Chapter 3 Lottie
I’m originally from New York — born and raised in a loud, loving family where dinner conversations overlap, and arguments dissolve into laughter. Aside from Charlie, I have two younger siblings: Lilliana, thirteen, sharp-tongued and convinced she knows everything already; and Luca, eight, still convinced superheroes are real and that I could probably become one if I tried hard enough.
Having siblings that young makes me feel ancient sometimes, like I’m living two different lifetimes at once — college and childhood running parallel. But having Charlie here balances it out. Anchors me.
My dad comes from a massive family, and my mom has three siblings of his own, so holidays are chaos. A constellation of aunts, uncles, and cousins filling every inch of space. It’s loud. Affectionate. Overwhelming.
I love them.
But I also love the quiet I’ve carved out for myself here.
Anyway, back to the present.
Class ends in a shuffle of backpacks and scraping chairs. I gather my things methodically, sliding my notebook into place, and step out into the hallway. Sandy trails beside me without hesitation.
I pull my phone from my pocket and text Charlie.
Hey, what are you up to? Wanna grab lunch?
A few minutes pass. I can practically picture him glancing at his phone while Jordan talks his ear off.
Finally: Hey, can’t right now. Traveling with Jordan for a project.
I huff a quiet laugh. Of course he is.
It’s a twin thing — asking even when you already know the answer.
Sandy’s fingers brush my arm lightly through my jacket sleeve, grounding and warm.
“Everything okay?”
“Yeah,” I say, tucking my phone away. “Just trying to catch up with my brother, but he’s busy.”
She hesitates, then pushes forward gently. “Well… if you don’t have anything planned, do you wanna grab lunch with me?”
I study her for a moment. There’s no pressure in her expression. Just hope.
If I’m going to try this whole friendship thing, I have to actually show up for it.
“Sure,” I say. “I’d love to. Did you have anywhere in mind?”
She shrugs, ponytail bouncing. “The cafeteria has takeout vendors today.”
“That sounds good.”
Her smile brightens — open and warm, the kind that makes you feel like you’ve done something right without quite knowing why. “Okay, great. Let’s go.”
I follow her across campus to the cafeteria. The space buzzes with lunchtime energy — overlapping voices, trays clattering, chairs scraping against tile. The faint scent of spices drifts from the vendor stalls, layered over the hum of a hundred mingled pheromones. Though for me, it’s muted.
We settle on Thai and carry steaming containers toward a quieter corner by the window. Outside, the quad stretches wide and gray, students bundled in coats moving like scattered brushstrokes across the lawn.
We sit across from each other, steam curling between us.
“I noticed you a long time ago,” Sandy says, twirling noodles around her fork. “But you always seemed so… unapproachable. I was scared to introduce myself. I finally worked up the courage, and you’re nicer than I thought.”
I arch a brow, amused. “Most people look at me that way. I just have no tolerance for nonsense and bullshit. So if that scared you off, you must’ve been full of it.”
Her eyes widen — then she bursts into laughter. Loud. Genuine. Shoulders shaking as she wipes at her eyes.
“Wow,” she says between breaths. “I never expected something like that from you. There’s a lot more to you than meets the eye.”
I smirk slightly. “Only those brave enough to get to know me figure that out.”
She leans back in her chair, still smiling at me like she’s discovered something rare.
“Well,” she says softly, “I’m glad I was brave enough. I think I’m going to like you.”
A small, unfamiliar warmth settles in my chest — subtle but steady.
“You don’t seem so bad yourself,” I admit.
And for the first time since arriving at MIT, the world doesn’t feel quite so muted.
The days drift by in a soft-focus blur, like I’m moving through life on autopilot with the brightness turned down. Wake up. Class. Study. Repeat. My planner fills with neat, color-coded blocks of productivity, and I check them off with mechanical satisfaction. On paper, everything looks efficient. Controlled.
Inside, it’s quieter than that. Almost hollow.
Somewhere between problem sets and lecture notes, I get pulled deeper into Sandy’s orbit — her version of “friends,” which apparently involves far more social interaction than I ever would have scheduled for myself. We grab food between classes, balancing trays and laughing over professors’ quirks. We study side by side in the library, her foot occasionally bumping mine under the table, her presence a warm hum beside my focused silence.
And somehow — impossibly — she convinces me to go to a frat party.
I still don’t know how she managed that.
One minute, I was saying no, listing practical reasons, and the next, I was standing in a house pulsing with bass so loud it rattled through my ribs. Lights strobed across sweaty faces, turning everyone into flickering silhouettes. Bodies pressed together like they were sharing one collective heartbeat, a single organism fueled by alcohol and instinct.
I felt like a foreign object in the wrong ecosystem — too stiff, too sober, too aware of everything.
Too alpha.
Someone shoved a red Solo cup into my hand before I could refuse. I stared at the liquid for a second — amber and suspicious — then took a cautious sip.
My first taste of alcohol burned bitter and sweet at the same time, like it couldn’t decide what it wanted to be. It slid down my throat and bloomed warm in my stomach. I sipped slowly after that, hoping it would take the edge off.
It didn’t.
If anything, it made the pheromones in the air feel thicker. Heavier. Like my suppressants were being forced to work overtime just to keep me upright. The house smelled like heat and want and nervous excitement — layers of alpha musk, omega sweetness, beta steadiness — all tangled together into something humid and suffocating.
Sandy was chatting animatedly with a girl I didn’t recognize — laughing, leaning in, completely at ease like this was her natural habitat. Her cheeks were flushed, her eyes bright.
I touched her arm lightly and leaned close so she could hear me over the music.
“I’m gonna go outside for some air. If you’re gonna leave, make sure you let me know.”
She nodded immediately, smiling, and waved me off without missing a beat.
I stumbled slightly on my way out — whether from the alcohol or the sensory overload, I couldn’t tell. Probably both.
The back porch hit me with a shock of cold air, slicing through the heat clinging to my skin. I sucked in a breath so sharp it almost hurt. The temperature difference made my head spin for a second, but it was better than drowning inside.
I shivered in my thin jacket, silently cursing myself for not dressing warmer. Winter had been creeping in all week, subtle and patient. Tonight, it finally sank its teeth in.
People were making out everywhere.
On the railing. Against the siding. Half-hidden behind the grill. Hands tangled in hair. Fingers digging into hips. It was like watching a nature documentary on fast-forward — instinct overriding logic, pheromones swirling like invisible smoke signals.
College really did feel like one long, pheromone-fueled mating ritual sometimes.
I couldn’t stay out here long. The cold was biting through to my bones, but the house was worse. I needed to find Sandy, tell her I was leaving, and get out before my suppressants gave up entirely.
I pushed back inside, forcing my way through the crush of bodies. The pheromones hit me like a wall — thick, humid, clinging to the inside of my nose like I was breathing through a damp rag.