“Both of us,” he continues. “Bash and I. We can pull out, cite scheduling conflicts, let the studio scramble. They’ll manage. It’ll cost us professionally, but we don’t care.” He holds my gaze. “If you need us to do that, we do it.” He means every word. I can see it in the set of his jaw, in the unwavering determination in his gaze. This isn't an impulse. He's already thought through the consequences and decided they're worth it.
I glance at Bash.
He’s leaning against the counter with his arms crossed loosely, watching me. “Just say the word.” he says.
My chest does something complicated. “No,” I say. “Absolutely not.”
Adrian starts to speak, and I keep going.
“Finish the movie. Both of you. I mean it.” I wrap my hands tighter around the coffee mug. “If you walk off a production mid-shoot because of me, that story follows me everywhere. The omega who disrupted everything. The liability. I’ve been trying to stop that exact narrative from attaching itself to my name, and you pulling out would hand it to every person in this industry who’s been looking for a reason.”
“I know,” Adrian says. “Which is why I’m asking, not deciding for you.”
“And I’m telling you no.” I look at him. “I appreciate it. I appreciate it more than I can explain right now. But finish the film.”
There’s a moment of silence. Then resignation passes over his expression. “Okay then,” he says. “We will finish the film.”
Bash unfolds his arms and picks up his coffee. He doesn’t say anything else, but his expression has settled, like a decision that was already leaning in a direction has finally found its ground.
I sit with the warmth of being asked. Not managed, not decided for, not arranged around. Asked. Given the choice and trusted with it. That’s the part that sits heaviest, because nobody has ever cared for me that openly before. I should probably find a more practical place to put that realization. Instead, it stays lodged right in the center of my chest.
Adrian goes back to eating. The kitchen mood normalizes.
Then bash breaks the silence. “I’m not needed on set today, so I will stay here with you.”
My stomach flips at his words.
Thirty minutes later, Adrian and Elias are by the front door pulling on their jackets. Adrian stops beside me in the hallway and touches my face briefly, his thumb brushing my cheekbone.
“Call me if anything changes,” he says. “And I mean anything.”
“I know,” I say, looking up at him and finding it difficult to focus on anything except how close he is.
He holds my face a moment longer, like he’s checking for something, then drops his hand and picks up his bag.
Elias catches my eye from the doorway, and something passes between us. He doesn't say anything. He doesn't need to. The look says he’s already calculated every possible thing that could go wrong and determined that Bash is adequate coverage. I’m the only person who would find that particular stony expression reassuring.
The door closes behind them, and I miss them immediately.
Bash is already back in the kitchen when I turn around.
I find him at the counter, rinsing off the breakfast dishes. He finishes them, stacks them in the drying rack, then moves to wipe down the stove top. He does it with an intense focus that I can’t help but watch. When the stove top is done he starts in on cleaning the island counter.
I lean against the door frame.
He moves to straighten the dish towels on the oven handle. Adjusts a canister on the counter by two inches, apparently dissatisfied with its previous position. Opens the refrigerator, checks something, closes it again.
“Bash,” I say.
He looks up.
“Do you ever just sit down?”
He pauses with his hand still on the refrigerator handle. Something flickers across his face before he can hide it. LikeI've just pointed out a habit he didn't realize anyone was paying attention to.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says.
“You’ve been in motion since I came downstairs.”
