Page 5 of Written in Scent

“It doesn’t,” she says simply.

Then, as if remembering something, she spins toward her suitcase, digs briefly through the top layer, and pulls out a folded scarf.

It’s a pale blue, patterned with delicate butterflies in pastel pink and ivory.

“These are my favorite,” she says, holding it up. “I’ve always loved them.”

I stare at the fabric, then at her.

“You did not just strategically produce butterfly themed clothing,” I say.

She grins. “I absolutely did.”

My mom laughs gently, the sound full of relief, and I realize she’s been watching this whole exchange like someone witnessing a fragile experiment succeed.

“Well,” she says gently, “I think your father and I should probably start the drive home before it gets too late.”

My stomach drops a little.

It was always going to happen. I knew that. Still.

“That’s a good idea,” Dad agrees, already brushing his hands together like the decision has been officially logged.

“I’ll walk you out,” I say quickly, pushing to my feet before either of them can argue.

Outside, the air is warmer than I expect, late sunlight still clinging to the brick like it doesn’t want to leave yet.

Mom reaches up as soon as we stop on the walkway and smooths a loose strand of hair back behind my ear, the way she’s done since I was small. My hair has always refused to behave, too bright in the sun, too coppery to be called blonde and too muted to be called red.

When I was younger, I used to complain that it made me noticeable.

Strawberry, Mom would say, smiling as if that solved everything. Just like your scent. Sweet and impossible to miss.

Her fingers linger now, tender against my temple.

“Text us when you’re settled,” she says.

“I will.”

“And eat dinner.”

“I will.”

“Something with protein,” Dad adds.

“I will,” I repeat, trying not to laugh.

He studies me for a moment like he’s double checking that I’m real and not something he imagined into existence, then pulls me into a hug without warning.

It’s firm and warm and a little too tight, his chin bumping the top of my head. Mom folds in a second later, her arm slipping around my shoulders so that for a moment I’m tucked safely between them, exactly where I’ve always fit.

My throat prickles.

I blink hard and focus on the pattern of my dad’s shirt instead of the feeling building behind my eyes. Being an omega means emotions never really stay silent for long. They hover close to the surface, waiting for any excuse to rise.

But this isn’t overwhelming.

It’s just… a lot of love all at once.