Page 98 of Beautifully Scarred Omega

“Nerds,” Sophie translates.

“Brilliant, passionate scientists who happen to have limited enthusiasm for social interaction,” I correct, and the corner of her mouth twitches. “You’ll find the research wing is a very different environment from marketing. Less gossip. More silence. A lot more awkward eye contact.”

“I can work with awkward.”

“I know you can.”

The words come out warmer than I intended. To my surprise, she’s smiling when she glances at me.

After coffee, I take her to meet the team.

The corridor to the research wing is long and badly over-lit, and I use it to brief her on what she’s walking into.

“You’ll be sitting next to Evie Wells,” I say. “She’s the office manager. She runs the administrative side of the entire research team. Scheduling, sample tracking, equipment logs, supply orders. If it involves a form or a signature, it goes through Evie.”

“Does she know I’m coming?”

“She’s known since this morning. She’s also told everyone else, so by now the whole wing knows.” I badge us through the first set of doors. “She knows every person in this building, she has access to most of the filing systems, and she’s been here almost as long as I have.”

Sophie’s pace doesn’t change. Something in her attention does.

“She sounds useful.”

“She’s the reason the wing functions.” I hold the door for her. “She’s also extremely friendly. I should probably prepare you for that.”

“I can handle friendly.”

“I know you can handle friendly. I’m saying that Evie’s version of friendly is a category unto itself. She makes Lucy look reserved.”

“That’s not possible.”

“It’s very possible.”

Sophie laughs, and it’s the second time this morning, and I’m aware of exactly how much I’m enjoying that.

The pharmaceutical development lab is on the fourth floor—a long, bright space with workstations arranged in clusters and the particular silence of people who consider conversation an interruption to thought. When Sophie and I walk in, three of the seven researchers don’t look up. Two glance over and immediately return to their screens. One—Dr. Patel, who has the social instincts that can only be likened to a houseplant—raises a hand in greeting without turning around.

Only Diana looks up properly.

She’s at the workstation nearest the window, her dark hair pulled back in a low bun, her lab coat hanging open over a fitted turtleneck. She’s thirty-two, sharp-featured, with the kind of watchful composure that I’ve always attributed to intelligence but am now reassessing through a different lens. She stands when she sees us approaching, and her smile is professional.

“Diana, this is Sophie Dysart,” I say. “She’ll be shadowing the department for the next couple of weeks.”

“Of course.” Diana extends a hand, and I watch Sophie take it. The handshake is brief—Sophie the eager assistant, bright-eyed and slightly nervous.

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Sophie says, and her voice is breathy, slightly uncertain sweetness. “Ethan’s told me so much about the pharmaceutical team. I’m really excited to learn how everything works.”

Diana’s smile warms a degree. “We’re happy to have you. It can be pretty quiet up here, so fresh energy is always welcome.”

I watch Sophie lean in slightly, angling her body toward Diana in a way that communicates interest and openness and absolutely zero threat. She asks a question about Diana’s current project—something she could probably answer herself, given that she can read half-life models off a whiteboard— and Diana begins to explain, and in less than a minute, she’s gotten Diana Quinn to relax.

It’s incredible. And it makes me sad, because I’ve seen enough of the real Sophie to know that every bright smile, eager question, careful softening of her posture and voice is a withdrawal from her real self, and I wonder what it’s costing her.

I’m about to head back to my office when Sophie looks up from across the room. She catches my eye, and before I can stop it, I’m smiling.

She smiles back. Immediately, without thinking, the way you smile at someone you’re actually happy to see. And it hits me like a wave—that warmth again, and suddenly I’m thinking about the protein bar and the sticky notes and the way she said some things stick like she was talking about more than pharmacology. I’m thinking about the fact that in all the weeks of knowing Sophie, this morning is the first time I’ve seen her smile at me without seeming to think about it first. The first time she’s talked about herself, shown her humor, let me see something... that actually seemed real.

And I want more. God help me, I want so much more.