Page 20 of Written in Scent

“This one is yours now,” he says simply. “Permanent assignment. No one else will touch it for the rest of your time here at Rosewood. I have a particular set of drawers that need completing by midterm. The senior class has been moving at a glacial pace and I need these completed properly.”

I glance at the stack of trays and quickly assess the workload. The specimens are well preserved and the labeling requirements are clear. I know without doubt that I can manage it easily, even with my other classes.

“I can do that,” I tell him, my voice coming out shyer than I’d like.

His smile grows even wider. While I begin carefully positioning the first specimen on its board, he stays a few minutes longer, chatting as I work. He asks if I have visited the Natural History museum in the city yet. When I admit I haven’t, his eyes light up.

“You simply must go,” he insists. “I spent the best years of my career there. They have one of the finest collections of rare Coleoptera in the country. There is a particular drawer of Lucanidae that will make your heart sing. The stag beetles alone are worth the trip.”

My pulse quickens with genuine excitement. A rare collection. Actual museum specimens I have only read about. The thought sends a bright spark through me that lingers long after Jules finally bids me goodbye and leaves me to my work.

I stay there for a long time, the silent archives wrapped around me in a welcome embrace. The dim light from the high windows has shifted to a softer gold, casting long shadows across the rows of wooden drawers. The quiet here feels different from the rest of campus. Deeper. More personal. Like the building itself is trusting me with its secrets.

A satisfaction settles in my bones as I finish a particularly neat label, the specimen perfectly aligned on its board. Jules makes me feel truly seen for what I can do. Not for my designation or my potential pack status, but for the skill in my hands and the care I bring to these small, perfect creatures.

I pause, pen hovering over the page. The familiar urge to write something down rises, that undeniable impulse I have followed since I was small. I turn to the margin of my notebook and let the words flow, the way I always do when the moment feels right.

dust motes dance

across wings pressed flat

labels whisper names

no one else remembers

drawers breathe open

under careful hands

I hold my breath

and the small lives choose me back

I stare at the lines for a moment, cheeks heating slightly. It’s nothing grand, just a small fragment. But it feels right here, in this place of careful hands and serene reverence.

I close the notebook gently, the archives humming softly around me, and feel the smallest spark of belonging bloom behind my ribs.

Practice ended twenty minutes ago, but the burn in my shoulders still feels good. I cut across the quad, still in my practice jersey, the fabric clinging to me with damp from the drills Coach Hudson put us through. Sophomore year was supposed to feel easier than freshman year, but the pressure has only gotten heavier.

The call with my father this morning is still lodged in my head like a splinter. Same script as always. Grades need to stay perfect. Leadership positions must be secured. The family business will not run itself, and neither will I. He never raises his voice, but the expectations land harder than any hit on the field. I hate the business program with every fiber of my being, but fighting him feels pointless. It’s easier to follow the path he’s laid out than to watch the disappointment settle in his eyes.

The pack is my anchor in all of this. When my father’s expectations start to feel like chains, they become the only thing that keeps me grounded. They never demand explanations or perfection. They simply stand beside me, solid and supportive, and that’s enough. I’m grateful for them every single day.

Coach Hudson gets it too. He knows the pressure my father puts on me and never questions why I stay late after every session. Lacrosse is just the one thing that lets me breathe.

I’m glad I planned to meet Jamie after practice. I need his sense of humor right now to shake off the morning.

The tepid early fall breeze shifts across the quad, carrying the faint scent of cut grass and distant rain.

Then it hits me.

A bright, sweet scent slices through the breeze. Pink lemonade. Crisp and refreshing with a tart edge that makes my entire body go still. My instincts snap to attention in a way they rarely do. I know immediately what this is.

This is our omega.

My steps falter for half a second before I change direction, following the pull without conscious thought. The scent grows stronger as I move, guiding me across the grass toward one of the open green spaces. String and posts divide the area into large squares, students scattered at intervals working on projects.

She kneels in one of the marked squares, completely focused. Her strawberry blonde hair falls forward as she leans over a clipboard, biting her lip in concentration. A simple equipment bag sits beside her. She takes several photos of the ground with her phone, then reaches for a small glass jar. With delicate fingers she picks up a fallen leaf and places it inside, sealing the lid with gentle precision.