3. Chapter Three
Orientation yesterday was a disaster.
Objectively, no one would have known that unless they were sitting within a one seat radius of me. OK, maybe two… but there were too many people in that hall for a brief hormonal malfunction to register as anything more than background noise.
In that sense, the crowd was helpful.
Still, I keep thinking about Jack.
He seemed kind, a little nervous in a way that felt genuine rather than performative. The last thing he deserved was to be caught in the radius of whatever was happening to me.
If I see him again on campus, I’m not sure how I’m supposed to behave. Do I pretend nothing happened? Do I apologize? Is there a normal response for something like that?
I keep replaying it, turning the memory over meticulously, searching for the moment where it shifted.
There was a scent. Warmth threaded through citrus, something golden beneath it, something that made my chest loosen and tighten at the same time. It settled into me before I understood what it was, and by the time I tried to name it, my body had already answered.
The most reasonable explanation is that it was a dessert.
Which feels ridiculous even as I think it.
Perfuming because something smelled sweet sounds like a stereotype, not something that should happen to someone who plans her coursework in advance and keeps her notes organized by topic and subtopic. I have never reacted to food like that before. I’ve never reacted to anything like that before.
And yet my body did.
At dinner last night, I avoided the dessert table entirely. I could smell it from halfway across the dining hall, caramelized sugar and baked fruit drifting through the air, and I gave it a wide berth.
I told Sophie I wasn’t in the mood. That wasn’t exactly accurate. I just didn’t want a repeat performance.
This evening, though, resolve proves less reliable.
The dining hall has clearly decided to cater to its audience.
With so many omegas on campus, the administration would be foolish not to.
One entire wall is devoted to desserts, tiered trays and polished domes gleaming under the lights.
Tarts, custards, delicate cakes dusted in sugar.
Something caramelized and glossy near the center that smells faintly of treacle.
I last approximately four minutes.
The apple tart is still warm when I cut into it, the filling velvety and spiced, the pastry crisp enough to crack gently under my fork. It tastes like autumn and brown sugar and comfort. The treacle note lingers at the back of my tongue, dark and golden.
For a fleeting second, it reminds me of yesterday.
But only faintly.
The scent in the hall had been deeper. Fuller. Alive in a way this isn’t.
Nothing shifts inside me. No warmth unfurling under my ribs. No sudden bloom of sweetness betraying me to an entire row of strangers. Just sugar and pastry and the satisfaction of proving I am still in control of my own body.
Even though it’s all I can think about, I still haven’t told Sophie about orientation.
The words hover at the edge of my thoughts sometimes, especially when she talks so confidently about pack bonds and attraction and how natural it all is.
But we’re settling into something easy, something balanced.
I don’t want to disrupt it by admitting that I perfumed in public over what might have been a pastry.
She might not think it’s absurd, but I do.
And I would rather she continue believing I’m composed and functional than discover I’m apparently vulnerable to baked goods.
Sophie wraps two pastries carefully in napkins before we leave, tucking them into her bag like contraband. By the time we step out of the dining hall, we’re both trying not to laugh, walking a little too fast across the quad like we’ve committed a minor but thrilling crime.
I glance sideways at her, ready to share the triumph.
Something shifts in her expression.
“Elodie—”
I don’t have time to process the warning before I walk straight into something solid.
Not something.
Someone.
My cheek collides with a chest that doesn’t yield in the slightest, and giant hands close gently around my arms before I can stumble backward. The contact sends a brief, disorienting jolt through me, like static skipping across skin.
I blink, and vibrant blue eyes fill my vision.
For a moment that’s all I can focus on, the startling clarity of them and the heat in their expression, open and beautiful and unexpectedly kind.
A second later, I register the rest of him — the sun touched gold of his hair, the easy line of his shoulders, the effortless confidence in the way he stands.
He is much taller than me.
Not just by a little. My upper periphery lands somewhere around his collarbone before I tilt my chin up, and the realization sends a strange awareness through me, of proximity, of scale, of how easily he steadied me without effort.
And then I smell him.
Warm vanilla threaded through golden amber and mellowed citrus, the scent layered so seamlessly it unfolds instead of striking, each note revealing the next.
It’s like a living thing, the top notes continuously shifting so that I could describe it in a million ways and never be satisfied.
Recognition tugs at me before I can place why.
The scent from orientation.
My thoughts go briefly, completely blank.
Voices reach me as if from far away, blurred at the edges. It takes a moment before they sharpen into words and I realize both he and Sophie are talking to me at the same time.
Which means I’ve been staring.
“Oh,” I say quickly, heat rushing into my face. “I’m sorry.”
He’s still holding my arm gently, like he wants to be certain I’m balanced before letting go. A faint crease appears between his brows, concern rather than annoyance.
“Are you okay?” he asks.
The question surprises me enough that I nod immediately. “Yes. Yes, I’m fine. I’m sorry.”
He lets go then, though he doesn’t step away, his attention still resting on me in a way that feels focused rather than overwhelming. His hand lifts to push through his hair, mussing the waves further, the movement quick and almost sheepish.
His chest had been very solid.
Possibly too solid.
“Melody, was it?” he asks.
It takes me a second to understand what he’s said. Sophie must have called my name to warn me, and he clearly heard something close enough to guess.
I glance at her. She has, very unhelpfully, taken a step back and is watching us with barely disguised delight.
“I’m Miller,” he says quickly. “James. I mean, Jamie. I’m Jamie Miller.”
He looks faintly flustered, which makes no logical sense considering I’m the one who walked into him.
I give him a small smile, intending to escape while I still can.
“Hey, wait,” he says, and this time there’s the beginning of a grin tugging at his mouth. It softens his whole face, and when it lands fully, two dimples appear at the corners of his smile like they’ve been waiting for an excuse.
His gaze drops briefly to my hands, checking for a bonding ring.
The realization sinks in unmistakably. He isn’t just being polite. He’s making sure I’m available.
“So,” he says, the grin lingering, “this might be a strange way to meet someone, but since you’ve already run into me once, would you maybe want to do it again sometime on purpose?”
The dimples deepen.
My body chooses that exact moment to betray me.
Heat flickers low in my chest, quick and treacherous, but the barrier of my scent blocking panties hold. Thank every sensible decision I made after yesterday.
I should answer him.
I don’t.
Instead, I do what any rational person would do.
I run.
Sophie is right behind me.
I hear her shoes on the path, quick and uneven, and when I glance back I see that she’s half running, half laughing, one hand clutched to her chest like she’s trying not to lose a lung. Beyond her, farther across the quad, Jamie still stands where I left him, watching us go.
From the growing distance, I can tell he hasn’t moved.
Something twists unexpectedly low in my stomach.
Why do I feel disappointed?
I tear my gaze away before I can examine that too closely and keep moving until Sophie makes a strangled noise somewhere between a gasp and a protest.
“Elodie— wait—”
I slow, then stop, mostly because she looks seconds away from collapsing theatrically onto the grass. She bends forward with both hands braced on her knees, breathing hard in exaggerated pulls of air.
“What,” she manages between breaths, “was that?”
“I—” I start, and then stop, because I genuinely have no idea how to summarize what just happened in a way that sounds reasonable.
Words trip over each other on the way out anyway.
“I ran into him,” I say, which is technically true and wildly insufficient.
Sophie straightens, eyes wide with delighted disbelief. “Yes,” she says. “I saw that part.”
We start walking again, leisurely this time, angling toward the dorm building. The evening air has cooled just enough to take the edge off my flushed skin, though my pulse still hasn’t entirely forgiven me.
“I think,” I say carefully, “that I may have had… a reaction.”
Her brows lift.
So I tell her.
It all spills out in a rush, yesterday’s orientation, the scent I couldn’t place, the sudden perfuming, my certainty that it must have been caused by dessert, and how my body seems to be responding to that same smell again even though that explanation makes less and less sense the longer I say it out loud.
“And he made you nervous?” she asks gently.
I hesitate.
Because that isn’t quite right.
“No,” I admit. “Not nervous like that. It was more like—” I search for something accurate enough. “Surprise, I think. Or shock. I don’t know. I just… wasn’t prepared.”
Which is true in more ways than I’m ready to examine.
Sophie studies me with an expression that shifts gradually from amusement to something more thoughtful, her head tilting slightly as if she’s fitting puzzle pieces together behind her eyes.
After a moment, she pats my arm.
“Let’s get inside,” she says, tone yielding. “We should probably sit down for this conversation.”
There’s sympathy in her voice.
I don’t blame her.
Sophie is quiet all the way down the corridor.
Not the easy silence she usually wears, the comfortable kind that settles between us without effort. This silence feels deliberate, as if she’s paying close attention to something beneath the surface of what I’ve said.
By the time we reach our door, my nerves are prickling again, though if I am honest they never fully stopped.
The door clicks shut behind us, sealing us into the new familiarity of our room.
Evening light filters through the window, catching on the specimen frames above my desk and turning insect wings faintly luminous.
Sophie’s blue throw is draped neatly across her bed, the fairy lights she insisted on stringing along the wall already glowing faintly in the dimming light.
The air smells faintly of her lavender candle and clean laundry, gentle and safe.
It should calm me.
Instead, it makes me more aware of the way she’s watching me.
She sets her bag of stolen pastries on her desk, then turns toward me with an expression that is thoughtful in a way that feels almost diagnostic.
“Elodie,” she says gently, “I think you should sit down.”
My stomach drops. “For what?”
“Just sit.”
I lower myself onto the edge of my bed. The mattress dips beneath me. Sophie stays standing for a moment, considering me, like she’s deciding where to begin.
“Your parents are betas, right?” she asks.
“Yes.”
“And growing up, did you ever really talk to other omegas about heat cycles? Attraction? Scent responses?”
Heat creeps into my face. “Not in detail. We covered the basics in school.”
Her mouth presses into a thin line. “That’s what I thought.”
Something uneasy coils low in my stomach. “Sophie?”
“What did it smell like?” she asks.
“The dessert?”
“Yes.”
I close my eyes briefly, reconstructing it. “Warm. Sweet, but not sugary. Citrus threaded through something deeper. Golden, almost amber… and vanilla.”
She exhales deliberately.
“That’s what I expected,” she says.
My chest tightens. “Expected what?”
“Elodie,” she says, sitting beside me now, close enough that our knees nearly touch. “That wasn’t dessert.”
I blink at her.
“What?”
“What you smelled yesterday,” she continues gently, “was an alpha.”
The meaning lands all at once.
I stare at her, waiting for her to amend it, soften it, explain it away.
She doesn’t.
“The scent,” she says. “That was him.”
“Him who?”
“The guy you ran into. Jamie Miller. He must have been in your orientation group. I noticed his scent tonight when you collided with him. It’s the same one you described.”
The room feels very still.
“That doesn’t make sense,” I say automatically. “It was too strong. I’ve been around alphas before. They don’t smell like that.”
“They don’t,” Sophie agrees. “Not usually.”
Usually.
My pulse stumbles.
“But you smelled it too?” I ask.
“Yes,” she says. “Just not the way you did.”
I look down at the carpet between my shoes.
The fibers are a dull institutional gray, pressed into faint tracks where furniture must have been dragged across them before we arrived.
I follow one of those lines with my eyes, tracing it as if it might lead somewhere more comforting than this conversation.
“He asked me out…” I murmur, “and I ran away from him.”
Sophie makes a subtle sound in confirmation.
Maybe coming here was a mistake.
A university packed with alphas, instincts layered over ambition, proximity layered over curiosity. I came here for lectures and labs and libraries, not for this sharp, unfamiliar pull under my skin.
I should feel relieved that I ran.
I should feel safer for it.
Instead I keep remembering the exact texture of his voice when he said my name, well not my name exactly, and the heat of his hands holding my arms. The scent that had wrapped around me, warm and golden and impossible to ignore.
Why does that memory not frighten me the way it should?
A faint scratching sound taps against the window.
Both of us turn.
Noodle stands outside on the sill, one paw lifted mid-scratch, blue eyes bright and expectant.
“Oh,” I breathe.
She scratches again.
Sophie’s mouth curves faintly. “Well,” she says, “at least someone knows exactly what she wants.”
I cross the room and slide the window open. Noodle slips inside immediately, tail high, brushing against my wrist as she passes like she’s confirming I’m still here.
Her fur is chilled from the evening air.
I rest my fingers lightly along her back as she settles onto the rug, small and entirely unconcerned with complicated biological revelations.
I wish I felt that simple.