Elias doesn’t push. He drinks his coffee leaning against the counter opposite me, his posture relaxed, his focus occasionally drifting to the window where sunlight spills across the floor. He looks like he belongs here.
“We should leave in twenty,” he says after a while. “Traffic gets worse after seven-thirty.”
I nod, swallowing the last bite of muffin. “I just need to change.”
“Take your time.”
I don’t, though. I change quickly—jeans, a soft sweater, boots I can stand in for twelve hours without complaining. I brush my hair and tie it back, the way I always do for workdays. I check myphone once, see three unread messages from Bash and Adrian, and slip it into my pocket without opening them.
When I emerge, Elias is waiting by the door with his keys in hand. “Ready?” he asks.
I nod. “Ready.”
The drive to the studio is quiet. Elias keeps the radio low, some morning news program murmuring beneath the sound of the engine. I watch the city pass outside the window and try not to think about how many times we’ve done this now. How many mornings he’s driven me to work without complaint, how many evenings he’s brought me home, how many hours he’s spent in my apartment.
The parking garage beneath the studio feels colder than the morning air outside, all concrete and exhaust fumes and the particular mustiness of underground spaces. Elias parks in his usual spot, close to the elevator, and cuts the engine. For a moment, neither of us moves.
“Thank you,” I say. “For the muffins. For driving. For...” I gesture vaguely, unable to find the right word for everything else.
He studies my face for a long moment, his dark green eyes calm and focused in a way that makes me want to look away and lean closer at the same time. “Anytime,” he says simply.
Then he’s opening his door, and the moment breaks.
We walk to the elevator together, his presence grounding beside me. A few steps and then we’re in the main building, the familiar hum of early-morning set life rising around us. Equipment cartsrolling across concrete. Distant voices calling check numbers. The smell of coffee from craft services.
I feel them before I see them.
The shift in the air around me is subtle but unmistakable. Warm amber and cedar cutting through the industrial smells of the building. Bergamot and dark spice threading beneath it. My omega responds immediately, the constant awareness of their presence sharpening from background to foreground in the space of a single breath.
I turn toward the sound of Adrian’s voice before I consciously decide to look for him. He’s standing near the craft services table, coffee in hand, already deep in conversation with the DP about today’s lighting setup. But his gaze finds mine the moment I step into the room, his eyes lifting from the conversation like he felt me enter the space before he saw me.
He leaves the conversation and heads towards me with a smile spreading across his face. “There she is,” he says as he gets closer. “How was the drive?”
“Fine,” I say automatically. “Traffic wasn’t bad.”
Bash appears from somewhere behind the lighting rig, a script tucked under one arm and his phone in his hand. “Sleep well?” he asks, his tone casual. “After your dramatic exit, I mean. Very mysterious, driving off into the night without even a proper goodbye.”
Heat crawls up my neck. “I texted.”
“You did not,” Bash says, but he’s smiling now, the teasing edge in his voice unmistakable. “I checked. Three times. Adrian checked four. We have receipts.”
Adrian laughs, the sound warm and easy. “We were worried,” he admits.
“Elias was with me,” I say softly.
Something passes between the three of them then—a look, a nod, a shift in posture so subtle I almost miss it. Adrian’s gaze flicks to Elias, then back to me. Bash’s eyes remain on my face a beat longer than necessary. Elias remains beside me, his presence calm and steady, but I feel the slight shift in his stance, the way his body angles subtly toward mine.
They’re communicating without words. The way they did last night, after I fell asleep. The way people do when they’ve reached some kind of understanding.
I wait for the unease to come, but it never does.
“I should get to my station,” I say, suddenly unable to stand here any longer. “We’ve got the warehouse sequence today, and the lighting plot is—”
“We know,” Adrian says gently. “Go. We’ll see you in a bit.” Bash nods, already turning back toward whatever he was doing before I arrived. But his hand brushes my arm as he passes—a brief contact that sends warmth spreading through me. Elias remains beside me for another moment. “I’ll be by security if you need anything,” he says. “All day.” Then he’s moving too, falling into step beside Adrian as they head toward the main set.
I stand there for a second longer, watching them go, before I force myself toward my station.
The morning unfolds with the particular chaos of a filming day—schedules shifting, problems emerging and getting solved, the constant hum of activity that usually makes me feel most like myself. I move through it on autopilot, checking call sheets, confirming locations, answering a dozen questions without stopping to think about any of them.
