Chapter 5 Patrick
Patrick
I wake up late on the morning of my first day at MIT, staring at the ceiling with a knot of nerves sitting squarely in my stomach.
It’s the kind of tight, coiled feeling that doesn’t hurt exactly — just presses. Persistent. Heavy.
My mind immediately starts running through every possible disaster scenario like a highlight reel of humiliation.
I could forget to take my suppressants.
I could forget my lecture notes.
I could forget to put on pants.
Hell, I could forget to put on any clothes at all and stroll into my first lecture like some deranged exhibitionist who mistook “first impression” for performance art.
Not that I’m actually that featherbrained — but anxiety doesn’t care about logic. It thrives on exaggeration. It takes a small fear and inflates it until it’s a full-blown catastrophe.
It’s the classic nightmare where you stand up to present a project and suddenly realize you’re half-naked — except my brain has cranked the dial to maximum chaos and added a live audience.
I exhale slowly and let my eyes drift across my bedroom — the one place in the world engineered to calm me down.
The room is bright even in the gray morning light, decorated in soft, airy colors that make it feel larger than it is. Pale cream walls. White trim. Light oak floors. My bed sits against the far wall, dressed in a white duvet with pale blue accents, pillows stacked with unnecessary precision. The entire space smells faintly of linen and eucalyptus from the diffuser on my dresser.
It’s simple. Clean. Quiet.
Controlled. Mine.
The house itself is only a few blocks from campus — a small two-story place I rented the moment MIT offered me the position. Close enough to walk on nice days. Far enough that I don’t feel swallowed by campus life.
Downstairs is open-concept — living room flowing into the kitchen, pale winter sunlight pouring through large windows that look out onto a quiet street lined with old maples. In autumn, their leaves had turned a violent gold. Now their branches are bare and skeletal against the sky.
Upstairs, it’s just three rooms — my bedroom, a guest room I’ve never used, and a small office filled with books, scattered research notes, and a corkboard pinned with ideas I haven’t had time to pursue.
For a moment, I let the stillness settle into me.
Then I sit up and stretch until my spine pops.
My class isn’t until two, so I have a few hours to burn. I rub the back of my neck, trying to ease the tension coiled there.
A soak would help.
The question is whether I feel like putting in the effort to prepare one.
I sigh and drag myself out of bed.
In the bathroom, I relieve myself, then start running the tub, sprinkling in a generous handful of scented Epsom salt. Lavender and something faintly citrus bloom into the steam as the water fills.
While it runs, I head downstairs and start the coffee machine. I stand there in my pajamas, arms folded loosely, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot.
The smell is comforting.
When there’s enough, I pour myself a mug and add a few spoonfuls of sugar — more than I should, but today calls for comfort.
Back upstairs, the tub is nearly full. I turn off the water, set my mug on the small table beside it, and strip out of my pajamas.
I dip a toe in.
Perfect.
I sink into the water with a long exhale, feeling the heat seep into my muscles, loosening everything that’s been wound tight since I opened my eyes.
I take a sip of coffee, downing a suppressant with it.
Then I set the mug down.
And let my head rest against the cool porcelain edge of the tub.
My thoughts drift.
How did I get here?
I graduated from MIT when I was sixteen — too young to truly understand what that meant, too driven to slow down long enough to feel it. While other teenagers were learning to drive or going to prom, I was presenting research papers and navigating labs that smelled faintly of antiseptic and ambition.
A few years later, I developed the memory-extraction machine.
The one that could pull memories from the mind and play them back like a video.
It wasn’t sudden brilliance. It was years of trial and error. Burned circuits. Ethical debates. Sleepless nights hunched over code and neural mapping. Volunteers sitting across from me with electrodes on their temples and hope in their eyes.
When it finally worked — when the first recorded memory flickered onto a screen in perfect clarity — I didn’t feel triumphant.
I felt terrified.
Because once you prove something is possible, the world never lets it go.
By twenty-three, everything had changed. The machine was lucrative. More than lucrative. Families wanted to preserve the last coherent memories of elderly parents. Spouses wanted to keep the sound of a partner’s laughter. Parents wanted to archive first words, first steps.
Moments people were terrified of losing.
I could have retired before twenty-five, but I’m not built for idleness.
I need purpose. Structure. A reason to wake up.
I’ve been teaching since I was twenty-six. Smaller universities. Guest lectures. Research mentorships. And when MIT offered me a position, I didn’t hesitate.
The idea of shaping young, brilliant minds — of guiding the next generation of neuroengineers — felt… like the right thing to do.
Full circle.
By the time I pull myself from my thoughts, the water has cooled.
I stand, drain the tub, and step into the shower to rinse off. After washing from head to toe, I towel dry and plug in the blow dryer.
I catch my reflection in the mirror.
I turned thirty a few months ago, though I still look closer to twenty-five thanks to the roundness in my cheeks. My brown hair looks plain when wet, but as it dries, golden highlights catch the light. My eyes are sharper than they used to be — experience has a way of carving lines you can’t see at first glance.
I’m 5'7" — not exactly towering, but that comes with being an omega. Slim. Defined. I go to the gym three times a week. Not out of vanity — out of necessity. My height has always been a sore spot. So I made sure that even if I was the shortest in the room, I would never be the weakest.
I run a hand through my now-dry hair, pushing it back from my face.
The clock tells me I have a little over an hour before I need to be in class.
I head to my closet and pull out my standard professor uniform: a sweater layered over a button-down, tailored slacks, loafers.
Predictable.
Professional.
I chuckle softly at my reflection. With the way I dress, you’d think I was fifty instead of thirty. But I like the armor of it. The clarity.
Downstairs, I fill my travel mug with coffee, grab my bag and keys, and head out.
The air is brisk, the sky a pale winter gray. Students cross the quad in clusters, bundled in coats and scarves, their laughter visible in clouds of breath.
My first day as MIT Professor Patrick Hale.
Despite the nerves, a small, steady part of me feels ready.
I walk into the building and immediately take in the familiar chaos of campus life. Students rush past — some calm, some visibly unraveling, many looking like they’re one missed assignment away from existential crisis.
First-day-of-the-semester energy is always the same: frantic, hopeful, buzzing.
I head down the corridor toward my classroom, mentally reviewing my lecture notes—and then I stop mid-stride.
I smell a scent. Not just any scent.
One that slices straight through my suppressants like they’re made of tissue paper.
Fresh pinecones on a winter morning. Crisp. Cold. Clean.
The kind of scent that makes you think of untouched snow and quiet forests before anyone has disturbed the surface.
It’s so vivid I almost glance around for a pine tree sprouting from the hallway floor.
I blink hard.
I did take my suppressants. I remember swallowing the pill with my first sip of coffee.
So why does this feel so strong? So unfiltered?
I shake my head and force myself forward, but the closer I get to the classroom, the stronger it becomes — richer, deeper, almost magnetic.
When I step inside, the scent blooms around me like a living thing.
The room is nearly full. A sea of faces — eager, curious, skeptical. I can’t pinpoint the source.
I clap my hands once, sharply.
“Thank you all for being here. I’m glad you could make it. I’m going to introduce myself, and then we’ll go around the room and have each of you tell us a little about who you are. Sound good?”
A chorus of yeses echoes back.
I introduce myself, mentioning how I graduated at sixteen.
A wave of impressed “ooohhhs.”
I mention the MemorIES machine I invented.
Louder “ooohhhs.”
I chuckle.
Then the introductions begin.
Some crack jokes. Some are painfully serious. A few are boldly flirty, which I brush off with a polite smile.
And then—I hear her voice.
Soft. Melodious.
Confident without trying to be.
“Hi, my name is Charlotte Logan, but you guys can call me Lottie…”
The scent flares.
Fresh pine. Winter air. Something steady and unyielding beneath it.
I don’t have to look to know.
It’s her.
We finish introductions, and just as I check the time, someone calls out:
“So, prof, who’s going to get the privilege of being your TA?”
The room stills.
I smile.
“Well, while I do wish you all could take the job, there can only be one. And that person is… Charlotte Logan.”
The bell rings as the room erupts into groans.
I gesture her forward.
She approaches slowly, cautiously — tall. Taller than me by several inches. Strong shoulders.
Her presence shifts the air.
“Congratulations, Charlotte,” I say warmly. “Please come get the schedule and curriculum. We’ll meet tomorrow to go over everything.”
She steps closer.
Up close, she’s… stunning.
Beautiful skin. Forest green eyes. A quiet intensity.
“It’s okay, Charlotte,” I tease gently. “I don’t bite.”
A blush spreads across her cheeks.
It’s devastating.
“You can call me Lottie,” she says quietly.
“Alright, Lottie.”
I hand her the papers.
Our fingers brush.
The spark is immediate.
Sharp. Electric. It shoots up my arm and settles low in my stomach. I inhale sharply — and the scent of pine surges, wrapping around me like it’s claiming territory.
My control slips as my pheromones spike, and my hole moistens.
Just slightly.
Her breath catches.
She steps back quickly, eyes dropping to the papers.
“I’ll text you my schedule,” she murmurs before turning and walking away — almost fleeing.
I watch her until she disappears through the doorway.
The scent lingers.
Fresh pine. Winter air. Something comforting and wild.
Something that feels dangerously like fate.
I swallow as I force my thoughts back into order.
I shouldn’t be reacting like this.
She’s my student.