Page 96 of Written in Scent

This is my first real taste of the wider lacrosse circle, and it doesn’t feel like an obligation at all. It feels like an extension of the pack, loud and loyal, the same way their scents have blended with mine in the cool night air.

I look around at the laughter and the easy belonging and realize I’m no longer fighting the pull. I’m simply letting it carry me.

As the evening winds down, the laughter grows softer around the yard and the string lights seem to glow more starkly against the dark sky. I glance over at Alex standing near the edge of the grass, talking with Coach Hudson, and something in my chest tugs me forward. I weave through the remaining clusters of players until I reach him and slip my hand into his.

“Can we go somewhere quieter for a minute?” I ask.

He nods without hesitation, his fingers tightening gently around mine. We walk together to a corner of the backyard where the tall oaks create a small pocket of privacy away from the main gathering. Fallen leaves crunch under our shoes as we stop beneath the branches.

I turn to face him, the memory of that deep teal still vivid in my mind. “The tape on your stick,” I say. “It was teal today. It wasn’t like that at the last game I watched, was it?”

Alex looks down at me with those pale eyes, the edges crinkling with mirth. The corner of his mouth lifts in a small, gentle smile.

“It was for you,” he says simply. “A lot of lacrosse players change the tape color on their stick when they have a girl. It’s a tradition. Everyone on the field and in the stands knows who you are playing for. I wanted them to know I was playing for you.”

The words drip over me like honey. I step closer until there is almost no space left between us.

Alex lifts one hand and cups the side of my face, thumb brushing tenderly across my cheek. He leans down and rests his forehead against mine for a long moment, breathing me in.

Then he kisses me, slow and tender and full of unfiltered certainty. His lips are warm against mine, tasting faintly of the night air and the tea he drank earlier. The kiss lingers, unhurried and grounding, until my fingers curl into the front of his hoodie.

When we finally part, I keep my eyes closed for one more heartbeat, letting everything settle inside me.

I thought I never wanted any of this. But surrounded by the pack and this loud, loyal team that loves them, I feel more like myself than I ever have.

Morning light filters through the trees as I walk across campus the next day, still carrying the satisfied feelings from last night.

The memory of Alex resting his forehead against mine in the corner of Coach Hudson’s yard lingers, along with the easy laughter of the team and the way they welcomed me with no hesitation. My sweater still holds the faint blend of their scents, a reminder that I’m no longer moving through this world alone.

The air is crisp and sharp with fall, each step sending dry leaves crunching beneath my loafers. I breathe it in deeply, letting the cold clear my head. I feel light and hopeful.

But the feeling begins to shift as I near the Natural Sciences building. A group of students glances my way a second time, their eyes lingering. A few steps later I catch the hushed words from behind me, spoken just loud enough to reach my ears.

“…that’s Whitmore’s omega.”

A beta girl walking in the opposite direction offers me a knowing smile, the kind that says she has already heard the news. The looks aren’t cruel, exactly, more so curious, almost respectful. Still, they land like small stones against my ribs.

I worked so hard for anonymity. I wanted to be known for my meticulous notes, for the meticulous way I pinned specimens, for the way I could lose hours in the archives without anyone noticing.

Now that the courtship is visible, people seem to be seeing the pack first. The omega attached to Whitmore. Not the girl who studies insects because they make more sense than people ever did.

The unease tries to burrow in my chest, but I push it aside.

I square my shoulders and turn toward the archives. My desk and the rows of specimen drawers are waiting. There, at least, I can still be simply Elodie. The girl with the notebook and the pins and the obsession with tiny creatures.

I quicken my pace, eager to lose myself in my pinning project and let the rest of the world fade away.

I slip through the heavy archive door, the quiet here wraps around me like a familiarity unlike any other. I sit at my desk, the wooden chair creaking in greeting as I pull out my notebook and the small tray of fresh specimens Jules left for me.

Rows of wooden drawers stretch into the lamplight, each one labeled in my neat handwriting. The air carries the sharp bite of ethanol mixed with the deep scent of old cedar cabinets. I breathe it in slowly, letting it linger in my lungs. My fingers find the thin steel pins, their careful weight intimate and grounding. I select one and begin.

The work pulls me under in the best way. I position a delicate beetle under the magnifying lamp, its iridescent shell catching the light like liquid emerald. My hand moves with practiced care as I slide the pin through the thorax, then label the tiny card with the species name, date, and location. Another specimen follows, then another. I lose myself in the rhythm of cataloging and sketching, the scratch of pencil on paper the only sound besides the faint hum of the climate-control system.

At some point my pen drifts to the margin of my notebook without permission. A few lines appear in my small, looping handwriting, storm imagery tangled with the memory of golden firefly light pulsing across a dark meadow.

Thunder in the distance, cedar smoke on the wind,

fireflies writing secrets across the night sky.