10. Chapter Ten
The archives have held me longer than I intended.
By the time I step out of the Natural Sciences building, the sky has softened into that perfect early evening gold that only September seems to manage.
The air carries the first real bite of fall, crisp against my cheeks as I adjust the strap of my bag and start across campus.
Last night still lingers at the edges of my thoughts.
I can still see him clearly. The tall, heavily built alpha who appeared out of the woods like some kind of disapproving shadow.
His chocolate brown hair fell slightly across his forehead, and his deep brown eyes watched me with unrelenting seriousness.
Lightly tanned skin covered in intricate black tattoos disappeared beneath the sleeves of his tight black t-shirt and black jeans.
He was the largest alpha I’ve encountered so far on campus, broad and powerfully muscled in a way that made the forest around us feel smaller.
His scent had been impossible to ignore.
Deep pine forest and clean musk with an undertone of something comforting like worn flannel.
Every step of that silent walk back to my dorm had been thick with it.
I fought hard against the instinctive pull and felt deeply grateful for the scent blockers I started wearing after orientation.
Without them, I’m not sure my body would’ve stayed inconspicuous.
I’d wanted nothing more than to climb his giant body like some sort of animal.
He had been overbearing and grumpy, insisting on walking me back even after I told him I was fine.
Yet some stubborn part of me keeps replaying the moment on the path when I grabbed his arm to stop him from stepping on the caterpillar.
That brief contact had sent sparks racing across my skin that had nothing to do with anger.
I shake my head and push the thoughts away as I turn onto the main path.
I’m not here for any of that. I’m here for my degree, for the satisfaction of pinning specimens in the archives, and for the field trip paper I still need to finish for Dr. Okonkwo.
Alphas, grumpy or otherwise, have no place in those plans.
I decide against the longer lit path tonight and turn toward the main quad instead. Early fallen leaves crunch beneath my loafers with every step, a sound I have come to love in the last few weeks. The campus feels peaceful at this hour, caught between day and night.
The air carries the faint scent of woodsmoke from somewhere beyond the trees and the sweet decay of fall beginning to settle in.
I breathe it in deeply and feel some of the tension from last night ease.
This is what I need. Solitary moments like these where I can simply exist inside my own thoughts and let the day’s work flow through me.
I’m halfway across the wide lawn when a familiar voice calls out.
“Melody!”
I turn just as Jamie Miller appears from the direction of the media building, a camera bag slung over one shoulder.
His blond hair falls in that floppy way across his forehead, catching the last of the sunlight and turning it almost golden.
His light blue eyes hold the same twinkle from before as he jogs the last few steps to catch up with me.
He wears a simple white t-shirt and blue jeans, looking relaxed and effortlessly at ease in his own skin.
In his free hand he carries a single rose. The petals are a soft peachy pink, delicate and perfect.
A small flutter moves through my chest before I can stop it. I push it down immediately. I know better.
He falls into step beside me with an easy grin that shows off the dimples I’m trying very hard not to notice. “I was hoping I might run into you again. Literally or otherwise.”
His voice carries that playfulness I remember from our first meeting. He smells like golden amber and warm vanilla with just a hint of citrus peel underneath, the same comforting scent that wrapped around me outside the dining hall weeks ago.
I manage a small smile despite myself. “You seem to have a habit of appearing exactly when I least expect it.”
Jamie laughs, low and genuine. “What can I say? The universe keeps putting us in the same place. Who am I to argue with that kind of cosmic hint?”
He glances down at the rose in his hand, then back at me. His expression eases just slightly, still playful but sincere too. “I actually have something for you.”
He slows to a stop beneath one of the old lampposts, its glow spilling over us like honey. The light catches in his hair and softens the playful curve of his smile. For a moment the whole quad feels quieter, as if the campus itself has stepped back to give us this small pocket of space.
Jamie lifts the rose between us. The petals are a perfect peach pink, velvety and fragrant. “I saw this color and thought of you right away,” he says, voice touched with that easy charm. “Figured the prettiest girl on campus deserved something almost as sweet as her scent.”
My cheeks heat. The line is so cheerfully cheesy that it should make me roll my eyes, yet the sincerity behind it keeps the smile from fully forming on my lips.
I reach out and accept the flower. The moment my fingers brush the stem, a faint trace of peach and strawberry drifts up from the petals, echoing my own scent in the gentlest way. My heart gives a tiny, traitorous flip.
“Thank you,” I say, hushed. “It’s beautiful.”
He shifts his camera bag higher on his shoulder, still grinning, though his eyes hold a hopeful light.
“So… I was thinking. Maybe we could grab coffee sometime? Or dinner, if you want something more than just caffeine. No pressure. Just two people talking and seeing if the universe keeps nudging them in the same direction.”
The invitation lands tenderly, but it still lands. I look down at the rose for a second, letting its gentle weight rest in my palm. Jamie really is lovely. Kind. Funny in that effortless way that makes the air feel lighter around him. Part of me wishes I could say yes without thinking twice.
But I can’t.
I lift my gaze to meet his. “Jamie, you seem genuinely lovely and kind. Truly. But I’m not interested in pursuing anything with an alpha right now. I came to university to focus on my studies and my research. That’s what I need to pour everything into.”
The words come out even and polite. I mean every one of them.
A brief flicker of disappointment crosses his face, there and gone so quickly I almost wonder if I imagined it.
Then the smile returns, more muted this time.
He nods once, accepting. “I hear you. The rose is still yours, though. And if you ever change your mind about letting me make you smile again, you know where to find me.”
I return the smile, small but sincere, appreciating that he hasn’t caused any conflict. It’s unusual from my impression of alphas so far. “Thank you. For understanding. And for this.”
He gives me one last easy grin, dimples flashing, before he steps back. I watch him for half a second as he turns toward the path that leads away from the dorms, then I continue on, the rose held carefully in my hands so the petals don’t bruise.
The golden light has almost faded now, leaving the campus wrapped in hushed twilight. I keep walking, the faint peach sweetness of the flower drifting up with every step, and I feel a strange mix of relief and something else I can’t quite name.
By the time I reach my dorm building, the sky has deepened into indigo. The rose feels surprisingly heavy in my hands as I push open the door to our room.
Sophie is already there, exactly where I knew she would be.
She sits cross-legged on her bed with her sociology textbook open in her lap and a small plate of cookies beside her.
Two mugs of tea steam on the shared nightstand between our beds, the sweet honey scent of hers mingling with the faint chamomile she always adds to mine.
She has been doing this for the few weeks we’ve been living together, knowing without being asked that I prefer my tea mild after long hours in the archives.
The new rhythm of it quells something warm in my chest.
The moment her green eyes lift and land on the flower, they go wide with delight.
“No way,” she says, setting her book aside. “Is that a rose? From a boy? Tell me everything right now.”
I can’t help the small laugh that escapes. This has become our rhythm. Sophie with her bright curiosity and open heart, me learning how nice it feels to come home to someone who genuinely wants to hear about my day and isn’t related to me.
I set my bag down and cross the room to sit on the edge of my bed. “It was Jamie Miller. The one from orientation and the dining hall that day. He caught me on the quad on my way back from the archives.”
Sophie scoots closer, her tea forgotten for the moment. “And he gave you a rose? That is so romantic. What did he say?”
I describe the encounter while we settle into our usual evening flow.
His playful line about sweetness, the gentle way he asked me out for coffee or dinner.
Sophie listens with rapt attention, chin resting on her hands, occasionally stealing a bite of cookie from the plate and offering me one without thinking. The easy gesture feels like home now.
When I reach the part where I politely turned him down, telling him I’m not interested in anything with an alpha right now because my studies have to come first, she nods.
“Good for you,” she says. There’s no judgment in her voice, only warmth. “I know a lot of omegas would have jumped at the chance. Jamie Miller is ridiculously charming. But if your heart says no, then no it is.”
She reaches over and gives my knee a gentle squeeze. “Still… it was sweet of him to respect your answer and let you keep the rose.”
“It was,” I admit. “He seemed genuinely kind about it.”
We fall into our comfortable routine after that.
Sophie tells me about her day while I change into my velvety hoody and lounge pants.
We end up sitting on the floor between our beds with the shared plate of cookies between us, talking about her sociology lecture on group dynamics and my latest pinning session in the archives.
She teases me lightly about how the rose matches my scent notes almost perfectly, but she doesn’t push. She simply listens and laughs with me, and I feel the fresh comfort of our friendship wrapping around the evening like a favorite blanket.
Later, when Sophie steps out to take a quick shower, I find a glass on my desk and fill it with water. I carefully place the rose inside and set it where the lamplight can reach it. The petals glow softly, almost translucent, and I watch them for a long moment.
A single petal has already loosened and fallen onto the wood. I pick it up and open my notebook to the back page where my poetry lives. I tuck the petal beside a short new line I write without thinking.
sweetness given without expectation
my no lands soft as falling leaves
still my hands cradle it all the way home
I close the notebook gently and allow myself one small, private smile. I stayed true to what I want, and I know that matters. And yet the rose sits there on my desk, beautiful and unexpected, filling the room with the faintest trace of peach.
For the first time all evening, I let myself feel the tiny spark of joy it brings. Not enough to change my mind. Just enough to admit it feels nice to be seen, even for a moment.