20. Chapter Twenty
After the noise and chaos of the lacrosse scrimmage have faded, I let the evening take me to where I am most at home, and slip into the archives.
The building is barely populated on a Saturday evening, the long hallways empty except for the low hum of the air system. I let the heavy door close behind me and feel the familiar calm settle over my shoulders the moment I step inside.
My lab desk waits for me in the back corner, everything exactly where I left it.
Several drawers of specimens are already waiting, neatly labeled and ready to be pinned and cataloged.
I set my bag down, roll up the sleeves of my cardigan, and pull out my tools.
The routine is automatic. Forceps, pinning board, labels, the click of the insect pins.
The emptiness of the lab is comforting, no footsteps or voices, just the gentle glow of the overhead lights and the faint cedar scent of the old wooden cabinets.
I connect my phone to the small speaker on the corner of my desk and start a mellow playlist. The music fills the space, low and soothing.
I find myself singing along under my breath as I work, the melody helping to calm the thoughts that refuse to behave.
For a while, it works. The careful motions of pinning, the precise placement of each label, the small satisfaction of another specimen properly preserved. But my mind keeps drifting to tomorrow. To the library. To Adrian.
My hand shakes. The tweezers slip and I almost tear the delicate wing of the moth I am working on. I drop the tool with a clatter and step back from the table, pressing both palms to the cool surface as I take a deep breath.
If Adrian were a beta, I could let myself be excited about tomorrow.
That’s what I’ve always wanted. A simple beta partner who wouldn’t pull me away from my studies.
Someone easygoing and low maintenance, like the nice boy I dated in high school.
We were never deeply attached. He fit neatly around my schedule, and that worked perfectly.
I was hoping for the same thing here at Rosewood, maybe in sophomore year.
Adrian would have been perfect.
Except he is not a beta. He’s an alpha with a pack, and all the complications and expectations that come with it.
I think about Sophie again, about how hard she pushed me toward him today. She doesn’t get it. She wants a pack and everything that comes with one. Why could the Whitmore pack not have been interested in her instead? That would’ve been so much easier.
The moment the thought crosses my mind, my stomach churns with an unexpected wave of protectiveness. I press a hand to my middle and close my eyes.
No.
I am not a bug ruled by pheromones. I’m a person, and I will not let my omega instincts control me.
I wish, not for the first time, that I were simply a beta like my parents. Life would be so much simpler.
I pick up the tweezers again, turn the music up just a little, and force myself back into the work. The specimens wait patiently in their drawers, and for now that is all I want to focus on.
I get back to work, forcing my mind into the familiar rhythm of pinning.
I start singing along under my breath once more, following the predictable melody.
It helps. Each specimen takes shape under my hands, wings spread just so, thorax aligned, pin driven through with deft precision.
The world narrows to the small circle of light on my desk and the next bug waiting to be cataloged.
I finish one sample, a delicate moth with pale gray wings and faint markings. I lift it delicately with the forceps and turn toward the drawer to place it in its spot.
A gentle knock sounds at the door.
I startle so hard the tweezers nearly slip from my fingers. The moth wobbles for one terrifying second before I catch my grip and set it down gently in its place. My heart is already racing as I turn toward the sound.
Jamie stands in the doorway, camera equipment slung over one shoulder and a small bag in his other hand. He looks almost apologetic, like he knows he’s interrupted something sacred.
I stare at him for a long beat, then narrow my eyes.
“Have you been following me?”
The question comes out sharper than I intended.
Jamie raises both hands in surrender, the camera bag shifting on his shoulder.
“No,” he says quickly. “I swear. I was helping the botany club with a time-lapse project. They’re doing a series on flower opening in the greenhouse across the quad and they asked me to drop the storage drive here. I had no idea you would be here.”
He gestures vaguely toward the hallway, as if that proves it.
I cross my arms, still not entirely convinced, but the explanation sounds plausible. The botany greenhouse is only a short walk from the natural sciences building. And he does have the camera equipment.
I exhale slowly, apologizing before the silence can stretch too long.
“Sorry,” I say, my voice quieter now. “I overreacted. Alphas can just… be like that sometimes. Always showing up where you least expect them.”
Jamie nods, his expression understanding. He leans against the doorframe, still keeping that careful distance.
“Yeah, they can,” he agrees gently. “But I’m not trying to be like that with you.
I heard what you said yesterday. You want space, and I respect that.
I’m not here to push or chase or make you feel cornered.
I just… saw the light on, then you, and thought maybe you could use some company. No pressure.”
His words are so sincere, so free of any demand, that something inside me cracks. A small trembling whine slips out before I can stop it. My eyes fill with tears so fast I can’t blink them away.
Jamie steps forward instantly, concern flashing across his face. He reaches out and touches my arm, light and tentative, like he’s afraid I might shatter.
The contact is too much. Too gentle. Too safe.
I shrug his hand off without thinking, stepping back until my hip bumps the edge of the desk.
Jamie pulls away immediately, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he says quickly. “I didn’t mean to touch you. I’m really sorry, Elodie.”
I groan and run both hands through my hair, tugging at the strands as I tip my head back toward the ceiling. Tears spill over anyway.
“Omega hormones are so annoying,” I mutter, voice thick. “You and your pack just bring out the absolute worst in me. I feel like I can’t even control my own body anymore.”
The words tumble out raw and honest. I don’t even have the energy to be embarrassed.
Jamie stays where he is, hands at his sides, giving me the space I need. He doesn’t try to touch me again. He just listens.
And for some reason that only makes the tears fall faster.
He looks around my workspace, his eyes widening as he takes it all in.
The neat rows of specimen drawers, the array of pinning tools lined up like surgical instruments, the labeled ethanol jars, the stacks of worksheets covered in my tiny handwriting.
The organized chaos of it all seems to surprise him in the best way.
He points to one of the moths I haven’t pinned yet, one with the mottled gray wings and delicate markings.
“What’s this one?” he asks gently, his voice sounding genuinely curious.
I blink, caught off guard by the simple question. But something in me unclenches. I pick up the specimen with the forceps and hold it out so he can see.
“It’s a common gray moth,” I tell him. “They’re everywhere in the fall. Their camouflage is incredible against tree bark.”
Jamie nods like that answer matters to him. He pulls up a stool from the next bench, settles onto it, and leans his elbows on the counter. He doesn’t speak again. He just listens.
The knot in my chest loosens a little more.
I turn back to my work and continue pinning while I talk.
I tell him about each specimen as I handle it.
The way certain beetles have iridescent shells that shift color in the light.
How some moths have tiny scales that come off like dust when you touch them.
The difference between the mouthparts of a butterfly and a mosquito.
Jamie asks thoughtful questions in between. Real ones, not the kind people ask when they are pretending to be interested. He wants to know why some wings have eyespots, what the pins are made of, and how long the specimens last in the drawers.
And for the first time since he walked into the lab, I feel myself calming down. The tears dry on my cheeks. My hands stop shaking. The restless ache in my chest eases into something easier.
It feels surprisingly comfortable having him here.
He’s not trying to impress me or fix anything or push for more. He’s simply sitting with me in my world, listening while I lose myself in the small, precise work I love.
For a little while, the lab feels less empty in a good way.
And I’m not sure what to do with how much I like that.
I feel like maybe I should be asking him things too. “What do you study?” His gaze lightens with the attention, his dimples showing.
“Media studies. Pretty basic, I know. But I just like filming things and it’s the only way to get a degree and do that at the same time.”
Jamie glances at the clock on the wall, then back at me.
“I have some editing work I need to get done tonight,” he says, his voice tentative. “The lacrosse footage from earlier.”
A surprising flicker of disappointment moves through me at the thought of him leaving. The lab suddenly feels too quiet again, too empty… I don’t want to be left alone to examine why that is.
Before I can say anything, he adds, “Would it be OK if I worked on it here with you? I can be really quiet. I promise.”
I look at him for a long moment. He’s not pushing, not trying to turn this into anything more than what it is. He’s simply asking if he can stay in my space.
I feel myself smile, small and genuine.
“I’d like that,” I tell him.
Jamie’s face brightens. He reaches down and pulls his laptop from his bag, setting it up on the far end of my desk so he’s not crowding my workspace. Within moments he is focused on the screen, headphones half on so he can still hear the music playing faintly from my speaker.
I go back to my pinning, the familiar rhythm returning. The lab settles into a comfortable coziness, made even better by the soft music and the occasional click of my tools.
I don’t even realize I have started singing along again until Jamie joins in.
It’s not full singing, just a low, breathy hum here and there when he recognizes the melody. His voice is shaky and slightly off-key, but it blends with mine in a surprisingly tender way.
I like it more than I expect.
The sound of him humming along while he edits, while I work on my specimens, feels strangely right. Like the lab is no longer just mine.
As the minutes slip by, I notice a subtle shift in Jamie.
He’s stopped performing.
There are no more playful jokes, no teasing grins, no chaotic charm meant to win me over. He simply sits beside me, elbows on the counter, eyes focused on his laptop screen while his fingers move deftly over the keys.
For the first time, it feels like I am actually seeing him. And he is actually seeing me.
Not an omega, the girl he has been trying to woo, just Elodie. The one who loses hours in a lab surrounded by tiny wings and careful labels. The one who sings under her breath when she thinks no one else is listening. The one who needs space more than she needs romance.
He’s giving me exactly what I asked for yesterday.
Space to exist in my own world without anyone trying to pull me into theirs.
I pin the last specimen of the evening, slide the drawer closed, and let the music fill the space between us. Jamie hums along again, off-key and gentle, and something tender and unexpected lingers in my chest.
It’s surprising, but I don’t feel the need to run from it.