’t feel like this. Being seen wouldn’t make my chest tighten the way it does,and that unfamiliar ease wouldn’t feel so dangerously close to comfort.
Whatever's happening between the four of us is getting harder and harder to dismiss as instinct alone.
“We should probably clean up,” Adrian says, setting down his glass. “We’ve got an early call tomorrow.”
