Page 71 of Written in Scent

Sophie leans closer, grinning. “Oh, that one is so him.”

The next package is wrapped in shiny gold star paper that sparkles under the light. I tear it open and immediately laugh through sudden tears. Inside is a fun pastel blue Polaroid camera, along with an entire pack of glittery butterfly stickers. A handwritten note is taped to the box in a messy scrawl.

I didn’t know what color to pick, so I chose the one that matches your eyes. Decorate it however you like, but I thought you might like the stickers.

— Jamie

I press the note to my heart, the simple words making my eyes sting all over again.

I reach for another package, this one wrapped in deep forest green paper patterned with subtle pine needles. The paper falls away and my breath catches hard.

A soft oversized hoodie in my favorite earthy green. A sturdy insulated thermos with a built-in temperature gauge. And a lightweight night-fieldwork jacket with multiple perfectly sized pockets for specimen jars, a headlamp already clipped to the collar, and reinforced cuffs exactly where I always snag them on branches.

Tucked into the jacket pocket is a small folded note in bold, slightly messy handwriting.

For the nights you refuse to come inside. Stay warm.

— Chase

I stare at the gifts in my lap, throat tightening so suddenly I can’t speak. Each piece is so specifically tailored to my habits… the way I crouch in the grass for hours, the way my hands always get cold before dawn, the exact way I organize my tools when I am out in the field. They have been paying attention. All of them.

At the very bottom of the basket is a small bag of premium cat treats. I blink at them, stunned. I have no idea how they even knew about Noodle.

Only one gift remains, tucked carefully in the far corner of the basket and wrapped more deliberately than the rest. The paper is a rich, deep sepia brown with faint gold botanical illustrations printed across it, like an antique map of some forgotten garden.

I assume it must be from Alex. My fingers tremble a little as I lift it out and start unwrapping.

The paper falls away to reveal an ornate antique butterfly field guide with a gold embossed cover and hand colored plates. For a brief second I wonder if it’s actually from Adrian, because it feels so perfectly academic and thoughtful… exactly the type of meaningful thing he would choose.

Then I open the cover.

A note is tucked inside, the handwriting neat and even.

Elodie,

I bought this the day I first scented you in the gardens next to the Natural Sciences building. You were crouched in the grass studying a leaf, completely lost in your work, and I knew right then you were ours. I have been waiting to give it to you ever since.

— Alex

The realization crashes over me all at once.

Alex chose and bought this gift for me before we had even officially met. Long before any of this. My breath catches sharply and I sit back on my heels, completely speechless.

I turn the heavy book over in my hands with delicate fingers, almost afraid it might crumble under my touch. The leather is patina’d and well worn with age, the gold embossing still vibrant against the deep burgundy cover. I open it slowly to the title page and my eyes widen.

The edition date reads 1897. One hundred and twenty-nine years old. My breath catches again as I notice a faded but elegant author’s signature in dark ink just below the printed title, dated in the same year.

This is not simply an old book. It’s a genuine first edition, signed by the author himself.

The understanding hits me deep in my bones, stealing what little breath I have left. Of all the gifts, this one feels the most personal, the most wildly extravagant. Alex had bought this rare piece of entomology history the very day after he first scented me in the gardens — long before we had ever spoken, before he knew my name, before any of this. He’d held onto it for weeks, waiting. Waiting for me.

Tears blur my vision as I gently close the cover and press the heavy book against my chest like the treasure it is.

Sophie is staring at me with her mouth actually hanging open. “Elodie,” she whispers, voice hushed with awe. “He bought that for you the day he scented you? Before he even knew your name?” She lets out a disbelieving laugh and shakes her head. “That is the most romantic, unhinged, insanely thoughtful thing I have ever heard in my life. Alex Whitmore is out here buying antique entomology books like it’s normal. I’m actually so incredibly jealous of you right now.”

I let out a watery laugh, Sophie’s right. It’s completely insane. And somehow that only makes it even more special.

I sit back on my heels among the sea of torn wrapping paper and open gifts, the heavy antique book still clutched against my chest like it might disappear if I let go. My heart is racing so hard I can feel it in my throat, a frantic, unsteady beat that refuses to ease.