Page 13 of Written in Scent

It all spills out in a rush, yesterday’s orientation, the scent I couldn’t place, the sudden perfuming, my certainty that it must have been caused by dessert, and how my body seems to be responding to that same smell again even though that explanation makes less and less sense the longer I say it out loud.

“And he made you nervous?” she asks gently.

I hesitate.

Because that isn’t quite right.

“No,” I admit. “Not nervous like that. It was more like—” I search for something accurate enough. “Surprise, I think. Or shock. I don’t know. I just… wasn’t prepared.”

Which is true in more ways than I’m ready to examine.

Sophie studies me with an expression that shifts gradually from amusement to something more thoughtful, her head tilting slightly as if she’s fitting puzzle pieces together behind her eyes.

After a moment, she pats my arm.

“Let’s get inside,” she says, tone yielding. “We should probably sit down for this conversation.”

There’s sympathy in her voice.

I don’t blame her.

Sophie is quiet all the way down the corridor.

Not the easy silence she usually wears, the comfortable kind that settles between us without effort. This silence feels deliberate, as if she’s paying close attention to something beneath the surface of what I’ve said.

By the time we reach our door, my nerves are prickling again, though if I am honest they never fully stopped.

The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the new familiarity of our room. Evening light filters through the window, catching on the specimen frames above my desk and turning insect wings faintly luminous. Sophie’s blue throw is draped neatly across her bed, the fairy lights she insisted on stringing along the wall already glowing faintly in the dimming light. The air smells faintly of her lavender candle and clean laundry, gentle and safe.

It should calm me.

Instead, it makes me more aware of the way she’s watching me.

She sets her bag of stolen pastries on her desk, then turns toward me with an expression that is thoughtful in a way that feels almost diagnostic.

“Elodie,” she says gently, “I think you should sit down.”

My stomach drops. “For what?”

“Just sit.”

I lower myself onto the edge of my bed. The mattress dips beneath me. Sophie stays standing for a moment, considering me, like she’s deciding where to begin.

“Your parents are betas, right?” she asks.

“Yes.”

“And growing up, did you ever really talk to other omegas about heat cycles? Attraction? Scent responses?”

Heat creeps into my face. “Not in detail. We covered the basics in school.”

Her mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s what I thought.”

Something uneasy coils low in my stomach. “Sophie?”

“What did it smell like?” she asks.

“The dessert?”