Chapter 6 Lottie
Lottie
I hightail it out of that classroom like there’s a fire licking at my heels.
I’m not running — technically — but it’s a near thing. My strides are too long, too sharp. My breath comes shallow, clipped. My pulse thunders in my ears so loudly I’m half convinced other people can hear it.
I don’t know what just happened in there.
But it was definitely something.
Something that hit me so hard I’m still vibrating from the impact.
My fingers tingle — not faintly, not fading. The place where they brushed his skin still feels branded, like a live wire ran straight through me and forgot to turn off. The sensation crawls up my arm in hot, electric pulses, settling somewhere deep in my chest.
And his scent. Gods.
Sweet and tart, like grapefruit cut open under warm sunlight, drizzled with honey and something darker underneath — something rich and magnetic. It wraps around my senses again in memory, thick and undeniable.
It cut through my suppressants like they were air.
Like they were nothing.
Like they were never meant to work on him in the first place.
I smelled his pheromones.
Clearly. Sharply. Intimately.
That shouldn’t be possible.
Suppressants don’t just fail. Not like that. Not all at once. Not for me. I’ve never had an issue before — never even a flicker of someone else’s scent, pheromones have always felt like a scentless cloud. And yet, one accidental brush of skin and suddenly my body reacted like it had been waiting for that exact moment.
My stomach flips again at the memory. My lungs tighten. Heat creeps up my throat.
I shake my head hard, as if I can physically dislodge the sensation. No. No, absolutely not. I will not spiral about pheromones in the middle of the hallway.
Focus on the good news.
The amazing news.
I made TA.
I MADE TA!
A grin splits across my face so wide it almost aches. The adrenaline shifts, transforms — less electric shock, more effervescent champagne. I’m practically floating now, buoyed by disbelief and pride and sheer, unfiltered joy.
I don’t even register Sandy walking beside me until she speaks. “What’s got you wearing that happy smile?”
I whip my head toward her, startled. “Oh! You scared me — I didn’t even see you there. I’m sorry.” I clutch the stack of papers to my chest like they might fly away, bouncing on my toes. “I’m just really happy because I made TA!”
The last word escapes as a squeal. I cannot physically contain it.
Sandy’s face lights up immediately, warm and genuine. “For that, I can forgive you for not noticing me. I’m so happy for you! That’s what you’ve been working so hard for, right?”
I nod rapidly, hair tumbling into my face in a messy curtain. “Yes! I was so worried I wouldn’t get it. I mean, there were so many applicants. I was completely speechless when he called my name.”
Sandy glances at me sideways, subtle but sharp. “He, who?”
I wave a hand, aiming for casual and probably landing somewhere suspicious. “Professor Hale. He’s the new professor for my neuroengineering class.”
She studies me for half a second too long. It’s quiet, perceptive, almost clinical. Then her smile slides back into place.
“I’m really happy for you, Lottie,” she says softly. “You’re living your dream.”
That does something to me — steadies me.
“I didn’t think it was possible,” I admit, bouncing again despite myself. “But now? I feel like I can do anything I set my mind to.”
Sandy laughs, warm and bright, the sound grounding. “You were always capable. I don’t know why you doubted yourself.”
My smile softens, a little fragile at the edges. “Because I’m one in a sea of a hundred others just like me. Same grades. Same ambitions. Same resumes. It’s easy to feel… replaceable.”
We reach Chemistry — one of the few classes we share. I’ve started noticing things like that lately. Shared spaces. Shared routines. The way Sandy always walks slightly to my left.
She squeezes my arm gently. Her touch lingers a fraction longer than necessary.
“You may have been in a sea of a hundred others,” she says, voice steady and sure, “but there’s still only one you. That’s why you got it.”
The words land somewhere deep and tender.
“Thanks, Sandy,” I murmur. “That means a lot.”
And it does.
The Chemistry classroom feels too bright when we walk in. The fluorescent lights seem harsher, colors oversaturated, edges too sharp. Maybe it’s the adrenaline still humming under my skin. Maybe it’s the phantom imprint of grapefruit and honey clinging to my senses.
Or maybe it’s the fact that my world tilted ten degrees in a direction I wasn’t prepared for.
We slip into our usual seats — middle row, left side. Strategic. Close enough to see everything clearly, far enough to avoid becoming a volunteer example.
I pull out my notebook, align my pen with mechanical precision, and try to breathe normally.
Try to be normal.
Try not to replay the exact moment Professor Hale’s fingers brushed mine.
But my hand still tingles.
And every inhale carries the faintest ghost of citrus and warmth. It isn’t real. It can’t be real.
My brain insists otherwise.
Sandy nudges me with her elbow. “You’re vibrating.”
I blink. “What?”
She grins. “Your leg. You’re bouncing it like you’re trying to drill through the floor.”
I glance down. Sure enough, my knee is a blur. I press my foot flat against the ground, forcing stillness. “Sorry. Just excited.”
“Excited,” she repeats, drawing the word out slowly, thoughtfully. “Or something else?”
I shoot her a warning look. “Don’t start.”
She lifts her hands in surrender, but her eyes sparkle with mischief — and something more observant than she lets on. “I’m just saying. You’re glowing. I’ve never seen you like this.”
Before I can argue, Dr. Harmon walks in. Not him. Not Professor Hale.
Just Dr. Harmon — older, calm, predictable. His presence is steady, familiar. Safe.
Good. I need safe right now.
He launches into reaction kinetics, neat equations lining the board in orderly progression. Normally, I’d be laser-focused, absorbing every detail like oxygen.
Today, my mind fractures.
Back to neuroengineering.
Back to the moment scent became sensation.
Back to the way Professor Hale’s eyes softened when he smiled at me — not broadly, not unprofessionally. Just enough to feel… intentional.
Back to the spark.
Sharp.
Electric.
Impossible.
I grip my pen tighter and copy the equation. My handwriting is jagged, uneven. Not like me.
Sandy leans slightly closer. “You okay?”
“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just… distracted.”
She doesn’t push. Just slides her notebook a little toward me, offering cleaner notes without comment.
It’s such a small thing. But it anchors me.
I breathe in. Out. Focus on numbers. On reaction rates. On constants and variables that behave exactly as predicted.
Unlike my body.
Unlike whatever that was.
When class ends, I pack up slowly, delaying the moment I have to step back into the noise of the hallway — and into Sandy’s inevitable questions.
She waits, leaning against the desk, arms crossed, expression deceptively casual.
The second we’re outside, she bumps her shoulder lightly into mine.
“Okay,” she says. “Spill.”
I blink. “Spill what?”
She gives me a look that says I should know better.
“You were somewhere else that entire class. And not in a ‘thinking about homework’ way. More like a ‘my soul just left my body, and I’m pretending it didn’t’ way.”
I groan softly. “Was it that obvious?”
“Painfully.”
She loops her arm through mine as we walk, warm and familiar.
“So?” she prompts. “What happened?”
My mind flashes again — skin against skin. Heat. Scent. The crackle of something that felt almost like it was supposed to happen.
I swallow.
“It’s nothing,” I say. “Just nerves. I wasn’t expecting to actually get the TA position.”
“Lottie.”
Just one word, but firm. Gently calling me out.
I exhale. I’m not ready for her to know. I’m not even ready to know.
“I, uh… met someone interesting,” I admit.
Her brows lift. Controlled. Careful. “Oh?”
I nod, forcing a light laugh. “Yeah. I didn’t think they’d occupy my mind so much.”
Something flickers across her face. It’s fast — a shutter snapping closed. A tiny fracture in her composure.
Disappointment?
Jealousy?
Fear?
It’s gone before I can name it.
“They must’ve made a good impression,” she says lightly, releasing my arm. “If they’ve got your mind so full of them.”
I keep my tone even. “I’m not ready for a relationship. Right now, it’s just school. That’s my focus.”
She nods — once. Looks away for a second too long. Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly. Her fingers curl at her sides before she smooths them out.
When she turns back, her smile is bright.
Practiced.
“That’s good,” she says. “It’s smart to focus on one main thing. A relationship would be… distracting.”
Her voice is steady. But underneath it is something tight. Controlled.
I watch her carefully, trying to read the micro-expressions she hides so well. Sandy only ever shows what she wants people to see.
And right now, I can’t tell if she’s relieved. Or hurt. Or if she's bracing for something.
I think I made the right decision not to tell her the truth — not about Professor Hale, not about the suppressants failing, not about the way my body responded without my permission.
Not yet.
Only time will tell what this means.
For me.
For her.
For whatever ignited in that neuroengineering classroom.
But for now, I keep walking beside her, shoulder to shoulder, pretending everything is normal.
Even though nothing feels normal anymore.