Page 97 of Written in Scent

What if home is not a place but a pulse I finally recognize?

I pause, reading the words once before I smile to myself and set the pen down. This is my safe place. Here, between the specimen drawers and the careful labels and the focus of my hands, I am still just Elodie the entomologist. Nothing more, nothing less.

The rest of the world, with all its new expectations and curious eyes, can’t reach me inside these walls.

Voices echo softly from the main archive room, pulling me out of my focused rhythm. One is dramatic and wholly recognizable, rising and falling with theatrical emphasis. The other is deeper, measured, and carries natural authority. Dean Reynolds. I recognize the tone from orientation day.

I lift my head just as Jules spots me through the open doorway. His face lights up with genuine delight, the kind that always makes his eccentric energy feel warm rather than overwhelming.

“Miss Maddison!” he calls, waving me over with one hand while the other holds a thick folder. “Perfect timing. Come here, come here. There’s someone I would like you to meet.”

My stomach gives a small, nervous flip, but excitement wins out.

I slide my notebook under my arm and stand, smoothing down my sweater as I walk toward them. Dean Reynolds turns at the sound of my footsteps, his silver templed head tilting with polite interest.

I approach with my heart beating a little faster, notebook clutched in my fingers like a shield and an offering all at once.

Jules rests a hand lightly on my shoulder, his voice proud as he turns to the dean. “Dean Reynolds, this is Elodie Maddison, one of our most promising freshmen. Future Dean’s List material if I’ve ever seen it. Her pinning work is already museum quality.”

Dean Reynolds’s gaze sharpens with genuine interest. The authoritative lines of his face shift into something more thoughtful, and he studies me with new focus, as if truly seeing the girl standing in front of him rather than just another student.

“Miss Maddison,” he says, voice rich and commanding. “Jules has mentioned your work. Tell me about your taxonomy project. How are you finding the transition from basic identification to the full archival cataloging?”

The question unlocks something inside me. I straighten a little, notebook still clutched in my hands, and the words come easily. “It’s challenging in the best way. I love the precision of it, the way every morphological detail has to match the keys exactly. I have been working on a drawer of Coleoptera right now, and the variation in elytra patterns is fascinating. The advanced placement has helped me move faster than I expected, but I’m still careful. I don’t want to rush and miss something important.”

He nods, clearly pleased. “And the field expedition with Dr. Okonkwo? I understand you submitted a strong application. Are you hoping for one of the slots in the rainforest?”

“Yes,” I answer, unable to keep the excited passion from my voice. “I wrote about pheromone trails in social insects and how the chemical ecology there could change everything I think I know about colony hierarchy. The chance to observe it in situ would be incredible.”

For one shining moment I feel seen exactly as I want to be. Not as anyone’s omega or as the girl who sits with the Whitmore pack.

Just Elodie. The serious scientist who loses herself in drawers of pinned beetles and dreams of rainforest nights filled with fireflies and secrets.

Dean Reynolds listens like my answers matter, like my work matters, and the flutter of that recognition spreads through me like sunlight through the archive windows.

He opens his mouth to speak, then pauses, his head tilting slightly as he draws in a slow breath. His nostrils flare just enough for me to notice. A knowing smile spreads across his face, the kind that changes everything in an instant.

“Ah,” he says, voice rich with alpha certainty, “you must be the elusive omega that Pack Whitmore is courting. I heard the lacrosse captain has been quite taken lately.”

The academic warmth vanishes from his tone as if it had never been there. His eyes still rest on me, but the questions stop. No more talk of taxonomy or advanced placement or rainforest expeditions. Instead the conversation pivots to something lighter, almost conversational.

“How are you settling in with such a prominent pack?” he asks. “It must be quite the adjustment for a freshman. Do they keep you busy outside of classes?”

The words land like cold water against my skin. I feel myself shrink right there in front of them, the weeks of hard work, the careful pinning, the late nights in these archives, reduced to a footnote beneath the label of Whitmore’s omega.

My notebook feels heavier in my hands, the pages of neat sketches and excited notes suddenly small and unimportant. The shining moment I had felt only seconds ago dissolves into something hollow and disappointing.

I manage a polite smile, fingers tightening around my notebook. “It has been an adjustment,” I say, keeping my voice even. “But the pack has been very supportive of my studies. They understand how important my work is to me.”

Dean Reynolds nods, the knowing smile never leaving his face. “Of course. Well, it was a pleasure to meet you properly, Miss Maddison. I am sure we will cross paths again soon. Alexander’s father and I do run in similar circles.” He gives Jules a final nod and excuses himself, his footsteps echoing down the hallway until the sound fades completely.

The moment he’s gone, Jules’s expression softens with understanding. He looks at me for a long moment, his usual dramatic energy dimming into something gentler.

“I hate seeing bright omegas reduced to their pack’s possessions like that,” he says deliberately. “You are so much more than ‘Whitmore’s omega,’ Elodie. Keep doing exactly what you are. The work will speak for itself. I promise you will be recognized for it.”

His words are kind, and I know he means them. But they don’t fully lift the weight that has settled on my chest. The praise I felt only minutes ago now feels distant and fragile, like smoke drifting away on the archive air.

Jules gives my shoulder one last encouraging pat and leaves me to my desk, disappearing back into the main room without his usual dramatic energy.