Page 7 of Written in Scent

Sophie is already leaning toward her open snack box. “I have goldfish?”

She holds one out carefully. The cat sniffs it, considers, then gives the cracker a delicate experimental lick before finally nibbling the edge.

“Huh,” Sophie says, awed, “she’s polite.”

I laugh under my breath and crouch, watching the little gray body curl neatly around itself as she perches between us like she’s always been there.

“We should name her,” Sophie whispers, as if the cat might overhear.

I watch the way the tabby moves across the rug, long and low and unhurried, her body bending fluidly around the edge of my desk like she doesn’t have bones at all.

“Slinky,” I murmur.

Sophie tilts her head. “That’s not a name.”

I shake my head slightly, studying the languid gray curve of her tail.

“Noodle,” I say instead.

Sophie’s smile spreads instantly. “Noodle,” she repeats, delighted.

It fits. She moves like one, all curve and confidence. Maybe I’m biased, pasta has always been my favorite food.

Noodle burrows her little face in her paws, nestling between us as if she approves of the decision.

I make a mental note to buy actual cat food as soon as I can.

Orientation is scheduled alphabetically, which means Sophie and I end up assigned to different sessions. We compare times while we’re getting ready and agree to meet afterward. The thought of seeing her after orientation makes the morning feel less enormous.

We’ve eased into a familiar rhythm already. Sophie is more openly affectionate than anyone I’ve ever been friends with, quick with smiles and small touches, but then again, I’ve never actually had another omega as a friend before. I’m still adjusting to how natural it feels.

Last night we unpacked together, which I’d secretly hoped we would. I like arranging things until they feel intentional instead of temporary, and Sophie seemed happy to talk while we worked, handing me books when I needed them and holding up clothes so I could decide where they should go. At one point we discovered we share a favorite musician, which somehow felt like finding out we spoke the same language, so we played his songs while we finished unpacking.

She didn’t seem bothered by the rest of my specimens either, which I appreciated more than I said out loud.

I tried to return the effort when she started explaining, very earnestly, why university is supposed to be the ideal place for omegas to meet their future packs. I really did listen at first. But somewhere between her second and third example of successful lifelong bonds, my attention drifted without permission, my thoughts wandering off to classify beetle families instead.

Pack life might be practical. It might even be natural.

It still isn’t something I want.

Noodle slept curled beneath my desk all night, drowsy and content, tucked into herself against the rug. When Sophie and I were getting ready this morning, though, she must have slipped out through the window without either of us noticing.

I hope she comes back.

By the time I step outside, the morning air has shifted into something charged. Students move in messy streams toward the main academic buildings, clutching schedules and coffee cups, scanning signs taped to lampposts and doorframes.

The flow reminds me faintly of a late summer butterfly migration, purposeful and loosely patterned, each individual following instinct while still moving as part of something larger.

The hall assigned to my session is larger than I expected, the ceilings high and causing an echo with the layered hum of conversation. It should feel spacious, but the cacophony of sound just makes it feel concentrated.

Designations mix without pattern. Alphas, betas, omegas. Everyone adjusting their posture slightly, recalibrating to the proximity of strangers.

I hover near the edge for a moment before moving deeper into the room.

Alphas brush past me as they navigate the crowd, broad shoulders angling deftly so they don’t collide outright. Even so, I feel the near misses like static against my skin. A few glances linger longer than necessary, curious in a way that sharpens my awareness.

My stomach tightens.