Page 44 of Written in Scent

The taxi door clicks shut behind me with a harsh finality that echoes louder than it should. I stand on the path for a moment, the cool night air brushing against my flushed skin.

It should feel refreshing after the heated chaos of the evening, but it does nothing to settle the restless energy still humming beneath my ribs. If anything, the chill only makes the strange heat inside me feel more noticeable.

I walk into the dorm building on unsteady legs. The familiar hallway lights feel too bright, the space too loud. When I push open the door to our room, the space I have grown to love suddenly feels wrong.

Too small. Too quiet. Too empty.

Every surface seems slightly off-kilter, like the room itself is holding its breath. The shadows in the corners look sharper than usual, and the air feels thin, missing something vital.

Noodle appears almost immediately, slinking out from under my desk with a curious, questioning meow. She winds around my ankles in that dauntless way of hers, her warm little body pressing against my calves as if trying to anchor me. I reach down and stroke her soft gray fur, letting her purr vibrate against my fingers.

Even her familiar comfort can’t silence the strange ache blooming in my chest.

It’s not just physical anymore, something deeper is stirring, something my body seems to understand better than my mind does. I want to crawl into bed and pull the covers over my head until everything feels normal again. But normal no longer feels like this room.

Normal feels like four alphas and the safety I shouldn’t be craving.

Sophie pushes the door open with her hip, a steaming mug in each hand and a knowing look already on her face. The faint chamomile scent drifts ahead of her like a gentle promise.

“I got your text on the way home,” she says, closing the door behind her with her foot. “Figured we might need tea.”

She hands me the mug, the ceramic almost too hot against my palms. I wrap my fingers around it anyway, grateful for something solid to hold. Noodle gives Sophie a quick head bump hello before curling back against my leg.

I try to downplay it at first. “It was… nothing. Just a weird night. I’m fine.”

But the words feel hollow even as I say them. Sophie sits cross-legged on her bed, facing me, and waits with that patient, open expression she always has when something big is happening. The silence stretches just long enough for the truth to push its way out.

I start with the library. The missing book. Climbing the shelves. Falling. Then Adrian—his rain on stone scent, the way everything blurred into heat and need. The spike that crashed over me like a wave I couldn’t outrun. Jamie’s room. The pillowcases. The way the whole pack had been waiting downstairs, steady and safe and overwhelming all at once. The taxi ride home where I sat in the back seat trying not to cry.

The story spills out in pieces, messy and out of order, but Sophie never interrupts. She asks gentle questions when I falter. “Did they push you at all?” “How did your body feel when it started?” Each answer pulls another layer free.

When I finally run out of words, I stare down into my tea. My voice comes out smaller than I mean it to.

“I felt safe with them, Sophie. Really safe. Like nothing could touch me. And that… that terrified me more than anything else.”

The admission hangs between us, raw and honest. Sophie reaches over and squeezes my knee, her touch comforting.

“I know,” she says quietly. “That kind of safety is scary when you’ve never had it before.”

I nod, throat tight, and take a small sip of the chamomile. It tastes like comfort I’m not sure I’m ready for.

Noodle purrs louder against my leg, but even she can’t fill the strange, empty space still humming inside my chest.

Even after Sophie falls asleep, I can’t settle.

The room is silent except for her even breathing and Noodle’s occasional purr from the end of my bed. I pace the small space between our desks, my bare feet silent on the cool floor. Nothing feels right. The walls seem closer than usual. The air too still. My skin too sensitive.

I change into my softest pajamas, the worn cotton ones with tiny embroidered bees that usually bring me comfort. Tonight they feel wrong against my skin. Too loose. Too empty. I crawl into bed anyway, pulling the covers up to my chin, but sleep refuses to come.

I try to read but the words blur together on the page, meaningless. I set the book aside and reach for my notes instead, attempting to organize the taxonomy diagrams I started earlier. My hands shake slightly as I sort through the papers and even that small task feels impossible.

The pull inside me is no longer just chemical.

It feels deeper now, emotional, like a type of homesickness I can’t name and don’t want to acknowledge. A hollow ache has sunk behind my ribs, whispering that something important is missing. That I shouldn’t be here, alone in this small dorm room.

My omega instincts are wide awake and restless. They murmur things I try desperately to ignore… that I should be nesting, building a safe space wrapped in warm, familiar scents. That I should be surrounded by them. That my pack should be here.

I push the thought away hard, squeezing my eyes shut and turning onto my side.