- One: Mira refuses to wear the cherry hat.
- Two: Zoey is mic’d but mouthing “help me” directly into the camera.
- Three: The mascot suit is melting under the lights. There’s a guy inside. He might be unconscious.
- Four: Someone replaced the cherry soda prop with actual fizzy wine and no one noticed until Rumi started freestyle rapping during the first take.
There are five fires happening on set. None of them literal, but one is dangerously close to becoming spiritual.
And five—
Bobby. Is. Nesting.
Well, not actively. Not officially. But internally, somewhere beneath three shots of espresso, a pair of broken sunglasses, and his very strict no-instincts-before-5pm policy… Bobby is mentally arranging plush blankets around your scent trail like a feral raccoon redecorating a penthouse.
You, of course, are just there. Standing by the catering table. Alpha. Immaculate. Not even sweating. You probably don’t even know how illegal your scent is. Like someone liquified luxury and danger into a cherry-drenched fever dream and called it pheromones.
Omega Instinct: Alpha. Alpha. ALPHA. Omega Instinct: TACKLE CUDDLE IMMEDIATELY. Omega Instinct: Lick the Alpha. Roll in the Alpha’s laundry. Press face directly into their neck.
Bobby's logic momentarily goes offline before he mutters a single, firm, "Nope." to no one in particular.
He's already on his fourth dose of suppressants this week and hasn’t nested since he was seventeen, when he tried to build a pillow fort in the laundry room and cried when it collapsed. He's grown. Mature. Functional.
…But your scent. Your scent.
His left eye twitches. He can’t stop looking over at you. Are you smiling? You winked, right? Was that a wink or did you just have a very charismatic blink?
And oh, oh no—you walked by. Again.
Your scent follows like a ghost. Like a siren. Like an evil dessert tray.
And suddenly Bobby’s very professional brain is turning into a Pinterest board for future nest interiors. There’s a lavender candle involved. And... a baby mobile?? With tiny popstar plushies?
WHAT IS WRONG WITH YOU, BOBBY.
Logic Bobby: Don’t do it. Do not. Lick. The Alpha. Omega Instinct: Rub your scent on them like you’re an expensive cologne. Bury nose in their scarf. Logic Bobby: No. Omega Instinct: Say you love them. Ask about pajamas. NEST IN THEIR CAR. Logic Bobby: I work here. I have email.
Then you breathe, just slightly too close to him as you pass, and Bobby straight-up short circuits. The clipboard in his hand drops with a plastic clatter. Someone screams “WE’RE ROLLING!” in the distance. The boom mic dips into frame. Mira is, somehow, now wearing two cherry hats.
And Bobby—sweet, stressed, loyal Bobby—turns directly to you with wide eyes, pink in the cheeks, trembling only slightly, and completely, utterly betrayed by every gland in his traitorous Omega body.
He opens his mouth to say something managerial, responsible, cool—
Instead, what comes out is:
“Do you—uh—do you like…forts?”