Page 45 of Written in Scent

But it keeps returning, poking and persistent, like a tide I can’t hold back.

I finally give up and reach for the drawer in my nightstand. My fingers close around the familiar spiral spine of my poetry notebook. I curl deeper into the blankets, propping the small desk lamp on its lowest setting so it casts only a gentle pool of gold across the page. The rest of the room stays dark.

I flip automatically to the very back, where the single petal from Jamie’s rose still rests between two blank pages. The flower itself is long dead and in the trash, its stem and petals wilted days ago, but I couldn’t bring myself to throw this one piece away. It’s fragile now, edges curled and faded to a delicate yellow. I brush my thumb over it once, then turn to a fresh page.

The words come stuttered at first, then faster, flowing in fragments that feel like they are writing themselves.

storms that arrive without warning

warmth that lingers after the rain

wings beating against glass

forests that remember every footstep

quiet observation turning into something more

I stare at the lines, heart beating a little too hard.

The images feel dangerously close to the four alphas I left behind tonight. The cool steadiness of rain on stone. The golden warmth of amber and vanilla. The deep protective hush of pine. The commanding heat of cedar and smoke.

This is the first time their emotional pull has truly surfaced on the pages of my notebook.

It’s not just my body remembering their touch or the way their scents wrapped around me. It’s something far more frightening… the sense that something important is missing. A space inside my chest that feels too hollow, too hushed.

Noodle curls tighter against my side, her small gray body constant, purring in that low rhythm she always offers when I need her. I rest my free hand on her back and feel the vibration travel through my palm.

Even her comfort can’t fill the strange, empty space inside my chest.

As the night deepens, the restlessness inside me turns physical.

I set the notebook aside and shift under the covers, trying to find a comfortable position. Nothing works. I fluff my pillow, then fluff it again. I tug the blanket higher, then push it down. Before I realize what I’m doing, I’m rearranging everything around me. I pull both pillows to the center and stack them, then drag the spare throw from the foot of the bed and wrap it around the sides like walls. My hands move on their own, tucking and folding, creating a small, enclosed space that feels safer.

I freeze when I catch myself.

Horror washes over me.

This is nesting.

The deep, instinctive drive omegas have to create a safe, scented space filled with items that smell like their chosen alphas or pack. A place that feels like home and protection and belonging all at once. A nest is not just a bed. It’s a sanctuary built from scent and comfort and the decadent promise that you are wanted.

And I am doing it right now.

I’m trying to recreate the cocooned feeling I had at the house, surrounded by their pillowcases, wrapped in ink and cedarwood and pine and warm amber. My body is reaching for a nest… reaching for them. Even while my mind screams that I don’t want this.

I shove the blankets back into place with shaking hands and curl into a tight ball, knees drawn to my chest.

My omega is wide awake, whispering that my pack should be here. That I should be surrounded by their scents. That I shouldn’t be alone.

I squeeze my eyes shut and press my notebook harder against my heart.

“I’m fine,” I whisper into the dark room. “I don’t need them.”

A single tear slips down my cheek anyway.

Sophie doesn’t take no for an answer.

She appears at my desk the next morning with two tickets in one hand and a determined sparkle in her green eyes.