Chapter 4 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. 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 to put on pants. Hell, I could forget to put on any clothes and stroll into my first lecture like some deranged exhibitionist.

Not that I’m actually that featherbrained — but anxiety doesn’t care about logic. It’s the classic nightmare where you stand up to present a project and suddenly realize you’re half‑naked, except my brain has decided to crank the dial to maximum chaos.

I shake my head and sit up, stretching until my spine pops. My class isn’t until two, so I have a few hours to kill. 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. As the water fills, I head downstairs and start the coffee machine. I stand there in my pajamas, watching the dark liquid drip into the pot, waiting until there’s enough to pour. I fill my mug and add a few spoonfuls of sugar — more than I probably 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 woke up.

I take a sip of coffee, down a suppressant with it, 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? To this moment? To this point in life?

I graduated from MIT when I was sixteen — too young to understand what that really meant, too driven to slow down. 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 took years of research, endless trials, test subjects, failures, and breakthroughs. But when I finally succeeded at twenty‑three, everything changed.

The machine was lucrative. More than lucrative. People wanted to preserve the memories of their elderly parents, their dying spouses, their children’s first words. I could have retired before I hit twenty‑five. But I’m not built for idleness. I need purpose. Structure. Something to pour myself into. I’ve been teaching since I was twenty‑six, so when MIT offered me a position, I didn’t hesitate. The idea of shaping young, impressionable minds — of guiding the next generation of neuroengineers — felt right.

By the time I pull myself out of 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 it’s wet, but as it dries, it takes on a shine, golden highlights catching the light. I’m 5'7" — not exactly towering, but that comes with being an omega. I’m slim, but the muscle definition is there, the result of going to the gym three times a week. My height has always been a sore spot, so I made sure that even if I was the shortest in the room, I’d 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 attire: a sweater layered over a button‑down, slacks, and loafers. I chuckle at my reflection. With the way I dress, you’d think I was fifty instead of thirty. But it’s comfortable. Professional. Predictable — which is exactly what I need today.

Downstairs, I fill my to‑go cup with coffee, grab my bag and keys, and head out.

I arrive on campus with twenty minutes to spare. The air is brisk, the sky a pale winter gray. Students cross the quad in clusters, bundled in coats and scarves. I stop by the cafeteria, grab a breakfast sandwich, and eat it as I walk toward the building where my class will be held.

My first day as MIT Professor Patrick Hale.

And despite all my nerves, a small part of me — quiet but steady — feels ready.

I walk into the building and immediately take in the familiar chaos of campus life. Students rush past in every direction — some calm and collected, some visibly nervous, many looking like they’re one missed assignment away from a breakdown. I smile at a few who make eye contact, offering a nod as I pass. 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, when something hits me so hard I stop mid‑stride.

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. It’s so vivid I almost look around for the source, expecting to see a pine tree sprouting out of the hallway floor.

I blink hard.

I did take my suppressants this morning. I remember swallowing the pill with my first sip of coffee. So why does this scent 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 warm exhale.

The room is nearly full. A sea of faces — some eager, some curious, some already sizing me up. I can’t tell if they’re excited to meet me or just excited for the class itself. Either way, I clap my hands once, sharply, drawing their attention.

“Thank you all for being here, everyone. I’m glad you could make it. I’m going to introduce myself, and then I’d like to go around the room and have each of you introduce yourselves and tell us a little about who you are. That sounds good?”

A chorus of yeses echoes back.

“Alright then, I’ll start. My name is Patrick Hale, and I’m thirty years old. This isn’t my first time teaching, but it is my first time teaching at MIT. I’m an alumnus — I graduated from this school when I was sixteen.”

A wave of impressed “ooohhhs” rolls through the room. I smile.

“I know, I know. No small feat. After graduating, I went into research and development in neuroengineering. I spent a few years in the field before designing the MemorIES machine — a device that can extract memories and play them back in video format.”

Another round of “ooohhhs” follows, louder this time. I chuckle.

“That’s pretty much it. What you see is what you get. Now — who wants to go next? Actually, let’s start in the back and work our way forward. Back right — my left, your right.”

Introductions begin. Some students crack jokes. Some are painfully serious. A few are boldly flirty, which I brush off with a polite smile and a wave of my hand. It’s harmless, but unwanted.

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. I’m studying for my Master’s of Engineering. I’m hoping to come up with a drug or device that will regenerate tissue at a molecular level. I believe this will help doctors save lives in those crucial emergency moments.”

I nod slowly, unexpectedly struck. Not just by her ambition — but by the way her voice seems to settle into my chest as if it belongs there.

And the scent — that scent — flares.

Fresh pine. Cold air. Something grounding and wild.

Her.

We finish the introductions, and when I glance at my watch, only a couple of minutes remain. I turn toward my desk, but someone calls out:

“So, prof, who’s going to get the privilege of being your TA?”

The room goes still, every face turned toward me with open expectation. 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 at the exact moment the room erupts into groans and boos.

“Now, now,” I say, clapping my hands lightly. “Let’s remain respectful. We all knew only one person would get it.”

I turn to Charlotte — Lottie — and gesture her forward.

“Congratulations on obtaining the position, Charlotte. Please come get the schedule and curriculum. We’ll have a meeting tomorrow — since there’s no class — so we can go over everything.”

She approaches slowly, almost cautiously, as if I might bite. I give her my warmest smile.

“It’s okay, Charlotte. I don’t bite.”

She blushes — soft pink blooming across her cheeks — and I have to look away for a moment, because she’s breathtaking. When she speaks, her voice is quieter, but steady.

“You can call me Lottie.”

I nod. “Alright, Lottie. Here’s the schedule and curriculum. My number is attached — please send me a copy of your class schedule so we can work around it. I’ll text you tomorrow with the meeting time and place.”

I hand her the papers.

Her fingers brush mine.

A spark shoots up my arm — sharp, electric, startling. I inhale sharply, and the scent of pine intensifies, thickening in the air around us. I close my eyes for half a second, trying to steady myself, not realizing my pheromones are slipping past my control, as my hole ripens and slick begins to leak.

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 — fast, almost fleeing.

I watch her until she disappears through the doorway.

The scent lingers.

Fresh pine. Winter air. Something that feels dangerously like fate.

I take a slow breath, then shake myself mentally.

I shouldn’t be reacting like this.

She’s my student.