Page 68 of Written in Scent

No one seems to be watching us, and I’m relieved after all the stares from earlier this morning with Alex.

Adrian pulls back first, though his hands linger for a second on my waist like he’s reluctant to let go. His green eyes are achingly stunning behind his glasses when he asks, “Do you want to grab a hot drink before we settle in?”

I nod happily, still feeling the comfort of his hug. “Yes, please. I need a caffeine top up after breakfast. I feel extra sleepy today and I just want to curl up somewhere.”

Adrian smiles, a flash of white alpha teeth, and reaches past me to open the heavy library door, holding it so I can walk through first. The cool air-conditioned hush of the building wraps around us as we step inside.

Instead of heading straight for the to-go counter, he glances toward the café area tucked into the corner of the main floor. “We could study in the café for a bit,” he suggests. “Instead of grabbing drinks to-go and sitting at the desks. The couches are more comfortable.”

I like that idea more than I expect. “That sounds perfect.”

He leads me over to a plush couch in the corner, its deep cushions and armrests look like they were made for long study sessions. He sets his bag down on the low table in front of it, then turns to me with that same careful politeness. “What would you like? I’ll get it for you.”

The simple offer makes something warm bloom in my chest. I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and tell him, “A London fog, extra sweet, with oat milk, please.”

Adrian’s smile softens even more, like he’s filing the order away for future reference, and he nods. “I’ll be right back.”

It’s such a small thing, but it makes me feel taken care of in such a considerate way that I’m not used to.

I watch him walk toward the counter, rolling up his sleeves and showing the lean strength in his forearms, and I can’t stop the smile that curves my lips.

I set up my laptop and notes on the low table. The café is quiet this time on a Sunday, only a few other students scattered around with headphones on. Plugging in my charger, I open the document for the paper that’s due in a few days, and try to focus. I’m still painfully behind on my work, and this weekend hasn’t helped.

My fingers hover over the keys, but my mind keeps drifting back to the way Adrian looked standing outside the library, dressed up nicely, patiently waiting for me.

When he returns a few minutes later, he balances two cups in his hands. He starts to lower himself into the chair across from me, careful and polite as always.

I feel a sudden rush of shyness, but before I can think too hard about it, I say, “Would you… want to sit next to me on the couch instead?”

Adrian pauses mid-motion. His green eyes meet mine for a beat, something flickering behind them.

“I didn’t want to presume,” he says, voice a little lower than usual. But he straightens and moves to the couch, easing in beside me. The cushions dip under his weight, bringing us close enough that our thighs press together from knee to hip.

The contact sends a low spark through me. It’s just a leg, just fabric and the firm press of him. But I can’t stop noticing how solid he feels, the heat radiating through his slacks, the way the muscles of his thigh shift slightly when he gets comfortable. My pulse picks up, erratic and insistent, and I have to remind myself to breathe normally.

I tuck a strand of hair behind my ear and manage a small smile. “You’re probably hungover too,” I say, voice a little breathier than I mean for it to be. “You deserve the couch just as much as I do.”

Adrian’s mouth curves in that almost shy way of his. He doesn’t move away and neither do I.

“Oh, I almost forgot.” Adrian reaches into his bag and pulls out the exact Research Methods textbook that I need for my paper. A flush winds its way through me at the memory of the last time I saw it, falling, being picked up again by the alpha sitting pressed up next to me. “I think this was the one you were reaching for. I have my own copy anyway.”

“Thank you.” I take it from him, a grin lighting up my face. It’s such a thoughtful gesture, and one I am in desperate need of.

We fall into a comfortable relative silence after that. I go back to my document and try to start typing, the words for the paper coming tentatively at first. Adrian opens one of his notebooks, mechanical pencil tapping lightly against the page.

The café hums around us, but all I can focus on is the insistent press of his leg against mine. Every tiny shift sends another ripple of warmth through me. His rain on stone and paper and ink scent mixes with my own strawberry peach one in the small space between us, and I have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from leaning into him any further.

It’s just a leg.

But it feels like so much more.

Adrian’s phone rings after a while, the vibration cutting through the hum of the café. I glance up just in time to see him pull it from his pocket.

Chase’s low voice drifts faintly from the speaker when Adrian answers, something about picking up supplies on the way home. Adrian listens for only a moment, murmurs a quick promise, and hangs up almost apologetically.

“Sorry about that,” he says, sliding the phone away.

“It’s fine,” I tell him, and I mean it. The interruption feels small compared to the constant press of his leg against mine. Neither of us has moved away. Every tiny shift sends another delicate spark through me, and I’m embarrassingly aware of how much I like the simple contact.