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I wonder what they think of the article, especially the parts where I described the way their scents had already chosen each other. It felt a little bit like I was defiling their love by writing about it, but it also felt like I was writing a love letter to them.

I don’t believe in random occurrences. I think I was pulled into their life for only a moment, and I served my role. I hope I helped them find their way from friends to lovers. But if that was true, why do I still carry them with me? Why do I feel like something is missing? Why is every scent nauseating, even my own?

I haven’t had a single heat spike since I said goodbye to them. You’d think I’d be relieved. This is the longest I’ve gone without my body tormenting me, but something’s wrong, like I’m broken, or my body is poisoning me.

This interview is the only thing holding me together and keeping me moving forward. It’s stupid. It’s not like someone is going to hand me a miracle pill while I’m here, but I need to know that there’s hope in the future.

I press the button beneath a camera posted on a wall beside the entrance.

“Name and identification?” someone asks from the tinny speaker.

I hold my ID up to the camera. “Elliott Bates for Dr. Park, please.”

My voice quivers. I take a deep breath and roll my shoulders back. There’s nothing to be nervous about. This is just like any other interview for my sex column, except instead of interviewing an intimidating leather daddy, I’m interviewing the lead researcher at Cardot’s Department of Omega Research.

The door unlocks. “Come in,” says a bored voice within.

I pull the door handle. It’s heavier than I expected, and I can’t open it before the lock latches again. I hurry back to the intercom and press the button. “Sorry. I⁠—”

The latch unlocks, and I hurry to grab the handle and pull, nearly taking a ride with the door as it swings open.

“Have a seat over there,” says an omega at the front desk without looking up from her textbook. She twists a strand of turquoise hair around a purple highlighter like a curling iron as she reads, then adds, “Someone will be with you at some point.”

Mood, queen.

I flip open my Moleskine Cahier notebook and run through my notes again. Sweat smudges the pages I touch. I rub my palms on my pants. I don’t know why I’m so damn nervous. I’ve prepared for this meeting half a dozen times, only for it to be canceled for the laziest excuses.

Dr. Park’s tortoise has gone missing. Dr. Park’s suffering from a mysterious illness. Same, Dr. Park, same. Dr. Park’s local dry-cleaning establishment burned to the ground with all his clothes inside. Even Reese, the researcher Dr. Park has tasked with delivering his excuses to me, sounded doubtful about that last one.

An elevator beeps somewhere above, and beeps again with each floor it descends. A bell dings and the elevator doors open. An omega with square electric blue glasses and short brown hair swooping over his forehead strides toward me, arm extended.

“You must be Elliott. I’m Reese.”

“Nice to meet you.” I wave awkwardly instead of shaking his hand because I’m pretty sure mine is sweaty again already. “In person, I mean.”

“I feel like we’re old friends by now.” He laughs. “I love your column, by the way.”

“Thank you.” My cheeks heat. I’m still not used to people recognizing me from my byline.

“Dr. Park is finishing a meeting, a real one this time.” He winks. “I’ll give you a tour on the way up.” He rubs a polished spot on the wavy hair of a bronze bust. “This is Emil Cardot, the old dead guy for which this is all possible. Please rub his head.”

I sputter. “What?”

“It’s a workplace urban legend. I wouldn’t risk it.”

I smile, the first true smile I’ve had in a while, and rub the same spot of hair. He looks vaguely familiar, but I don’t know any old rich guys. “So, what’s it like working for Dr. Park?”

“Interviewing me already, are you?”

“Guilty.”

“Lucky for you, I’m very vain and will tell you all our trade secrets as long as you quote me in your article.”

“Are your secrets as fictional as Dr. Park’s excuses?”

He feigns a scandalized gasp. “I worked hard on those excuses.”

“It was you?”