Page 104 of Written in Scent

I want to reach for her. But I stay frozen against the headboard, arms still crossed, because I know right now my touch is probably the last thing she wants.

Jamie shifts beside her, trying to fix it the only way he knows how.

“Hey, come on,” he says with that bright, hopeful tone he uses when things get heavy. “If you really want to go that bad, we can always get them to bring the whole rainforest back in specimen jars. You will have your own personal jungle right here in the house. Problem solved.”

The joke lands like a rock in still water. Elodie’s face crumples further and the tears come harder. She shakes her head, pressing the heels of her hands against her eyes.

“That’s exactly what I mean,” she whispers, voice thick with hurt. “Pack first. My work second. Always.”

The words cut deep. She heard it. She heard exactly what I was saying even if I never meant it that way.

My protectiveness is the problem again. It always is. I keep trying to shield her and all I end up doing is making her feel small. Caged. Like the brilliant, obsessive little entomologist I fell for is disappearing under the label of ‘our omega’ who needs protecting.

I swallow hard, jaw locked so tight it aches. I’ve never felt more like a failure than I do in this moment, watching the tears I caused roll down her cheeks while the rest of the pack sits in heavy silence around us.

Elodie wipes her eyes with the back of her hand, the motion quick and determined even though fresh tears keep slipping free. Her voice comes out shaky but clear. “I don’t want to stay tonight. I need to go back to my dorm.” She looks straight at me, blue eyes still wet and bright. “Chase, will you drive me?”

The words land like a punch. I feel the rest of the pack shift around us. Jamie’s shoulders drop. Adrian’s hand stills in her hair. Alex meets my gaze for half a second and gives one simple nod, the kind that says he knows this is on me to fix. They all respect her choice. No one argues. No one tries to convince her to stay.

I stand without a word and grab my keys from the dresser. “Yeah. Let’s go.”

The drive is pure silence. The truck cab feels smaller than it ever has, thick with everything we’re not saying.

Elodie sits in the passenger seat with her cardigan pulled tight around her shoulders and the diamond butterfly necklace still sparkling at her throat. She stares out the window the whole way, arms wrapped around herself like she’s trying to hold something together. I keep my eyes on the dark road, hands tight on the steering wheel, jaw locked so hard it aches.

I want to apologize. I want to tell her I only said those things because the thought of her alone in the jungle with her body turning against her makes me feel like I can’t breathe. I want to explain that my protectiveness is not about controlling her. It’s about keeping her safe the only way I know how. The words sit right there on my tongue, heavy and useless.

Every mile feels longer than the last. Her scent is still sweet in the cab, soft now, no longer edged with heat, but the memory of her tears keeps looping through my head. I did that. My blunt, overprotective mouth did that.

When we finally pull up in front of her dorm building, I put the truck in park but don’t turn off the engine. Elodie unbuckles slowly, then pauses with her hand on the door. For one second I think she might say something. Instead she just gives me a small, tired nod and steps out.

I watch her walk toward the entrance. Her shoulders are straight, but I can see the slight tremble in her steps.

Halfway there, Mittens appears from the shadows and winds around her ankles like the little gray guardian she has become. Elodie bends down, scoops the cat up, and hugs her close as she disappears inside.

I sit there with my hands still gripping the wheel, the engine idling, and feel my heart heavier than it has been in weeks.

My protectiveness created the exact rift I was terrified of. And I have no idea how to fix it.

The late October air feels heavier than ever this morning, carrying a damp chill that seeps through my jacket and lingers deep in my bones. Most of the trees have lost their leaves now, leaving bare black branches scratching against a gray sky that presses low and close. The few remaining leaves cling desperately to the limbs, curled and brown at the edges, as if they too understand that everything beautiful eventually falls.

I walk across campus toward class with steps that still feel slightly unsteady, the memory of last night’s tears and the long, silent drive with Chase lingering like a bruise I can’t stop pressing. My eyes feel swollen. My chest still aches with that raw, unsettled feeling of regret.

My phone has stayed silent in my pocket for hours now, but I know the messages are waiting there. Alex asking if I slept OK. Jamie sending one of his silly memes with a hopeful little “thinking of you” underneath. Adrian offering to bring me coffee before class.

I haven’t replied to any of them.

I know it’s not their fault. Deep down I understand that. My biology is the one going wild, not them. And part of me—the logical, exhausted part—even knows they are right about the risk. But every unread message feels like a constant reminder of everything my designation might eventually take from me.

The pack has become a mirror I can’t look away from, reflecting back the version of myself the world seems determined to see first.

Maybe if I stay away from them, the heat spikes will stop. The thought flickers through me, fragile and guilty at the same time. If I keep my distance, if I give my body space to relax, perhaps I can still go on the rainforest trip.

Perhaps I can still have this one thing that is mine.

The idea brings a small, tentative spark of hope, but it’s quickly swallowed by the heavier weight sitting in my chest. The injustice of it all. The unfairness that no matter how hard I work, no matter how many late nights I spend in the archives or how meticulously I pin my specimens, one sniff of my scent is enough for people to reduce me to something smaller.

I approach the Natural Sciences building, its familiar brick facade rising ahead of me. I try to straighten my shoulders and focus on the day ahead, on the lecture, on the lab work waiting for me, on the small piece of myself that still feels safe inside these walls.