Page 17 of Written in Scent

“I saw you holding back today, Miss Maddison.” Her tone is kind but direct. “That behavior will not be acceptable in my class. You know the material too well to play small.”

Heat rises in my cheeks. I open my mouth, then close it again.

She continues, her expression yielding just slightly. “I can already see you are one of the serious ones. I expect you to speak up from now on.”

I sit very still, embarrassment prickling across my skin. But beneath it something else is rising. Something warm and enormous. Relief. A beta professor has seen me, really seen me, past my designation, and she is not asking me to shrink.

Halvorsen leans forward a little, her eyes fixed on mine.

“Don’t dim your light to make other people comfortable. It won’t be tolerated here.”

The words land somewhere deep in my chest. They feel like permission and a gentle scolding all at once. I swallow hard and manage a small nod.

“Thank you,” I whisper. My voice comes out breathier than I mean it to, but she smiles anyway, small and approving.

“You are going to do very well here, Elodie. I look forward to hearing more of what you actually think.”

She gathers her papers as if the conversation is over, but the weight of her words stay with me. Embarrassment still lingers at the edges, hot and uncomfortable, yet the relief is bigger, stronger. For the first time in a long time someone has looked straight at the part of me I keep trying to hide and told me that it’s welcome.

I stand, notebook clutched to my chest, and feel the strangest mix of shaken and supported all at once.

As I turn to leave, my gaze catches on a detailed anatomical diagram lying on the corner of Dr. Halvorsen’s desk. A stag beetle, Lucanus cervus, rendered in careful ink. The intricate mandible and horn structure are highlighted in faint pencil lines, every ridge and curve labeled with tiny, precise handwriting.

I can’t help myself.

“That is a male Lucanus cervus,” I say quietly, almost to myself. “The mandible morphology is fascinating. The larger the horns, the more successful the male is at competing for mates and defending resources. It’s not just size. It’s an honest signal of overall health and nutritional history.”

Dr. Halvorsen looks up. Her eyes brighten with genuine delight, the kind that can’t be faked.

“You are exactly right,” she says, her voice warming. “Most students see the horns and think pure aggression. They miss the deeper story. The mandible development is tightly linked to resource allocation during the larval stage. It’s a beautiful example of how chemical cues in the environment shape reproductive success long before the adult even emerges.”

We slip into a short, eager back and forth. She asks about the role of juvenile hormone in horn growth. I answer without hesitation, then ask her about the evolutionary trade-offs between mandible size and flight capability. She smiles and offers a small counterpoint about observed field data from European populations. The conversation lasts only a minute or two, yet it feels like the first real academic exchange I’ve had since arriving on campus.

For those few moments the usual habit of shrinking and holding back simply falls away. There’s only the sure thrill of two minds meeting over something small and perfectly engineered.

As the exchange ends, Dr. Halvorsen’s expression softens with approval. She leans back slightly, her voice warm but purposeful.

“That kind of insight is exactly what Dr. Okonkwo looks for,” she says. “She is leading a field expedition to a tropical research station in the rainforest over mid-term. It’s normally reserved for sophomores and above, but I think you should ask her about it when you have your first class with her. I will be happy to write you a strong recommendation if you decide to apply.”

My heart gives a small, startled leap. The rainforest. Real field work. Actual specimens in their natural environment instead of pinned behind glass. Excitement blooms in my chest, bright and almost too big to contain. I manage a breathy “Thank you” and she gives me a small, approving nod, as if she expected nothing less.

I leave the building and step back into the sunlight, notebook clutched a little tighter. Being corrected should sting more than this. Instead, all I can think about is the way Dr. Halvorsen looked straight at the part of me I usually hide and treated it like something worth sharpening.

Dr. Halvorsen is a beta, and yet she refused to let me dim my light the way I have unconsciously done my whole life just to make other people comfortable. She recognized the habit and called it out with kindness and steel at the same time. I see now, more clearly than ever, that this is the omega trait I fight every single day.

Even this incredible class could not completely erase the memory of warm golden amber and vanilla. It still stubbornly lingers at the edges of my thoughts. But it helped. And now I have a real goal to focus on. The field trip. A chance to prove myself on my own terms.

I pause on the wide stone steps and look back at the beautiful building. Ivy climbs the old brick, windows glowing in the sun. For the first time since I arrived on campus I feel the tiniest crack in my “I don’t need anyone” armor. Not from romance or packs or any of the things I have been so determined to avoid. This crack comes from something simpler and far more surprising.

From being academically seen for the first time.

The campus has cooled in the last few days. A sharper edge sits in the air now, the kind that slips under collars and makes everyone walk a little faster. I adjust the strap of my bag on my shoulder and keep moving toward the main lecture hall, the familiar weight of my notebook and laptop reassuring against my side.

This is only the first proper week of classes and already the rhythm feels different from anything I expected. University is louder, faster, more relentless than the easy routine I had pictured. My schedule is a wall of overlapping deadlines, and I’m already pushing to stay ahead instead of simply keeping up. Overachieving has always been my default setting, but here it feels necessary just to breathe a little easier.

I’m grateful no one seems to know who I am yet. No curious glances or whispered questions about whose pack I belong to or what expectations come with the Whitmore name. People leave me alone, and I like it that way. It at least saves me from another layer on top of everything else.

Living with the pack again has been the most blissful thing. The house smells like home every evening because Chase and I fall into the same kitchen routine we have had for years — him chopping vegetables with efficiency, me handling the stove and seasoning while we talk through our days in low voices. Jamie fills the space with laughter and half-finished stories, and Alex moves through it all like a current, buried in lacrosse practice, endless coursework, and the late night calls his father keeps scheduling about the family business.