Page 26 of Written in Scent

A brief flicker of disappointment crosses his face, there and gone so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined it. Then the smile returns, more muted this time. He nods once, accepting. “I hear you. The rose is still yours, though. And if you ever change your mind about letting me make you smile again, you know where to find me.”

I return the smile, small but sincere, appreciating that he hasn’t caused any conflict. It’s unusual from my impression of alphas so far. “Thank you. For understanding. And for this.”

He gives me one last easy grin, dimples flashing, before he steps back. I watch him for half a second as he turns toward the path that leads away from the dorms, then I continue on, the rose held carefully in my hands so the petals don’t bruise.

The golden light has almost faded now, leaving the campus wrapped in hushed twilight. I keep walking, the faint peach sweetness of the flower drifting up with every step, and I feel a strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name.

By the time I reach my dorm building, the sky has deepened into indigo. The rose feels surprisingly heavy in my hands as I push open the door to our room.

Sophie is already there, exactly where I knew she would be. She sits cross-legged on her bed with her sociology textbook open in her lap and a small plate of cookies beside her. Two mugs of tea steam on the shared nightstand between our beds, the sweet honey scent of hers mingling with the faint chamomile she always adds to mine. She has been doing this for the few weeks we’ve been living together, knowing without being asked that I prefer my tea mild after long hours in the archives. The new rhythm of it quells something warm in my chest.

The moment her green eyes lift and land on the flower, they go wide with delight.

“No way,” she says, setting her book aside. “Is that a rose? From a boy? Tell me everything right now.”

I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. This has become our rhythm. Sophie with her bright curiosity and open heart, me learning how nice it feels to come home to someone who genuinely wants to hear about my day and isn’t related to me.

I set my bag down and cross the room to sit on the edge of my bed. “It was Jamie Miller. The one from orientation and the dining hall that day. He caught me on the quad on my way back from the archives.”

Sophie scoots closer, her tea forgotten for the moment. “And he gave you a rose? That is so romantic. What did he say?”

I describe the encounter while we settle into our usual evening flow. His playful line about sweetness, the gentle way he asked me out for coffee or dinner. Sophie listens with rapt attention, chin resting on her hands, occasionally stealing a bite of cookie from the plate and offering me one without thinking. The easy gesture feels like home now.

When I reach the part where I politely turned him down, telling him I’m not interested in anything with an alpha right now because my studies have to come first, she nods.

“Good for you,” she says. There’s no judgment in her voice, only warmth. “I know a lot of omegas would have jumped at the chance. Jamie Miller is ridiculously charming. But if your heart says no, then no it is.”

She reaches over and gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “Still… it was sweet of him to respect your answer and let you keep the rose.”

“It was,” I admit. “He seemed genuinely kind about it.”

We fall into our comfortable routine after that. Sophie tells me about her day while I change into my velvety hoody and lounge pants. We end up sitting on the floor between our beds with the shared plate of cookies between us, talking about her sociology lecture on group dynamics and my latest pinning session in the archives.

She teases me lightly about how the rose matches my scent notes almost perfectly, but she doesn’t push. She simply listens and laughs with me, and I feel the fresh comfort of our friendship wrapping around the evening like a favorite blanket.

Later, when Sophie steps out to take a quick shower, I find a glass on my desk and fill it with water. I carefully place the rose inside and set it where the lamplight can reach it. The petals glow softly, almost translucent, and I watch them for a long moment.

A single petal has already loosened and fallen onto the wood. I pick it up and open my notebook to the back page where my poetry lives. I tuck the petal beside a short new line I write without thinking.

sweetness given without expectation

my no lands soft as falling leaves

still my hands cradle it all the way home

I close the notebook gently and allow myself one small, private smile. I stayed true to what I want, and I know that matters. And yet the rose sits there on my desk, beautiful and unexpected, filling the room with the faintest trace of peach.

For the first time all evening, I let myself feel the tiny spark of joy it brings. Not enough to change my mind. Just enough to admit it feels nice to be seen, even for a moment.

The archives have claimed another afternoon from me. Golden light slants through the high narrow windows and falls across my desk in subtle beams as I deftly position the final specimen on its board. The click of the pin finding its place and the faint cedar scent of the old drawers have become my favorite kind of meditation. Jules gave me another small collection this morning, and the precise, peaceful work pulled me under so completely that I lost all track of time.

When I finally glance at my watch, my stomach drops.

The General Biology lecture started almost fifteen minutes ago.

I close my notebook in a rush, slide the pinning board safely away, and hurry out of the archives. My cardigan hangs crooked on one shoulder and several strands of hair have worked loose from my braid after hours of leaning over specimens. The cool September air brushes my cheeks as I move quickly across campus, notebook clutched tight against my chest.

The rose Jamie gave me still sits on my desk back in the dorm room. Its peachy petals have continued to open, filling our space with that gently sweet fragrance every time I walk in. Three days have passed since I politely turned down his invitation, and yet the flower remains. Each time I see it, a sense of pride moves through me. I stayed true to my purpose. I’m here for my degree and my research. Nothing else.