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theballadofharkness · 9 days ago

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Mine to Manage (1/2)

Pairing: Maya Mason x fem!reader

Summary: At Continental Studios, power is currency and chemistry is collateral damage. You’re the sharp-tongued horror exec with a red-lip reputation and no patience for games. Maya Mason is the dangerously charming head of marketing with a Rolodex full of directors and a closet full of designer chaos. You were supposed to be keeping your relationship quiet, but when flirtation becomes a business strategy and jealousy starts bleeding through the seams, secrecy stops feeling smart.

Word Count: 9.5K

Warnings: explicit smut so as always MDNI

A/N: sorry to my babies who were anticipating this fic on Wednesday but I hope nearly 20K words and some filth will make up for it xo turns out tumblr has a word limit and I exceeded it so here is part 1! 💜🪻

You wake up to the sound of Maya’s espresso machine roaring like it’s been wronged. Something by Portishead plays low through the Bluetooth speaker. The sheets are still warm where she was, tangled around your legs. Her Gucci t-shirt slips off one shoulder as you stretch.

It’s quiet in that golden kind of way that only happens in the hours before LA decides to start screaming.

You pad barefoot into the kitchen.

Maya’s at the counter, back turned, hair clipped up in a lopsided twist. She’s in branded Fenty sweatpants and a tiny cropped Prada tee that reveals a sliver of toned stomach and one tattoo you’re still not sure you’re supposed to know about. She’s arguing with her milk frother.

“You either froth or you die,” she mutters, shaking it like it’s personally offended her.

You lean against the doorframe. “You threatening your appliances again?”

She glances over her shoulder and grins. “Only the ones with attitudes.”

Maya pours you a mug without asking, oat milk, one sugar, just how you like it, and passes it to you in a cracked old Continental Studios mug from the Vampire Western she’d marketed a couple of years ago.

You take a sip. She leans in and kisses your cheek like it’s nothing.

Back in her bedroom, you curl up in the rumpled sheets with your coffee while she opens the doors to her closet. It’s chaos, half runway archive, half sportswear drop. Balenciaga, Gucci, Stüssy, Diesel. A soft avalanche of logos and weird textures.

She yanks a pair of parachute trousers off a hanger, throws them onto the bed, and starts layering.

Oversized YSL denim. Pile of chains. A tank top that might technically be lingerie. Ridiculous platform sneakers you’re sure you’d break an ankle attempting to walk down a slight of stairs.

You just watch, quietly sipping, legs pulled up to your chest in her Gucci shirt that is still hanging off you like an afterthought. Maya catches your reflection in the mirror, your messy hair, your bare thighs, the way you’re watching her like she’s a sunrise you don’t want to end.

“You’re staring,” she says, smirking as she stacks rings onto her fingers like armor.

“You’re putting on six brands before 9 a.m. It’s a little hypnotic.”

“This is what it takes to look ‘naturally iconic.’” She spins slowly, arms out. “Too much?”

“Never,” you murmur. “You look like a streetwear goddess and a sex scandal rolled into one.”

She walks over to you, leans down and kisses you slowly, careful like she’s trying to memorize your mouth. Then she pulls back just a little, fingertips brushing your jaw.

“I love-” she starts, too fast, too soft.

She freezes. You freeze.

Silence.

Then she lets out a breathy laugh and redirects like a pro, “-that you wear my t-shirts like they’re not couture.”

You blink once. Sip your coffee again. Say nothing. But you felt it, and she knows you did.

Maya clears her throat and grabs her bag. “You coming in with me or sneaking in the back entrance again like a disgraced intern?”

You roll your eyes. “You wish I was disgraced.”

She winks at you on her way out. “Get dressed, goth girl. Sal’s already texting me memes about ‘soul-devouring time travel scripts.’ He says that’s your fault.”

“It is,” you call after her. “And it’s gonna make us millions.”

The door shuts. You’re left alone with your cooling coffee, her t-shirt hanging off your frame, and the ghost of something she almost said.

You’re not in love.

Not officially.

But it’s close.

Close enough to hurt, once the day gets going.

Maya’s car smells like the inside of a well-funded record store, full of incense, leather, and some limited-edition air freshener shaped like a blunt. You’re in the passenger seat, legs crossed, sipping the iced matcha she insisted on stopping for even though you were already late.

The studio building looms ahead, a sharp grid of glass and clean lines, sun already bouncing off the steel letters above the entrance. CONTINENTAL. It’s glossy. Cold. Unforgiving. And this part, the sitting in the car five minutes before walking in separately, always makes you feel small.

You check your phone again, already half reading emails, but mostly just waiting for the moment where you’ll have to go.

Maya taps her manicured fingers against the wheel, rings clicking lightly.

“You know I don’t like this,” you say quietly.

“I know.” You glance over. She’s got her big sunglasses on, hiding whatever flicker’s in her eyes.

“You could park and we could walk in together,” you offer, not for the first time.

She doesn’t look at you. “Not with Patty gone.”

There it is again, the unspoken weight of it.

Patty Leigh, queen of organized dysfunction and your lowkey protector, was ousted six weeks ago. Matt took over. You like Matt. You trust him, mostly. But Maya? Maya’s been burned before. And she’s not about to let her career get caught in the gossip fire.

“If someone finds out,” Maya says, finally meeting your gaze, “it becomes a conversation. And if that conversation makes it to HR, I’m a conflict of interest in every room we share. I’ve worked too long to be sidelined because I sleep with someone smarter than me.”

You huff a half-laugh. “You really think I’m smarter than you?”

“I think you don’t know how to drive a car but can quote 1930s French horror cinema, so yeah, I do.”

You should be used to it by now. The staggered arrivals. The careful glances. The way you go home to her but spend your workday pretending like you’re just two sharp women with too much power and perfectly normal tension.

But you hate it.

You hate the five-minute wait.

Maya reaches over and rests her hand on your thigh, fingers splayed soft and grounding. “It’s just a little longer. Let the dust settle. Once I’m solid under Matt and Sal stops comparing you to a haunted crow in development meetings…”

You snort. “He says it with love.”

“He says it with fear.”

You look at her again. Her mouth is soft. Lips a little glossy. She’s trying.

So are you.

You take one last sip of your matcha, lean over, and press a kiss to the corner of her mouth, quick, almost chastely, but not enough to be meaningless.

“I’ll go in now,” you murmur, adjusting the strap of your bag. “See you in there.”

Maya watches you go with that unreadable expression she wears like armor.

You step out of the car, shoulders squared, heels clicking on the pavement like punctuation. Behind you, the engine idles. She’ll wait five minutes. She always does.

And then she’ll follow you in, like you’re nothing more than colleagues.

The second you walk in, it’s chaos.

Quinn is pacing in shoes that are far too loud for this early in the morning, waving her tablet like a weapon. Sal’s leaning back in one of the conference chairs with a protein bar in one hand and a smug expression that practically dares her to throw it at him.

“She doesn’t care about press metrics,” Quinn snaps. “She directed an entire film with no dialogue and it still got into Venice. You can’t just wine and dine her like a bro-y showrunner!”

“I’m not wining and dining,” Sal cuts in. “I’m being a human person who respects her enough to have a fucking lunch with her and talk about the movie.”

“Yeah, but your version of lunch involves whiskey and quoting Heat until people give up and agree with you.”

Matt, seated at the head of the table, looks like he’s already aged a decade this morning. He’s flipping through a printout of the director’s past interviews like he’s cramming for a final.

You drop your bag on the table. “Are we courting her or summoning her?” you ask dryly, as you take a seat.

All three of them turn.

Matt visibly relaxes. “Thank God.”

Quinn sighs dramatically. “Please tell Sal that not all female directors want to be flirted with over steak.”

“I’m not flirting. I’m being charismatic. It’s called being likable.” He snaps back.

You fix Sal with a look. “Your version of likable is describing blood spatter in the first five minutes.”

Sal shrugs. “You like that.”

“I’m emotionally stunted.”

Quinn snorts. Matt hides a smile behind his hand. The tension breaks just a little, your presence has always been good at that.

Matt pushes the director dossier toward you. “She’s brilliant. And prickly. And this project means a lot to her. She doesn’t want to feel like she’s being handled.”

“Then don’t handle her,” you say, skimming the notes. “Offer her the resources. The vision. Make her feel like she’s not being pulled into a machine that’ll strip her film down to ‘marketable trauma.’”

Matt nods. “Exactly.”

Sal mutters, “That’s literally what we do, though.”

And that’s when the door opens.

Maya steps in like the scene’s been waiting for her. She’s late. She knows it. She’s unbothered.

The air changes.

Even Quinn, who’s rarely starstruck, straightens up a little.

“Morning, bitches,” Maya says, tossing her phone onto the table and sliding into the chair next to yours like she owns the room, and you. “What’s the damage?”

“You’re late,” Sal says.

“I’m perfect,” she replies.

Her hand brushes against your knee under the table. No one sees it. No one’s supposed to.

Matt hands her the dossier. “We’re locking in the final pitch strategy for the Hartley project. Meeting with her at eleven.”

Maya flips it open. Glances at the headshot. Tilts her head. “She’s hot,” she says bluntly. “Sharp cheekbones. Complicated personal history. Probably listens to fuckin Joni Mitchell.”

Quinn groans. “Can we not focus on her cheekbones?”

“We’re not,” Maya replies, already tapping through something on her phone. “We’re focusing on her ego. Which lives somewhere around her jawline and her last Sundance standing ovation.”

She looks up and meets your eyes, just briefly. It’s like watching her slip into costume, the Maya Mason who owns every room, who says the quiet part out loud and makes it sound like gospel.

You love her like this.

You hate her like this.

Because you know what happens when someone like that walks into a meeting. And you have no idea yet just how bad it’s going to get.

The conference room is gleaming and too bright, all glass and polished surfaces. There’s something cold about the air as the espresso machine in the corner hums and someone thoughtfully lays out a spread of croissants and berries you know no one’s going to touch.

You sit at the long table next to Quinn, your notepad open, though your pen hasn’t moved since you sat down. Sal’s across from you, already relaxed into his seat like he’s at brunch despite his eye twitching anxiously, while Matt flips through a meticulously organized pitch packet. He’s trying to look cool, nonchalant, but you can tell he’s buzzing.

At the far end of the table, Olivia Hartley crosses one leg over the other, her rings clinking against the water glass as she sets it down. She’s calm. Curious. Predatory in that quiet, magnetic way that successful directors seem to radiate.

She’s not playing hard to get. She just knows she’s the one being chased.

Matt clears his throat. “First off… just want to say how much we love this script. What you’ve built here, the emotional structure under the genre, it’s rare. You’ve got atmosphere, but also teeth.”

Olivia offers a polite smile. “Thank you. That’s the goal.”

Sal leans forward, fingers steepled. “We’re not here to talk about notes. You don’t need notes. You need a machine that will let you do what you do best, without flattening it for mass appeal. We’re that machine.”

“I don’t really like machines,” Olivia says, swirling her water with her ringed finger.

Quinn jumps in smoothly. “This one’s more like an organism. Mutates to fit the vision. Bites when necessary. Like your short film Venus traps!”

That earns a laugh from Olivia, a quiet one, but real.

You cut in, steady and direct. “You’ll have creative control. Minimal input, if any. We’re not looking to sand it down. Our approach is: let the auteur lead, and we follow. If you want the darkness, you keep the darkness. If you want the tenderness, we amplify it.”

Olivia tilts her head at you, interested. “You’re the horror person, right?”

You nod. “Been developing genre projects for the last six years. I’ve fought more battles about blood volume than people fight in custody court.”

Sal snorts.

Matt adds, “Y/N’s the reason the Harkness House slate is still alive. She knows what works and what sells. She’s also the one who told us we’d be fools not to pursue you.”

Olivia’s eyes settle on you for a beat, sharp and observant. “Well. Good taste.”

You nod, but don’t smile.

And then she walks in.

Maya enters like it’s her pitch meeting. Like she’s been here all along. She’s late, unapologetically. Her oversized bomber jacket is hanging open over a cropped Diesel tee and camo pants that cling perfectly. Designer sneakers. Messy-styled hair. Her statement sunglasses are clutched in her hand, not on her face, she wants you to see her eyes when she says something lethal.

She doesn’t sit next to you. She never does in front of the team. She takes the seat directly across the table next to Olivia.

“Apologies,” Maya says, sliding her tablet out of her tote. “Had to run damage control on a filmmaker who thinks limited theatrical means punishment.”

Olivia perks up instantly. “Sounds familiar.”

You clock the moment she notices Maya, it’s unmistakable. The smile isn’t just professional. It’s interested. Slow, assessing.

“And you are?” Olivia asks, like she doesn’t already know.

“Maya Mason,” she says, extending a hand, jewelry glinting. “Head of marketing.”

Olivia shakes it. “Of course. The branding sorceress.”

Maya smiles, a small, dangerous smile. “Flattery works best when paired with vision.”

Matt jumps in again, grateful for the new energy. “Maya’s here to walk you through our rollout concept. How we’d position the film, from festival debut to wide release.”

Maya taps her screen. “Look, we’re not selling this as ‘the female version of’ anything. No lazy comps. No ‘elevated horror’ buzzword bullshit. We position it as what it is: singular, evocative, uncomfortable. The kind of film that gets a standing ovation and a thinkpiece war on Twitter.”

Olivia leans in slightly. “You really believe that?”

“I wouldn’t be in this room if I didn’t.”

“And would you be… involved? Directly?”

Maya doesn’t even blink. “Every step.”

The silence hums. Olivia’s smile deepens. “I like collaborators who aren’t afraid of sharp edges.”

Maya cocks her head. “Good thing I’m not afraid.”

Your throat goes dry.

You glance around, but no one else seems fazed. Matt is nodding along, Sal’s looking at the slide deck, Quinn’s updating notes on her iPad. No one is watching Olivia look at Maya like she wants to devour her.

And Maya… Maya is doing what she always does. She’s unshakeable. Smirking. Charming. But you can see the subtle tilt of her shoulders, the way her voice drops when she says Olivia’s name again while referencing the visual strategy:

“And when we roll out the first teaser, it’s not about the plot. It’s about fuckin mood. A single shot. Tension. And your name, dead center. That’s the sell. Your name becomes the genre.”

Olivia actually hums. “You say that like you’ve done this before.”

“I have.”

“And like you’ve had success with women like me before.”

You freeze.

Maya smiles, unbothered. “Women like you tend to know what they want.”

“And you don’t mind being… persuasive?”

It’s so direct it borders on inappropriate.

You feel the flare of jealousy like a sudden fever behind your ribs.

Maya glances across the table, right at you, for the first time since the meeting began. It’s fleeting. But you catch it. And then she looks back at Olivia, still cool. Still casual.

“I’m persuasive when it matters,” she says. “And I only pitch what I believe in.”

“Well,” Olivia says, reclining back into her chair. “I believe I’m intrigued.”

Olivia stands once the meeting comes to a close, sliding her sunglasses on with a quiet, amused little smile. “Well. I certainly have a lot to think about.”

Matt rises halfway out of his chair, polite but tense. “Of course. Take your time. If there’s anything you need-”

“I’ll be in touch,” she cuts Matt off smoothly, her eyes flicking one last time to Maya. “Very in touch.”

Maya just nods, calm as ever. “Looking forward to it.”

You feel it in your teeth.

The door shuts behind her and it’s like someone cuts the air. Everyone exhales at once.

Matt immediately runs a hand through his hair. “Okay, that was… good, right? I think that went well.”

“Went well?” Sal barks a laugh. “She’s circling us like a shark in a Gucci blazer. She’s weighing the offers. You saw the trades this morning, Warner’s throwing her a budget the size of fucking Sweden.”

“She hasn’t signed with anyone yet,” Quinn says, tapping her screen. “She’s still listening. That’s something.”

Matt’s pacing now. “We need a strategy. We need to lock this before the next meeting. She’s our shot at breaking out of prestige-adjacent and into legit award territory. What do we do to seal this?”

Sal leans back in his chair, arms crossed, smug as hell.

“Isn’t it obvious?”

You feel it coming before he says it. You brace anyway.

“We have a secret weapon,” Sal says, jerking his thumb toward Maya. “Mason. She was flirting up a storm.”

You roll your eyes so hard it nearly gives you a migraine. “I’m sure HR has rules against pimping out our staff.”

Sal holds up his hands. “Jesus, I’m not saying she sleeps with her. I’m saying we use what I like to call the Mason charm offensive. She’s obviously into her. It’d be dumb not to use that.”

Quinn doesn’t even look up. “It was kind of obvious.”

Matt nods, still in go-mode. “Yeah. Maya, you looked amazing. You could wear that dress you wore to Charlize Theron’s party last month—”

You snap. “I thought we were focused on making a movie, not her crotch.”

The room goes dead silent.

Sal blinks. Quinn freezes. Matt physically recoils like someone pulled the emergency brake on his brain. Maya’s still sitting calmly at the table. She hasn’t looked at you once.

Yet.

You feel the heat in your cheeks, the throb in your throat, the stupid sting behind your eyes you refuse to let become anything more than fury.

Matt clears his throat. “No one’s… saying anything inappropriate. We’re just… trying to be strategic.”

“Right,” you say, tone flat as a morgue drawer. “Because strategy means leaning on sex appeal when creative vision isn’t enough.”

You push back your chair and stand. Too quickly.

Maya finally speaks. Her voice is calm. Even. “You think I crossed a line?”

You meet her eyes. Finally. And you wish you hadn’t. Because there’s something there — not guilt, not shame. Just quiet fire.

You don’t answer.

Instead, you grab your notepad and leave the room without another word.

You’re halfway through a cigarette you weren’t supposed to start again.

A film crew’s setting up across the pavement, a dolly track is being laid, extras are loitering in background-costume purgatory. Someone’s shouting about eyelines. Someone else is laughing way too hard for how little sleep they probably got.

It should be inspiring. The heartbeat of the industry. All that buzz.

But all you feel is static.

You take another drag and exhale like you’re trying to exorcise something.

Footsteps crunch behind you. “Didn’t know you smoked.”

You don’t turn around. “Didn’t know you cared,” you say.

Quinn steps up beside you anyway, arms folded, tablet still in hand. Her heels are too nice for asphalt and she smells faintly of lavender and unspoken ambition.

“I don’t,” she says lightly. “But I noticed you turned purple in there before storming out like a Victorian widow in a horror. So here I am.”

You glance at her. “I’m not doing this right now.”

“I think you already did it,” she says, unbothered. “Just figured I’d check if you were about to punch a hole in a studio wall or cry in craft services.”

You scoff. “Neither. I’m just getting some air.”

“Right. And nicotine.”

You take another drag. There is silence for a beat. The faint sound of someone yelling “ROLLING” across the lot.

Then Quinn, more gently, asks “you know she was just doing her job, right?”

You don’t answer.

“You think I haven’t seen Maya pitch before? She could sell blood to a vampire. That doesn’t mean she wants to sleep with one.”

You flick ash onto the pavement. “She didn’t have to go that hard.”

“She always goes that hard,” Quinn replies. “It’s why she’s Maya Mason.”

You grind your teeth. “Sal wants her to flirt. Matt wants her to wear a dress. No one’s talking about the film anymore. Just what Maya can offer her.”

“And you don’t like that?”

You finally turn to look at Quinn, jaw tight. “I don’t like watching people turn the person I care about into a marketing asset.”

There. You said it. A little too much.

Quinn’s eyes narrow slightly. “…You care about her?”

You inhale sharply. Don’t respond. Just exhale the smoke like that’ll take the confession with it.

But Quinn’s already got the puzzle mostly assembled. “I thought you two just had matching power-lesbian energy,” she says softly. “But… okay. That tracks.”

You glance away. “She doesn’t want anyone to know,” you say. “She thinks it’ll compromise her position with Matt. That HR will freak. That she’ll lose the authority she’s fought to build.”

Quinn’s quiet. “She’s not wrong,” she admits. “This place has eaten women for less.”

You nod.

Another silence. Somewhere nearby, a PA yells “CUT!” and a director groans.

Then Quinn adds, “Still doesn’t mean it didn’t suck to watch.”

You finally allow a small, bitter smile. “Yeah. It really fucking sucked.”

She bumps your shoulder, just a little. “Don’t burn the whole studio down over it, though.”

“No promises.”

Your office is dim. The blinds are half-closed. You’ve turned off the overheads and let the desk lamp cast everything in low, amber light, like a noir set built for one.

You’ve been staring at the same production breakdown spreadsheet for twenty minutes, making notes in the margins like you’re rewriting the Bible. None of it matters. Not right now.

But at least it’s something you can control.

Your phone buzzes again. You don’t look at it. Instead, you scroll down to the distribution budget line and adjust a figure by $2,500. Just to feel like you’ve done something.

Another buzz. You finally glance.

<Maya: You still mad?>

You ignore it.

Click into an email draft. Something about an indie sound designer’s availability for October. You start typing a message that doesn’t need to be written this second. Or even today.

<Maya: Okay. You’re working. I get it. You’re mad and goth and in control and unbothered. I support it.>

The corner of your mouth twitches but you don’t respond.

You highlight a paragraph about licensing clearances. Rewrite it. Delete it. Rewrite it again.

<Maya: I didn’t mean for that to happen like it did. I was doing what I always do. You know that.>

You do.

That’s the problem.

Another ping.

<Maya: Talk to me when you’re done pretending this doesn’t bother you.>

You lock your phone and slide it face-down on your desk. It’s not that you don’t want to talk to her. It’s that you’re afraid of what you’ll say if you do.

You stare at your screen. Your cursor blinks, waiting.

Outside your door, the studio hums on with muffled voices, distant phones, and the occasional laugh from someone who isn’t standing on emotional thin ice.

You click into a calendar invite. Add another fake meeting to your schedule.

Busy.

That’s all you can be right now.

The sky outside the glass walls has gone dusky blue, that dead time between day and night when LA starts to hum again with restaurants opening, headlights flickering on, and everyone scrambling to be somewhere.

Inside, the conference room is a pressure cooker.

Matt’s on edge, bouncing a pen against his knee. Sal’s pacing like he’s trying to wear a groove into the carpet. Quinn’s quiet, but alert, like she’s already taking mental notes for a postmortem email she’ll send at 2am.

Patty’s back, seated with a drink in hand like she never truly left the place, just allowed it to implode without her for a little while.

And Maya?

Maya’s sitting across from you, effortlessly cool in her bomber and a white tank that rides just a little too high on her ribs. Like she is casual. And she keeps glancing at you. Small things. Quick looks. A flick of her eyes that lingers half a second too long. But you won’t meet her gaze. Because you can’t look at her and pretend she’s just some colleague, some flirtatious closer-for-hire.

She might be able to play that game.

You can’t.

Matt finally breaks the silence. “Okay. Tomorrow is it. Our final pitch. Olivia meets with Warner this evening. If we don’t land her, we lose this whole project.”

“She wants resources,” Quinn says, swiping through notes. “They can offer more. All we have is the pitch and the promise we won’t ruin it.”

“And Maya,” Sal adds, like it’s obvious. “We have Maya.”

Maya raises a brow. “We do.”

“You saw how she looked at you,” Sal continues, grinning like this is all very fun. “You’ve got her attention. You turn it up a notch, seal the deal.”

You see Maya’s smile stretch wide and easy. “Fuck it, okay.” She doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t care.

“Seriously?” Quinn asks, surprised.

Maya shrugs. “People flirt. It’s not illegal. It’s leverage. And we fucking need this.” She says it like it’s just common sense. Like she’s explaining taxes or how to jump a car.

You feel your stomach twist.

Matt, trying to be earnest, adds “it’s not about asking anyone to cross a line. Just… use what you’ve got. You’re good at it.”

Sal laughs. “I mean, c’mon. If I got a shot at a Marvel movie, I’d blow Anthony Mackie and thank him for the privilege.”

You blink.

Slowly.

“…What?”

Even Quinn pauses, lips parted in stunned confusion.

Patty, seated near the back of the room, swirling the last of a drink she definitely didn’t clear with security, raises one eyebrow. “Honestly? Not even surprised.”

“I’m just saying,” Sal shrugs.

“Yeah,” you say, voice like steel. “And if what you’ve got is a functioning marketing department, maybe try using that.”

Patty sighs, setting down her glass. “I hate to say it, but he’s not wrong. If Maya’s angle is what gets us across the finish line, then… it’s a safe bet.”

Sal, undeterred, adds “I’m just saying. Sometimes you gotta hustle.”

“I’m not offended,” Maya says, smirking. “I’ve flirted for worse reasons. I once got a VFX delay approved by making eye contact and licking the frosting off a cupcake.”

She says it like she’s proud. Like she’s amused. And maybe she is. It’s not personal to her. But it is to you. You’re still staring at the table. Still biting your tongue. Still trying to decide if you want to scream or cry or laugh in someone’s face.

Maya’s watching you now. Not glancing. Watching. “Y/N,” she says gently. “It’s not a big deal.”

And maybe it isn’t. To her. But it is to you.

You stand, slow and careful, the tension in your shoulders so taut it’s making your bones ache.

“Well,” you say, tone like glass. “Now that we’ve established ethics are optional and seduction’s a marketing strategy, can I go?”

“Y/N… ” Matt starts, but you cut him off with a smile that doesn’t touch your eyes.

“I’m fine with it. We’re in survival mode, right? Fuck nuance. Fuck professionalism. Whatever works.”

“Don’t be like that,” Sal mutters with an eye roll.

“No, I’m being practical. Isn’t that what we’re all doing?” You sling your bag over your shoulder, still not looking at Maya.

“Anyway, I’ve got a late lunch-slash-dinner with the exec producer of the cannibal project. We’re negotiating how much cannibalism is too much.”

Quinn, still recovering from the tension, pipes up. “Wait… how much is too much cannibalism?”

You pause at the door. Finally glance over your shoulder with a tight smile. “Oh, honey. There’s really no such thing.”

You walk out.

You don’t look back.

You don’t see the way Maya’s smile fades, how her fingers stop drumming on the table.

How she suddenly looks less smug and a little more like someone who’s just realized they might’ve played the wrong hand and lost more than they thought.

The air outside is cooler now, the light fading fast. Studio golf carts hum in the distance. Somewhere, a clapperboard snaps, another project rolling, another director who doesn’t make you feel like this.

You’re already halfway to the curb, bag slung over your shoulder, eyes fixed on the far end of the lot where the studio gate opens to the street.

Behind you, you hear footsteps. Familiar ones.

“Hey!”

You don’t slow. You don’t turn.

Maya catches up in two long strides, her voice sliding into that playful, practiced ease.

“So,” she says, like you’re still okay, like nothing’s wrong, “you wanna grab Thai and crash at mine? I’ve got that weird Turkish found-footage movie queued up, and I swear I won’t complain about the subtitles this time.”

You keep walking.

She tilts her head toward you, still smiling like this is a bit. “Or we could do Carrie again. You love watching her snap.”

You turn to her, calm. Cold. Detached. “I’m not coming over tonight.”

She frowns. “Wait, what?”

“I’ve got work. Projects to finalize. Schedules to lock.”

Her smile falters. Just a flicker. “So… what, you’re seriously not coming back with me?”

You shrug. “Not tonight.”

Maya stares. “Y/N. Come on. You drove with me.”

You nod, stepping toward the curb. “I’ll grab a cab.”

She’s quiet for half a second, just half. Then, sharper: “Because of what? The meeting?”

You don’t look at her. “Because I have work.”

“Jesus, it wasn’t personal. It was business. That’s what I do. I close. I get the win. You know that.”

You turn slowly, deliberately. You look her dead in the eye and smile. But it doesn’t reach anything soft. “Exactly,” you say. “And now I’m doing the same.”

She opens her mouth, but nothing comes out fast enough.

You step off the curb.

The cab door opens and look back at her once, just once, as you slide inside.

“It’s not personal, Maya. It’s business.” Then the door shuts and she’s left standing there, watching the car drive away.

The wine is already open within seconds of being home. You didn’t even bother with a glass, you just uncorked the bottle like a woman with intentions, grabbed a pint of ice cream from the freezer, and collapsed onto your couch with the kind of energy that screams, “I’m not spiraling, you are.”

Your laptop is balanced on your knees, casting flickering shadows across the living room as some grainy, overexposed Mario Bava deep cut plays. La Maschera del Demonio, maybe, or The Whip and the Body. Something bleak and gothic with slow tracking shots and thunder that never sounds quite real.

A black-clad woman is wailing in Italian. A man in a cape appears from behind a curtain and stares into the camera like he knows what you’ve done.

You take a swig of wine. Then a spoonful of ice cream. You’re totally fine.

You’re totally, completely fine.

You pause the film. Rewind twenty seconds. Rewatch the scene where the doomed heroine runs down a hallway lined with candles, breathless and wide-eyed and absolutely unaware of the masked figure stalking her from the shadows.

You mutter under your breath. “She deserves better.”

Another sip. Another bite. Another dramatic scream from the screen as you turn the volume up, drowning out the silence.

Your phone buzzes on the armrest beside you.

You glance at it.

<Maya: What’s the movie tonight?>

You stare at the message for a second. Then flip the phone face down again. You rewind the scene again and press play. Because you are not texting her back. You are not going to be the one who breaks.

You are a professional. You are a horror executive. You are a totally emotionally adjusted woman who definitely isn’t crying during black-and-white Italian horror and finishing a bottle of red wine alone on a Thursday night.

The screen flickers. The heroine screams again.

You raise your spoon to toast her. “To us, babe.”

And take another bite.

The movie is at its climax, strings are shrieking, lightning is cracking, and some tormented baroness shrieks as she runs through a crumbling monastery with wind machines going full throttle. There is fog everywhere. Candles begin exploding. Your wine bottle’s two-thirds empty. The ice cream has melted to soup in your lap.

You’re leaning forward on the couch, eyes wide, totally immersed, spoon hovering mid-air.

The killer is right behind her. You know it. She doesn’t. She’s crying. There’s thunder. The scream on screen hits its peak, piercing, orchestral, just as there’s a sudden, urgent knock on your front door.

BANG. BANG. BANG.

You scream. Loud. Guttural. The ice cream bowl launches out of your lap in a sticky arc, smacking your chest and dumping half-melted salted caramel across your dress. You nearly knock over the wine trying to stand up, heart thundering like you’re the one being chased through a crumbling cathedral.

Another knock, softer this time.

“Y/N?”

Your blood chills.

You shuffle toward the door in melted sugar and panic, flinging it open.

And there she is. Maya. Hair messy from the wind, hoodie zipped halfway over her usual chaos-couture, tote bag slung over one shoulder, looking way too calm for someone who just got a bowl of dairy launched in their general direction.

She takes one look at you, flushed, wild-eyed, wine-drunk, caramel-coated, and tilts her head.

“…You good?”

You blink at her. “Are you serious?”

“I knocked,” she says, stepping past you into the apartment like she owns it. “Very politely, I might add. You screamed like you were being murdered.”

“You timed it with a murder scene!”

Maya turns to face you and immediately clocks the full situation. Your dress is clinging to your stomach, ice cream down your chest, mascara smudged slightly from the general humidity of rage and Italian ghosts.

She raises a brow. “You’ve got ice cream on your…”

“I know,” you snap. “Thank you.”

She walks deeper into your apartment, glancing at the movie still playing, the open bottle of red, the half-eaten pint abandoned on the couch. She doesn’t say anything. Just looks.

And then she turns back to you. “Okay,” she says softly. “What’s going on?”

You blink. “I told you. I was working.”

“On what?” she asks. “Your blood alcohol tolerance?”

You huff. Cross your arms. The ice cream squelches again.

Maya takes a step closer. “Why didn’t you just tell me you were hurt?”

“Because it shouldn’t have hurt,” you say. “That’s the problem.”

A beat.

“I know you didn’t do anything wrong. I know it was harmless flirting. I know it was a strategy, okay? But I watched you charm the hell out of her and then laugh about it. Like it meant nothing.”

“Because it didn’t,” Maya says. “Not to me.”

You finally meet her eyes and it’s brutal. “But it meant something to me.”

That lands.

Maya steps forward. Gently this time. No swagger, no performative cool. Just Maya.

She touches your wrist, careful not to get caramel on herself. “I didn’t realize it would feel like that for you. I just… I thought you understood the game.”

You look down. You whisper it more than say it. “I did. I do. I just didn’t think you would play it with me in the room.”

Maya’s quiet for a long beat.

Then she steps back, just slightly, and gestures to the couch. “I’m going to go get a dish towel, and then you’re going to sit down, and we’re going to finish this batshit horror movie while I apologize for being a clueless asshole who doesn’t deserve you.”

You blink. “You brought a tote bag to my apartment.”

She smirks. “I always bring a tote bag. Your apartment has zero good snacks.”

You don’t stop her when she walks into the kitchen. You don’t stop her when she pulls a dish towel off the rack and comes back, crouching in front of you, gently blotting the sticky mess from your dress like she’s done it a hundred times — and maybe she has, in other ways.

You don’t stop her because you’re not ready to forgive her yet.

But you don’t want her to leave, either.

The movie still flickers faintly in the background, all moody strings and crumbling architecture. But neither of you are watching anymore. The wine bottle is nearly empty on the coffee table. The ice cream, long forgotten, has turned into a sticky puddle soaking into a throw blanket.

You shift in your seat and grimace. “I feel disgusting,” you mutter.

Maya, perched next to you with one knee tucked under herself and her hoodie sleeves pushed up to her elbows, smirks just a little. “Yeah, you do smell kinda like cream and emotional instability.”

You roll your eyes, but she catches the corner of your mouth twitching.

There’s a beat. Then you sigh and push yourself off the couch. “I need to shower. I’m basically a sticky wine ghost.”

You don’t expect her to follow.

But she does.

Steam rises slowly, fogging the edges of the mirror, curling against your bare shoulders. You’re under the water, hair soaked, hands resting against the tiled wall as you try to breathe out the day.

You don’t hear the door open.

You only notice when the curtain draws back and Maya slips in behind you naked and unapologetic, her skin already misted with steam.

She doesn’t say anything at first.

Just steps into the water with you.

You turn to face her and suddenly her hands are on you, warm and grounding. She runs her fingers over your waist, your hips, her touch tender, reverent. Her gaze flicks down your body like it’s the first time all over again.

She leans in to kiss your shoulder, your collarbones, then finally captures your lips. And it’s soft. Gentle. Slower than usual, like she’s not trying to pull you under, just hold you here.

“I’m sorry,” she murmurs against your lips.

You blink, water dripping down your cheek. “For what?”

“For not thinking,” she says. Her hands stay on your skin, thumbs stroking lazy circles against your ribs. “I was focused on the pitch. On getting her. I didn’t think about you sitting there. Watching.”

You don’t answer right away.

She presses another kiss to your temple. “I didn’t mean to make you feel like you didn’t matter.”

Her voice is low. Uncharacteristically small.

You reach for the soap and run it over your arms, just for something to do with your hands. “You didn’t make me feel like I didn’t matter. You made me feel like we don’t.”

That stops her dead.

You turn away slightly, facing the water. It cascades over your shoulders, your spine. For a second, you think maybe she won’t say anything. That she’ll back out, or brush it off.

But instead, her arms come around you from behind. She pulls you into her chest, wet skin against wet skin, and holds you like she can keep everything from spilling out.

“I was doing my job,” she says quietly.

“I know.”

“I flirt. I charm. I make things happen.”

“I know.”

She turns you back around and looks you straight in the eye. “But I don’t want to lose you over this.”

You stare at her before whispering gently “Maya… I can’t keep doing this.”

She stills. Eyes wide. Breath caught.

“You’re breaking up with me?” she asks, like it doesn’t compute. “You’re breaking up with me while I’m naked in your shower?”

It’s absurd, it’s laughable, it should be funny. But the look on your face tells her it’s anything but.

Your voice cracks. “No.” You shake your head, and now your eyes are full, not with rage, not with spite. Just ache. “I’m not breaking up with you. I’m just… I can’t keep being your secret.”

She doesn’t breathe.

“I can’t keep pretending we’re nothing. That I’m not yours. That you’re not mine.”

You take a shuddery breath. “I can’t act like I don’t love you.”

Maya’s face shifts like the words knocked the wind out of her.

Water falls steadily between you. The air is thick with heat and steam and silence.

Her hands slide up your waist, over your ribs, and cup your face like she’s holding something precious and fragile.

“You love me?” she whispers, like she doesn’t quite believe it. Like the words knocked the air out of her lungs.

You nod, eyes glistening. “Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

And then she kisses you. Her mouth crushes against yours, hot and desperate, and she crowds you against the tile like she can’t get close enough, like she’s starving for something only you can give her. Her hands slide down your back, over your hips, fingers digging into your skin with quiet hunger.

You moan into her mouth, and it lights a fuse in her.

Maya pulls back just enough to look at you, eyes wild and glassy. “Say it again.”

You swallow. “I love you.”

She kisses you again, biting your bottom lip, hands sliding between your thighs, making you gasp.

“Again,” she growls, lips at your neck now, sucking marks into your skin like she needs proof you belong to her.

“I… Maya!” you gasp, breath catching as her fingers find you, hot and slick under the spray. “I love you.”

“That’s right,” she murmurs, kissing down your collarbone, one hand splayed flat against your belly, holding you steady. “Say it for me.”

She drops to her knees. In the shower. On the tile.

And when she looks up at you, soaked, pupils blown, mouth open, you feel it in your chest, running up your spine, in your very soul.

“Maya…” you whisper, already trembling.

“I want to hear it when I make you fall apart,” she says, voice low and reverent. “Every time.”

And she does. Her mouth finds you, slow and unrelenting, tongue sliding over you as her hands hold your thighs open, firm and commanding. You cry out, shocked at how fast it builds, how full of everything it feels.

“I love you,” you whimper, fingers twisting in her hair.

“Again,” she murmurs against you.

“I love you… God, I- Maya!”

She moans at the sound of it, tongue circling harder, firmer, until your knees buckle and your voice breaks on a sob.

She catches you as you come undone, arms wrapping around your hips as you ride the wave of it, shaking under her mouth, gasping out the words like they’re the only ones left in you.

“I love you, fuck, I love you”

And when it’s over, when you’re sinking down into her arms, hearts pounding in unison under the spray, Maya presses a kiss to your temple.

The steam still clings to the walls as you both step out of the bathroom, wrapped in oversized towels. Your hair is damp, skin flushed, legs a little shaky. Maya guides you gently to the edge of the bed and nudges you to sit.

You do.

She doesn’t say anything right away, just moves in that calm, purposeful Maya way. She takes a smaller towel from your drawer, the one you usually use on your hair, and gently begins patting down your face. Your cheeks. Your nose. Your chin. She’s ridiculously tender with it.

“I love your smile,” she says quietly, not meeting your eyes just yet, towel working gently across your skin. “Even when it’s smug. Especially when it’s smug.”

You blink at her.

She’s serious. She smooths a few strands of wet hair off your forehead, drapes the towel over your shoulders.

“I love that you love those weird foreign horror movies I’ve never heard of,” she says. “But that you’re not too up your own ass about cinema to laugh with me at that diarrhoea zombie movie I worked on last week.”

You laugh, because God, that movie was awful.

She grins, soft and warm, but still a little nervous. “I love how you mouth along with lines from the recent Suspiria, but you still make fun of the lighting like a bitchy lighting designer.”

You shake your head. “It’s bad, Maya.”

“I know, babe. That’s what makes you special.”

She kneels in front of you again, towel bunched in her hands now, voice quieter. “I love touching you,” she says, hands running slowly along your arms. “I love knowing when you’re going to shiver before you do. I love the noises you make when you don’t know you’re making them.”

Your throat tightens.

She exhales. “I love that you never try to change me.”

She finally looks up. Meets your eyes. “I love that you see all the ugly, messy, strategic shit I do… and you still want me.”

You nod, because you do. God help you, you do. And then, finally, like she’s known it all along but just didn’t know how to say it until now, “I love you.”

You don’t speak. You just fall into her, towel sliding, skin to skin again, lips finding hers like gravity’s finally done its job.

And when you pull back, breathless and blinking hard, she smiles, a little lopsided. “Also, for the record,” she murmurs, “you looked really hot covered in ice cream.”

You laugh into her shoulder, and she holds you like she’s never letting go.

The towel around you is barely holding on.

Maya’s eyes are locked on yours like she’s trying to memorize this version of you, flushed, wet, hers.

“I love you,” she says again, voice a little raspier now, lower.

You don’t get a chance to reply before she surges forward and kisses you, deep, open, hungry. Her mouth drags against yours with so much heat it feels like the air might catch fire.

The towel around your body slips loose, pooling around your waist. Maya pulls back just far enough to look down.

“Fuck,” she whispers, reverent.

Then she’s on you, hands sliding up your torso, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts, fingers splayed like she’s staking a claim.

“You’re so-” she kisses the base of your throat, “fucking-” your sternum, “perfect.”

You exhale sharply when her mouth finds your nipple, her tongue circling, teasing, before she sucks it between her lips and groans against your skin.

“Maya,” you gasp, back arching into her.

“Lie down.”

The words are firm. Commanding. You obey.

You fall back against the bed and stretch out across the sheets, still damp from the shower, your legs falling open just enough that her gaze drops and her pupils blow wide. She strips her own towel off in one clean motion, crawling up your body like a woman possessed.

Straddling your thigh, she bends to kiss you again, deeper now, her hand already sliding down your stomach. Her fingers trail between your legs, and when she feels how wet you are, she moans your name like it’s a curse and a prayer at once.

“Say it again,” she whispers, stroking you with two fingers, slow and lazy.

You whimper. “Maya…”

“No,” she says, kissing along your jaw. “The other thing.”

You bite your lip. She presses her fingers inside you just enough to make your breath hitch.

“Say it.”

“I love you.”

She presses in deeper.

“Again.”

You cry out , it’s so much, almost too much, her fingers sliding inside you, her mouth at your neck, her free hand cupping your breast as she takes her time.

“I love you,” you gasp again, louder this time, like it’s being pulled straight out of you.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she growls.

She finds a rhythm , slow, hard and unrelenting and watches you unravel beneath her, every moan, every gasp, every whispered “I love you” making her move faster, rougher, until your thighs are shaking and your hands are clawing at the sheets.

“Maya, please…”

She leans down and whispers, “I want you to come saying it.”

And you do.

Your whole body tenses and then breaks, your back arching as you scream it into her mouth, the words tumbling out in a frantic, desperate rush.

“I love you, I love you, fuck, I love you!”

She kisses you through it, holding you down, drawing every last second of it out until you collapse beneath her, gasping, boneless.

But she doesn’t stop.

She shifts lower, kisses her way down your body, lips soft and open as she settles between your thighs like she belongs there, because she does.

“I’m not done,” she murmurs, right before her mouth is on you.

And then?

You forget the studio.

The pitch.

The pain.

You forget your own name.

There’s only Maya, her hands holding you open, her tongue working you like she’s starved, her eyes on you the entire time, like she needs to watch every flicker of pleasure she gives you.

She doesn’t stop until you’ve come once more sobbing her name, fingers in her hair, begging her to slow down. And only then does she crawl back up beside you, flushed and panting, lips swollen, eyes dark.

You can barely breathe.

She curls around you, kisses your temple.“I love you. I’m in love with you.”

You turn your head, meet her eyes, and whisper it again, “I love you too.”

Your body is trembling, breathless and boneless, still warm from the aftermath of what she just did to you. Your legs are barely working. Your heart is hammering.

Maya lies beside you on the bed, damp hair fanned out on your pillow, cheeks flushed, mouth swollen from the wreckage she left on your skin. Her thighs are slick where they’ve been rubbing together — not just from the shower. From watching you fall apart. From hearing you say you loved her. From owning it.

You roll onto your side, press a soft kiss to her shoulder.

She hums. Lazy. Dangerous. “You’re not done, are you?” she murmurs, fingers threading slowly through your hair.

“No,” you whisper, kissing down her arm, her wrist, her hip.

“Good,” she says, sliding one leg over your back. “Show me.”

You shift lower, trailing your lips over her stomach, her hipbones. You glance up once, asking without words.

She smiles. Leans back against the pillows and opens her legs wide. “I’m yours,” she says softly, voice like velvet and threat.

You nod, already dazed again, drunk on her, high on the way she gives you permission to adore her.

You press a kiss to the inside of her thigh. She tenses slightly in anticipation. Her fingers tighten in your hair. “Don’t tease.”

So you don’t. You flatten your tongue and lick, slow and deliberate, tasting how ready she already is for you. She groans, low and satisfied, hips rolling into your mouth like instinct.

“Fuck, that’s it,” she breathes. “You know exactly what I need, don’t you?”

You moan against her. The sound makes her twitch.

“Again,” she growls.

You do it again, longer this time, your tongue circling her clit before sucking her into your mouth gently, letting the pressure build exactly the way she likes it.

Maya gasps, her head falling back, one hand tightening in your hair. The other finds your jaw, holding you in place. Controlling your rhythm. Pacing your devotion.

“Don’t stop,” she pants. “God, don’t you fucking dare stop.”

You don’t.

You let her ride your face, moaning into her as she grinds against your mouth, wet and needy and completely undone. She’s breathing harder now, her abs tightening, thighs clenching around your head.

“Faster,” she whispers, voice cracking. “Fuck, right there… right there…”

You press your tongue harder, flicking in the way she taught you, the way she loves, and you feel it when it hits her, her whole body going tense, her moans breaking into choked, desperate pleas.

“Oh my God yes, fuck, don’t stop, don’t you dare-”

She comes hard, gasping your name, thighs trembling around your head, and she doesn’t let go. She holds you there, rides it out, breathing like she’s been running for miles.

When she finally eases back, you look up with your lips shiny, your jaw aching, your eyes wide and she’s beaming.

“Goddamn,” she whispers, pulling you up by your hair into a filthy, wet kiss. “You’re mine.”

You nod, breathless. “Yours.”

“All of you.”

“Yes.”

She kisses your neck, your mouth, your cheek. “Good girl.”

You nearly whimper.

She wraps you in her arms then, possessive and tender all at once, and whispers, “I love you.”

And this time, you know she means every word of it.

The sunlight spills through her floor-to-ceiling curtains in that slow, creamy way that only ever happens after a night like last night.

The sheets are twisted around your waist. Your legs are tangled with hers. You can still taste her on your lips. Her fingers are tracing lazy lines along your ribs, and every few seconds, she leans down and presses a kiss somewhere on your face, your cheek, your jaw, the tip of your nose, like she’s mapping her own little galaxy.

You’re barely awake, but you know what day it is.

The meeting.

The one with her.

You open your eyes and see Maya already smiling at you, her eyes soft, hair in a messy bun barely holding on, her voice a low rasp from hours of loving you senseless.

“I love your face,” she murmurs, kissing your temple. “I love your morning voice. I love the tiny little frown you get when you’re pretending not to be needy.”

“I’m not pretending,” you mumble into her pillow. “I’m just quietly suffering.”

Maya laughs. “You’re so dramatic in the mornings.”

You shift, curling against her a little tighter, refusing to let her get up yet. Your fingers trail across the curve of her hip. “Do you have to be dangerously hot and persuasive today?”

She kisses the tip of your nose. “I do.”

You pout. You actually pout.

And she grins, soaking it in. “You’re jealous.”

“Don’t say it like it’s cute.”

“It is cute.”

You glare. She rolls you onto your back and straddles your waist, pinning you effortlessly with just her body and that look — the one that says she owns you, and your stupid jealous little heart.

“I’m yours,” she says, voice low and honest now, hands framing your face. “Okay? I love you. No amount of power flirting is gonna change that.”

You want to believe it. You do believe it.

But as she climbs off you and starts getting ready, pulling on a pair of cargo pants that shouldn’t be that flattering, shrugging into a Loewe crop jacket, layering her gold chains, the ache creeps in again.

You sit up on your elbows, watching her slick her hair back in the mirror. Her rings are already on. Her lips are glossy. Her confidence is radiating off her like a scent.

She’s gorgeous.

Deadly.

And she’s about to walk into a room where someone else wants to be devoured by that exact energy.

She catches your reflection watching her. Turns, mouth quirked. “Don’t start spiraling,” she says softly. “Come to the meeting. Watch me charm her and keep my hands to myself.”

You raise an eyebrow. “You think that’s going to help?”

She walks back over to the bed, leans down, and kisses you. Slow. Firm. Certain. “I think you’re gonna love watching her realize she’s got no shot.”

You swallow hard.

She presses her forehead to yours. “Put on something terrifying and chic,” she whispers. “Make me nervous.”

You laugh but the need is still there. The ache.

And she feels it too. “Come on,” she says, pulling you up by the hand. “Let’s go make this bitch fall in love with the studio and make fucking millions.”

You pull on your clothes, still half aching, half reassured.

And tell yourself: She loves me. She loves me. She loves me.

But it doesn’t stop the jealousy from thrumming.

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