Page 16 of Written in Scent

This class is exactly what I need.

The door at the front of the room opens with a soft click. Dr. Mira Halvorsen steps inside. Her silver hair is pinned into a tight, precise bun. She wears a crisp white blouse beneath an oatmeal cardigan. Her presence is calm but effortlessly commanding.

No strong scent coats around her like some of my fellow students. The moment I register that she’s a beta, my shoulders relax almost instantly.

She sets a small stack of notes on the desk and offers the class a measured smile. She begins without fuss, her Scandinavian accent making every word feel deliberate and clear.

"Welcome to Insect Anatomy and Physiology. This semester we will build a strong foundation in how insects are structured and how those structures allow them to function in their environments."

She moves straight into the material. The first topic is the exoskeleton: its layered composition, its remarkable strength relative to weight, and the complex process of molting. From there she flows naturally into compound eyes and the way they process visual information at speeds humans can only dream of.

I’m hooked within the first few minutes. My brain lights up with recognition from all the pre-reading I did over the summer. Every term she uses, every diagram she sketches on the board, feels familiar yet deeper than I expected. The little thrill I felt outside the building grows stronger here, surrounded by wood and paper and the promise of real knowledge.

For the first time since yesterday, the memory of Jamie’s scent begins to fade into the background.

This. This is why I came here.

Dr. Halvorsen moves through the material with a precise structure. She pauses after every major point and begins asking questions that cut straight to the heart of the science.

“What are the primary functional differences between chewing mandibles and piercing-sucking mouthparts?” she asks, scanning the U-shaped tables.

My hand lifts before I can stop it. She nods at me.

“Chewing mandibles are designed for grinding and tearing solid food,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Piercing-sucking ones have evolved for liquid diets, like nectar or blood.”

“Correct.” Her eyes linger on me for half a second longer than on anyone else.

The next question comes quickly. “How do compound eyes allow insects to detect motion at such high speeds?”

Again my hand rises. I answer, concise and accurate, citing the way ommatidia process flickering images. She nods again, but this time her expression shifts into something thoughtful.

I know the next answer too. I know all of them. Molting triggers, hormonal cascades, the exact sequence of ecdysis. The knowledge sits ready inside me, the way it always has.

Yet after those first two answers I force my hand back down. I bite the inside of my cheek and let a boy two seats over give a slightly hesitant reply. I keep my own contributions short even when the words crowd at the back of my throat begging to spill out. I smile politely when someone else gets half the answer right. I nod along as if I’m learning instead of confirming what I already know.

I hate how automatic it is.

This is the part of being an omega I have never been able to outgrow. The reflex to shrink and subdue myself. To make sure no one else feels uncomfortable by how much I know or how quickly I know it. It frustrates me even as I do it. I came here to learn, not to perform smallness, and still the habit wins.

But the material itself refuses to let me stay dimmed for long. Halvorsen sketches a detailed diagram of a cicada’s exoskeleton layers, then explains the precise chemical signals that initiate molting. My brain lights up completely. The world narrows to the scratch of chalk on the board, the faint creak of wooden chairs, the steady rhythm of her voice.

I lose myself in the science.

There is nothing else. Just the elegant logic of how something so small can be so perfectly engineered. My breathing slows. The chalk dust suddenly smells sharper and sweeter. My handwriting grows faster, loopier, almost giddy across the page. I don’t realize I’m smiling until my cheeks ache.

Across the room Dr. Halvorsen’s gaze finds me again. She sees the spark in my eyes. She sees the deliberate way I pull it back every single time.

She doesn’t look away.

The tutorial ends with the rustle of notebooks closing and chairs scraping back. Students gather their things and file out in chatty groups. The room empties quickly until only the creak of the old wooden floor and the faint scent of chalk remain.

Dr. Halvorsen looks up from her notes. Her voice is gentle but firm.

“Miss Maddison, could you stay behind for a moment please?”

My stomach tightens. I nod and remain in my seat while the last few students disappear through the door. The room feels suddenly larger.

She waits until the door clicks shut before she speaks again.