Chapter 9 Patrick
Patrick
I all but bolt out of the café. The bell over the door jingles sharply behind me, and I don’t slow down until the cold air slams into my face. It feels like something is chasing me.
Maybe it is. Maybe it’s the memory of Lottie’s eyes widening when my scent shifted.
Her pupils dilated instantly — dark, swallowing the deep green. Her breath caught. Her nostrils flared in the smallest, most instinctive way, like she was trying to draw the air deeper into her lungs.
That image is burned into my mind. Sharp. Vivid.
Impossible to shake.
And the way my own body responded to her smile — immediate, uncontrolled, instinctive — makes my stomach twist.
Heat pooled low and sudden, a physical reminder that my biology is no longer cooperating with my logic. Thank God I prepared today. After yesterday’s near-disaster in the classroom — when my body reacted so strongly I almost lost composure in front of thirty students — I wasn’t taking chances.
I’m wearing a pad. The knowledge is humiliating, but it's necessary.
I still don’t understand why I’m reacting like this, but I know enough now to expect the unexpected when she’s near.
Even speaking felt impossible. My throat kept tightening. My voice caught like I couldn’t pull enough air in. I must have cleared it a dozen times. I sounded nervous.
It was obvious. I’m sure she noticed.
The worst part? A small, traitorous piece of me wonders if she noticed because she was struggling just as much.
I’m still waiting for replies from the colleagues I messaged. I kept the question vague on purpose. I don’t want to give details until I know whether any of them have real insight into what that electric jolt could mean.
I need data before I risk exposing myself.
Or her.
But for the sake of understanding, I may have to test it.
See if it happens again. See if that spark happens every time we touch.
I stop walking.
What if it does?
The thought presses in, heavy and suffocating.
What would that imply?
I inhale sharply. The frigid air burns all the way down, grounding me just enough to keep moving toward my car. Inside, I shut the door with a soft thud and start the engine. The heater kicks on, blowing cool air that will eventually warm.
I sit there, barely breathing.
Afraid that if I inhale too deeply, I’ll conjure her scent again.
Fresh snow. Pine. Something crisp and wild that doesn’t belong in my memory this vividly. I remember the way it intensified at the end.
The way the air between us felt like it was responding — her scent rising when mine did. A push and pull. An ebb and flow.
Reactive. Reciprocal. Instinctive.
Something I don’t have a name for. Something I’m not sure I want to name.
I grip the steering wheel until my knuckles pale. I can’t let this become anything.
She’s my student.
That fact alone should be enough.
But my body isn’t listening to reason.
The drive home vanishes. One moment I’m pulling out of the café lot, the next I’m in my driveway with no memory of the roads between. Autopilot.
My mind was somewhere else entirely.
Still at that table. Still replaying the way her gaze dropped for half a second — then snapped back up.
Still replaying the soft firmness in her voice when she corrected me.
Lottie.
I step out of the car, wind cutting across my face. I barely feel it. I unlock the door and step inside. Silence greets me.
Then my phone buzzes.
The sound jolts through me like another spark. I fumble it out of my pocket, hands not as steady as they should be.
One new message. Dr. Marin.
I swallow and open it.
Hey Pat! How’s everything going? Sounds like things are a little electrical, lol. I’d love to chat more about this when you have time. Sounds like a pheromonal reaction on a biological level. I have a few questions, so get back to me when you can!
A pheromonal reaction on a biological level. The words sit heavy in my chest.
That’s clinical. Neutral.
Not mystical. Not romantic. Biological.
Which should comfort me. But it doesn’t.
I took her elective years ago — The Interactions of Pheromones. I remember the slides. The diagrams. The case studies about rare reciprocal reactions. I remember thinking it was interesting in theory. I never imagined I’d need that knowledge in practice.
I lock my phone and shove it into my pocket.
I’m not ready to respond. Not yet.
Whatever questions she has, I have a feeling I won’t like them.
I collapse onto the couch without removing my coat. The cushions dip under my weight. I lean my head back and stare at the ceiling.
I don’t know what’s happening to me. I’ve always had control. Ironclad.
Years of discipline. Training. Careful suppressant management. My pheromones surfaced only when I allowed them. They answered to me.
Now they leak without warning. Without permission.Twice in twenty-four hours.
I didn’t even feel the shift until I saw her reaction.
That frightens me more than anything.
I drag a hand down my face.
How am I supposed to get through four months of working closely with her when I can’t maintain composure for ten minutes?
I feel absurd. Like a teenager blindsided by secondary gender instincts for the first time.
It’s humiliating, and deeply, deeply unsettling.
I sit forward. I need a plan. Double-dosing suppressants flickers through my mind. I dismiss the thought immediately. Too risky. Too many long-term consequences. I want children someday. I won’t compromise my future because I can’t control myself in the present.
So that leaves one option.
Distance. Physical. Emotional. Professional.
But how am I supposed to determine whether this reaction is consistent if I avoid being close to her altogether? Do I test it once more, confirm the pattern, then withdraw?
The logic is flimsy, and I know it.
My mind drifts back to the café.
To the moment she murmured her nickname behind me.
Lottie.
I roll it around silently. It's soft, and warm. It fits her too well. Strong and capable — but with a gentleness underneath.
I whisper it before I can stop myself. “Lottie.”
The name settles into the quiet room.
I close my eyes.
I shouldn’t be thinking like this. I shouldn’t be imagining her stepping closer.
Shouldn’t be remembering the way her shoulders squared when she sat across from me. The quiet confidence in her questions.
I groan and drop my head into my hands.
“What am I supposed to do?” I mutter into the empty house.
Silence answers. No clarity. No instruction manual.
Just the weight of something I don’t understand pressing down on my chest.
Am I supposed to be strong enough to fight this?
For four months? Maybe longer?
And if this is biological — instinctive — reciprocal—at what cost?
I don’t know.
And not knowing is what truly terrifies me.