She does. Her lungs expand cleanly, the rhythm steady. No wheezing. No residual crackle. Just breathe.
Still, I move slowly. Methodical. I’m buying time I don’t need, pretending I don’t feel the strange hum of tension somewhere low in my gut.
“Still tired?” I ask quietly as I listen.
She nods. “Sleep’s been… weird. I don’t know. Dreams. Restless. I just figured it was stress.”
“It might be.”
I move the stethoscope and pause, unsure if I should say it. Then I do anyway.
“But your body’s shifting too.”
She turns her head slightly, brow furrowed. “What do you mean?”
“You’re in pre-heat,” I say carefully, pulling the stethoscope from my ears.
She goes still. “I—what?”
“Your scent profile’s changed,” I explain. “There’s an uptick in oxytocin. Your vitals are stable, but the signs are there—irritability, sensitivity to scent, physical tension. It tracks with post-trauma hormonal realignment. Not uncommon after respiratory exposure.”
Her eyes widen slightly. She’s silent for a long beat, then sighs. “So it’s not just in my head.”
“No,” I say. “It’s very much in your body.”
She mutters something under her breath that I don’t catch, then straightens her shoulders. “Do I need to do anything? Medication, blockers…?”
“I can prescribe scent suppressants, if you need to function publicly without distraction.”
“I’m already on scent suppressants. The doctor I saw before coming here prescribedSensurex.The pills have been helping.”
“Have you triedInvisirabefore?”
She nods her head. “They dull everything and make me so foggy. I’d rather up the dosage of what I’m currently on.”
There’s iron in her tone. It doesn’t match her soft features, but it fits her all the same.
“How many pills do you take a day?”
She tells me, and I tell her it’s safe to double the dosage. I make a note on her chart and move to stand by the counter.
“You’ll need to come back next week so we can re-evaluate. If symptoms escalate before then, call.”
She nods and begins to gather her things. I watch her hands—delicate, capable, worn by a week of scrubbing soot and chasing ghosts in a place built by her bloodline.
Her scarf slips from the table as she moves. I lean down to grab it and hold it out.
But she doesn’t see. She’s already turned, thanking me again, her voice polite, measured. And then she’s gone.
I stand there, holding the scarf.
It’s soft. Light. Slightly worn, like something that’s been loved for years. And it smells like her.
I stare at the door she just walked out of, then glance down at the scarf in my hand.
Becca passes by the open door and says nothing. I could call after her. I could hand it in to the front desk.
But I don’t.
