4. Chapter Four
The morning after the collision, as I have aptly decided to refer to it as, the campus feels balmier than it has any right to. The late summer sun presses down unmercifully on my shoulders.
I replay the moment obsessively. The solid feel of Jamie Miller’s chest. The way his hands steadied me without hesitation… and most of all that scent. Warm vanilla and golden amber and citrus. It wrapped around me like it belonged there.
Then I literally ran away from him. Like some walking stereotype of an omega who can’t even manage a polite conversation without her biology short-circuiting.
My cheeks burn just thinking about it. I ran away from the best smelling alpha I have ever met because my body decided to betray me in the middle of a quad.
It was just new environment hormones, I tell myself for the hundredth time, smoothing the skirt of my soft lavender dress where it clings to my legs in the heat.
The fabric is light and breathable, the color pale enough to feel almost cool against my skin, but it still feels too noticeable today.
I adjust the thin strap on my shoulder, then the strap of my bag beside it.
Notebook, fresh pen, scent blockers firmly in place.
I’ve doubled up on the panties with a scent blocking spray now, too…
you can never be too careful, it seems. Especially, as I have recently developed a constant state of gentle arousal.
I’m here for my degree. Not boys. Definitely not boys who smell like comfort and sunlight and trouble.
Still, the memory lingers at the edges of my thoughts, stubborn as a beetle clinging to its leaf.
I’m grateful, fiercely, almost desperately grateful, for the distraction waiting just ahead.
My very first real entomology class. The kind of class I have been dreaming about since I was small enough to chase ants across the backyard with a magnifying glass.
The School of Natural Sciences building rises ahead of me like something out of a storybook.
Older red brick wings stand shoulder to shoulder with newer glass extensions, ivy climbing the corners of the old sections thick and glossy in the golden morning light.
Wide stone steps, worn smooth by decades of students, lead up to tall arched windows that glow from within.
It feels both grand and intimate at once, a place built to last, exactly the sort of building I trust on sight. The air smells of late summer grass, warm old stone, and the faintest trace of paper and preservative drifting from open lab windows like an invitation.
I pause at the bottom of the steps, letting the building settle over me.
This is my place. Not the crowded orientation halls or the dining room full of desserts that smelled suspiciously like trouble.
Here, inside these walls, everything makes sense.
Here, I can disappear into diagrams and Latin names and the thrill of understanding something small and perfect.
I take a breath, square my shoulders, and climb the steps.
This is going to be a good day.
Inside the building the air cools slightly, carrying the understated weight of old stone and years of accumulated knowledge.
I follow the signs down a wide corridor until I reach the tutorial room in the older wing.
The moment I step inside, the space settles around me like a favorite book that’s been read many times.
It’s smaller and more intimate than I expected.
High ceilings give the room an airy feeling despite its modest size.
Creaky wooden floors stretch beneath long wooden tables arranged in a gentle U-shape.
Tall windows line one wall and overlook the green quad, letting morning light spill across the surfaces.
Dust motes float lazily through the beams.
Rows of old specimen cabinets line the back wall, their dark wood polished smooth by decades of use.
Microscopes already sit ready on the tables even though today is only theory.
The air carries the comforting scent of aged paper and cedarwood drifting from the cabinets, mixed with a faint hint of chalk dust.
It feels like a room built for discoveries.
A few students mill about, taking seats dotted all around.
I choose a seat near the front but not in the very first row.
Close enough to see everything clearly, but not so obvious that I look eager.
I slide into the chair, set my bag down, and open my notebook.
My pen moves almost on its own, sketching a quick cross-section of a compound eye.
The familiar lines help calm the flutter in my stomach.
Even here, the memory of warm golden amber and vanilla keeps trying to push its way in. I press the pen harder into the paper and force my focus onto the diagram instead.
This class is exactly what I need.
The door at the front of the room opens with a soft click. Dr. Mira Halvorsen steps inside. Her silver hair is pinned into a tight, precise bun. She wears a crisp white blouse beneath an oatmeal cardigan. Her presence is calm but effortlessly commanding.
No strong scent coats around her like some of my fellow students. The moment I register that she’s a beta, my shoulders relax almost instantly.
She sets a small stack of notes on the desk and offers the class a measured smile. She begins without fuss, her Scandinavian accent making every word feel deliberate and clear.
"Welcome to Insect Anatomy and Physiology. This semester we will build a strong foundation in how insects are structured and how those structures allow them to function in their environments."
She moves straight into the material. The first topic is the exoskeleton: its layered composition, its remarkable strength relative to weight, and the complex process of molting.
From there she flows naturally into compound eyes and the way they process visual information at speeds humans can only dream of.
I’m hooked within the first few minutes.
My brain lights up with recognition from all the pre-reading I did over the summer.
Every term she uses, every diagram she sketches on the board, feels familiar yet deeper than I expected.
The little thrill I felt outside the building grows stronger here, surrounded by wood and paper and the promise of real knowledge.
For the first time since yesterday, the memory of Jamie’s scent begins to fade into the background.
This. This is why I came here.
Dr. Halvorsen moves through the material with a precise structure. She pauses after every major point and begins asking questions that cut straight to the heart of the science.
“What are the primary functional differences between chewing mandibles and piercing-sucking mouthparts?” she asks, scanning the U-shaped tables.
My hand lifts before I can stop it. She nods at me.
“Chewing mandibles are designed for grinding and tearing solid food,” I say, keeping my voice steady. “Piercing-sucking ones have evolved for liquid diets, like nectar or blood.”
“Correct.” Her eyes linger on me for half a second longer than on anyone else.
The next question comes quickly. “How do compound eyes allow insects to detect motion at such high speeds?”
Again my hand rises. I answer, concise and accurate, citing the way ommatidia process flickering images. She nods again, but this time her expression shifts into something thoughtful.
I know the next answer too. I know all of them. Molting triggers, hormonal cascades, the exact sequence of ecdysis. The knowledge sits ready inside me, the way it always has.
Yet after those first two answers I force my hand back down.
I bite the inside of my cheek and let a boy two seats over give a slightly hesitant reply.
I keep my own contributions short even when the words crowd at the back of my throat begging to spill out.
I smile politely when someone else gets half the answer right.
I nod along as if I’m learning instead of confirming what I already know.
I hate how automatic it is.
This is the part of being an omega I have never been able to outgrow.
The reflex to shrink and subdue myself. To make sure no one else feels uncomfortable by how much I know or how quickly I know it.
It frustrates me even as I do it. I came here to learn, not to perform smallness, and still the habit wins.
But the material itself refuses to let me stay dimmed for long.
Halvorsen sketches a detailed diagram of a cicada’s exoskeleton layers, then explains the precise chemical signals that initiate molting.
My brain lights up completely. The world narrows to the scratch of chalk on the board, the faint creak of wooden chairs, the steady rhythm of her voice.
I lose myself in the science.
There is nothing else. Just the elegant logic of how something so small can be so perfectly engineered. My breathing slows. The chalk dust suddenly smells sharper and sweeter. My handwriting grows faster, loopier, almost giddy across the page. I don’t realize I’m smiling until my cheeks ache.
Across the room Dr. Halvorsen’s gaze finds me again. She sees the spark in my eyes. She sees the deliberate way I pull it back every single time.
She doesn’t look away.
The tutorial ends with the rustle of notebooks closing and chairs scraping back. Students gather their things and file out in chatty groups. The room empties quickly until only the creak of the old wooden floor and the faint scent of chalk remain.
Dr. Halvorsen looks up from her notes. Her voice is gentle but firm.
“Miss Maddison, could you stay behind for a moment please?”
My stomach tightens. I nod and remain in my seat while the last few students disappear through the door. The room feels suddenly larger.
She waits until the door clicks shut before she speaks again.
“I saw you holding back today, Miss Maddison.” Her tone is kind but direct. “That behavior will not be acceptable in my class. You know the material too well to play small.”
Heat rises in my cheeks. I open my mouth, then close it again.