Chapter 2 Lottie
Lottie
I walk across campus with my hands shoved deep into my jacket pockets, shoulders hunched against the bite of winter. The wind slices through the open quad and slips down the collar of my coat like it owns the place. The air is sharp enough to sting my cheeks and fog my breath in pale clouds that vanish almost as soon as they appear. Above me, the sky hangs low and gray — heavy, swollen with the promise of snow it hasn’t decided to release yet. It’s the kind of sky that makes the world feel muted, like someone turned the brightness down a notch.
It fits my mood more than I’d like to admit.
I’m not spiraling. Not exactly. I’m just… thinking. About life. The grind. The expectations that wrap around us before we’re old enough to understand them. The way we’re all supposed to move through this pheromone-ruled world like it’s effortless — like biology isn’t quietly steering half our decisions.
It’s never felt effortless to me.
Most people read pheromones the way others read facial expressions. Confidence, fear, attraction, irritation — it’s all there, carried on the air like a second language. Subtle shifts in scent that say more than words ever could. But suppressants turn that instinct into background noise for me. They keep me steady if an omega nearby slips into heat. They keep my alpha instincts leashed and manageable.
They also make everything feel slightly dulled, like I’m living behind glass.
I chose to start them when I came to MIT. Orientation week was a haze of pheromones thick enough to choke on — alphas posturing, omegas anxious or excited, betas trying to pretend they weren’t reacting to any of it. It felt like stepping into a pressure cooker. I didn’t want to spend four years wrestling with biology when I could just quiet it. I wanted my mind clear. I wanted to stay focused.
Being in control has always mattered to me.
I’m halfway lost in that thought when someone barrels into my path.
An omega.
“S-sorry,” he blurts immediately, stumbling back a step. His eyes are wide, lashes damp as if he’d been crying, but I know it’s probably just the cold. His shoulders curl inward instinctively, as if bracing for reprimand.
Even through the suppressants, I catch the faintest trace of his scent — sharp and jittery, like static buzzing along my skin. Nervousness. Embarrassment. A spike of adrenaline.
I wonder, not for the first time, if omegas realize they emit pheromones for every emotion, not just arousal. Fear. Stress. Shame. Excitement. It all slips out whether they want it to or not. Arousal is the only one they choose.
Everything else is instinct, spilling through the cracks.
“It’s okay. Don’t worry about it,” I say, stepping back to give him space, keeping my tone even.
Relief flickers across his face. He nods quickly and scurries off, the nervous scent fading behind him like mist dissolving under sunlight.
I shake my head lightly and continue toward the Sciences building.
I still don’t understand how my parents did it — two fated mates working in the same office every day without climbing each other like vines fighting for the same patch of sunlight. Fated mates are supposed to be gravity incarnate. Magnetic. Unavoidable.
And yet they function like professionals. Adults. It feels superhuman.
Or maybe it’s love. Or discipline. Or the kind of bond that steadies instead of destabilizes.
Whatever it is, I can’t even handle the pheromones of someone who isn’t my fated mate without suppressants. That thought sits heavier than I’d like.
The Sciences building looms ahead — all glass and steel, and sterile ambition. The faint chemical tang seeps into the air long before I push through the doors. Inside, fluorescent lights hum overhead, reflecting off polished floors.
Another day on the hamster wheel.
Keeping my GPA pristine while pretending I’m not exhausted. Pretending I don’t wake up some mornings already tired of competing with everyone around me, and hoping I land the TA position for my neuroengineering class next month. It would look good on applications—open doors.
That depends on the new professor, though.
And since I know nothing about them yet, the uncertainty gnaws at the edges of my focus. I hate unknown variables. They make it harder to calculate outcomes.
Still — fingers crossed.
I slip into the lecture hall and take my usual seat halfway down the tiered rows. It’s the perfect vantage point: close enough to engage, far enough to observe. I set my notebook down, align my pen with the margin, and offer a quiet hello to the girl beside me.
She studies me for a moment, head tilted slightly, like she’s solving a puzzle.
“You’re Lottie, right?”
I glance at her properly this time. Brown hair pulled into a neat ponytail. Gray eyes that seem warmer than the winter outside. There’s a softness to her expression that suggests she smiles often.
She’s attractive. However, not my type. Not that it matters.
“Yeah, I’m Lottie, and you are?”
She brightens instantly, like she’s been waiting for that opening. “I’m Sandy. We have Chemistry together three times a week. I noticed you’re always alone, and I wanted to know if you wanted to be friends.”
Friends.
The word comes out sounding heavier than it should.
I’ve never been good at that. I don’t know how to maintain the emotional upkeep people expect — the texting, the spontaneous plans, the remembering birthdays and favorite coffee orders. It always feels like another responsibility stacked on top of everything else.
But isolating myself hasn’t exactly made me happier.
“I’m sorry,” I say honestly. “I have a one-track mind in class and don’t really pay attention to the people around me. If you don’t mind me being buried in my books most of the time, I don’t mind being your friend.”
Her smile blooms — radiant and sincere — like I’ve handed her something fragile and important.
“No worries. I need a study buddy who actually studies. You being in the books will probably help me stay in them, too,” she says with a soft laugh.
That earns a small smile from me.
I extend my hand. “Nice to meet you, Sandy.”
She takes it gently.
Her fingers are warm. Her grip is soft but steady. For a brief second, her eyes flutter shut at the contact — a tiny, involuntary reaction. Subtle. Easy to miss.
I notice it anyway.
I ignore it.
I’m not reading into that. Maybe she’s just tactile. Or relieved. Or I imagined it.
Either way, I let it go.
Before I go any further, I should probably introduce myself properly.
My name is Charlotte Logan — Lottie to the few people who actually talk to me. I’m twenty, an MIT student, and a dominant alpha. I’m also a twin.
My brother, Charlie — also an alpha — attends MIT with me. We’ve been side by side since before we were born, sharing space, sharing milestones, sharing expectations. But personality-wise, we couldn’t be more different.
Charlie can walk into a room and leave with three new friends and twice as many phone numbers. He’s magnetic without trying. Easy smile. Easy laugh. The kind of alpha who makes people feel included instead of intimidated.
His closest friend, Jordan — a beta — latched onto him on day one of orientation, and they’ve been inseparable ever since. They’re the kind of duo who always have a story to tell. Usually involving a party. Or a dare. Or a questionable decision that somehow works out anyway.
Me?
I’m perfectly content staying in my room with textbooks stacked in uneven towers, notes color-coded and tabbed, the quiet hum of my desk lamp filling the silence. I like knowing where I stand. I like measurable outcomes.
I don’t want distractions. Not parties. Not people. Not pheromone drama.
So I keep my head down and stay in my own little world, where everything is manageable.