Page 1 of Written in Scent

I had prepared for university the way I prepare for everything, thoroughly, logically, and down to the smallest detail.

The campus beyond the gates is red brick and green lawns, exactly as it was on my tour, only sharper now, as if the edges have been inked in.

My parents’ car rolls slowly along the curved drive, tires whispering over the pavement. I’ve been here before. I walked these paths on a campus tour, nodded at the right moments, memorized building names I thought I might forget. But seeing a place once and arriving there for real are not the same thing, and I can feel the difference inhabiting somewhere just under my ribs, light and restless, like something small stirring.

The older buildings catch my attention first. Their brick is darker than the rest, weathered into shades that look intentional, like they were designed to age this way. I like structures that are meant to last, buildings that assume they will still be standing long after the people inside them have come and gone. There’s something comforting about that, something promising.

Newer halls sit between them, all glass and pale stone and straight lines, but my gaze keeps drifting back to the older ones, the buildings that have already weathered enough seasons to earn my trust. Reliable in a way only time can prove. If something has already survived a hundred seasons, it probably won’t collapse the moment I step inside.

Afternoon sunlight spills across the lawns, catching on hedges and beds of late summer flowers planted along the walkways. Yellow coneflowers tilt toward the light, purple asters crowd together in spraying bursts, and clusters of tiny white blooms are scattered between them.

Students cross the green in loose groups, voices carrying faintly through the closed windows. Some of them are taller, broader, unmistakable even from here.

Alphas.

I’ve never seen so many in one place before, the town where I’m from is pretty standard and mostly populated by betas. From inside the car, the alphas are only movement and color, nothing I have to navigate yet, and I’m grateful for the thin sheet of glass between us.

Still, I can’t stop watching.

The car turns down a narrow road, and the clusters of students thin into smaller groups heading in different directions, some laughing, some carrying boxes, some already walking like they know exactly where they belong. The closer we get to the residence buildings, the more I notice the size differences between people. Not just height, it’s their presence too. Alphas take up space in a way that seems less physical and more gravitational, like the air adjusts around them.

“Well,” my mom says lightly, turning in her seat to look at me, “no backing out now.”

“I wasn’t planning to,” I say.

My dad huffs a faint laugh from the driver’s seat. “She never backs out. She researches, prepares, color codes, and then executes.”

“That is an unfairly accurate description of me,” I tell the back of his head.

“It’s a compliment,” he says.

I watch a group pass us on the sidewalk, two tall alphas walking on either side of a girl who must be an omega, judging by the way they angle toward her without seeming to think about it, protective and instinctive in a way that suggests they’ve done it many times before. My stomach flips, not unpleasantly, just sharply, like my body doesn’t know whether to be curious or cautious.

Alphas and omegas usually come from wealthier families. Not always, but often enough that it becomes noticeable. University has always been more accessible to them, more expected. I’m here on a part-paid scholarship, and the rest is my parents’ savings, years of meticulous planning stacked lovingly behind me. They’ve never made it feel like pressure… just possibility.

They’re both betas. Which means I grew up in a house without alpha instincts humming under the floorboards, without the subtle push and pull most omegas learn early. Sometimes I think that makes me different from the others before I’ve even spoken.

Crowds of alphas still make something small and alert wake up inside me, like a field mouse lifting its head in tall grass. From inside the car, though, I can breathe easily. Glass is a surprisingly effective shield, especially when it comes to scent.

Most omegas arrive at university expecting something else alongside their degree, a pack of their own. One omega, a few alphas, sometimes more, other times even a beta or two. It’s considered practical and natural, something people talk about the way they talk about future careers or long-term plans.

Not me.

I’m here to study. To learn. To write. To maybe make a friend or two, if I’m lucky.

The thought of being claimed by a pack before I’ve even figured out who I am makes my chest feel tight in a way excitement never does. I don’t think I’ll ever understand the biological need that the few omegas I have spoken to describe.

A vibrant safety vest flashes at the edge of the drive, and someone steps into the road ahead of us, raising both hands in a practiced stop motion. Dad brakes immediately.

“Moving day traffic control,” he says, sounding impressed, as if the student waving us forward is directing something far more important than hatchbacks.

The attendant points to an open space along the curb, then gestures for us to pull in. Mom leans slightly toward the window, already studying the building with curiosity.

“Oh, this is nice,” she says, relief softening her voice.

Dad glances at it, then at me. “Looks sturdy.” He knows me far too well.

“I like it,” I say.