Chapter 5 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 steps are too quick, my breathing too shallow, my pulse too loud in my ears. I don’t know what just happened in there, but it was definitely something. Something that hit me so hard I’m still buzzing from it.

My fingers tingle. The electric shock from where they brushed his skin is still racing up my arm like a live wire. And his scent… gods, his scent. Sweet and tart, like grapefruit drizzled with honey, it still clings to the inside of my nose. It cut through my suppressants like they were nothing. Like they were never meant to work in the first place.

I smelled his pheromones. Clearly. Sharply. Intimately.

That shouldn’t be possible.

I shake my head hard, trying to dislodge the memory of it — the way it made my stomach flip and my chest tighten. I force my mind back to the good news. The amazing news.

I made TA.

I MADE TA!

A grin stretches across my face so wide it almost hurts. I’m practically floating down the hallway, giddy and light and stupidly happy. I don’t even notice 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 papers to my chest, bouncing on my toes. “I’m just really happy because I made TA!”

The last word comes out as a squeal. I can’t help it.

Sandy’s face lights up. “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 falling around my face in a messy curtain. “Yes! I was so worried I wouldn’t get it. I was speechless when he called my name.”

Sandy glances at me sideways. “He, who?”

I wave a hand dismissively, trying to sound casual. “Professor Hale. He’s the new professor for my neuroengineering class.”

She studies me for a beat — too quietly, too perceptively — before her smile returns. “I’m really happy for you, Lottie. You’re living your dream.”

I bounce again, unable to contain the energy fizzing through me. “Yeah! I didn’t think it was possible, but now I know I can do anything I set my mind to!”

Sandy laughs, warm and bright. “You were always capable, Lottie. I don’t know why you doubted yourself.”

My smile softens. “Because I’m one in a sea of a hundred others just like me. So yeah — I worried if I’d be able to win.”

We reach Chemistry — one of the few classes we share. I’m noticing things like that now. Noticing everything more, it seems. Maybe Sandy’s rubbing off on me.

She squeezes my arm gently, her touch lingering just a second longer than expected. “You may have been in a sea of a hundred others, but there was still only one you. That’s why you got it.”

Her words hit me somewhere deep, somewhere tender.

“Thanks, Sandy,” I say quietly. “That means a lot.”

And it does.

The Chemistry classroom feels strangely bright when we walk in, like someone has turned the saturation up on the world. Maybe it’s just the adrenaline still humming under my skin. Maybe it’s the leftover shock from… whatever that moment with Professor Hale was. Or maybe it’s the fact that I’m finally, finally a TA.

We slip into our usual seats — middle row, left side, close enough to see the board but far enough to avoid being called on. I pull out my notebook and pen, trying to focus, trying to be normal, trying not to replay the electric jolt that shot up my arm when his fingers brushed mine.

But my hand still tingles.

And every time I inhale, I swear I catch the faintest ghost of grapefruit and honey. It’s not real — can’t be real — but my brain keeps insisting it is.

Sandy nudges me lightly with her elbow. “You’re vibrating.”

I blink. “What?”

She grins. “You’re bouncing your leg like you’re trying to drill through the floor.”

I look down. Sure enough, my knee is bouncing like it has its own agenda. I force it still. “Sorry. Just excited.”

“Excited,” she repeats, drawing out the word like she’s tasting it. “Or is it something else?”

I shoot her a look. “Don’t start.”

She raises her hands in surrender, but her eyes sparkle with mischief. “I’m just saying — you’re glowing. Like, actually glowing. I’ve never seen you like this.”

I open my mouth to argue, but Dr. Harmon walks in, and the room settles. Not my professor. Not him. Just Dr. Harmon — older, calm, predictable. A safe presence.

Good. I need safe right now.

He launches into a lecture about reaction kinetics, writing neat equations across the board. Normally, I’d be laser‑focused, scribbling notes, absorbing every detail. Today, though, my mind keeps drifting.

Back to the classroom I just left.

To the moment his scent hit me like a physical force.

And the way his eyes softened when he smiled at me.

Back to the spark — sharp, electric, impossible — that shot through me when our fingers touched.

I shake my head and force myself to write down the equation on the board. My handwriting is messier than usual.

Sandy leans over slightly. “You okay?”

“Yeah,” I whisper. “Just… distracted.”

She gives me a knowing look but doesn’t push. Instead, she nudges her notebook toward me, offering her cleaner notes to copy. It’s such a small gesture, but it grounds me. Reminds me I’m here, in this room, with a friend who actually cares.

I breathe out slowly and focus on the lecture.

But even as I write, even as I try to anchor myself in the familiar rhythm of class, my mind keeps circling back to him.

To Professor Hale.

To the scent that shouldn’t have broken through my suppressants, and how my body reacted without my permission.

To the way something inside me whispered — quiet but certain — that this moment mattered.

That he mattered.

And no matter how hard I try to shove that thought away, it keeps returning, persistent and warm.

Something is happening.

Something I don’t understand.

Something I’m not sure I’m ready for.

When Chemistry ends, I pack up my things slowly, trying to pretend my brain isn’t still replaying the moment in neuroengineering like a glitching video loop. Sandy waits for me, leaning against the desk with her arms crossed and a knowing little smile tugging at her lips.

The moment we step into the hallway, she bumps her shoulder lightly against mine.

“Okay,” she says, “spill.”

I blink. “Spill what?”

She gives me a look — the kind that says, Don’t play dumb with me; I was born at night, but not last night.

“You were distracted the entire class. And not in a ‘thinking about homework’ way. More like a ‘my soul just left my body, and I’m trying to pretend it didn’t’ way.”

I groan softly. “Was it that obvious?”

“Painfully.” She loops her arm through mine as we walk. “So? What happened?”

I hesitate. My mind flashes back to the moment Professor Hale’s fingers brushed mine. The spark. The scent. The way my suppressants didn’t stand a chance. The way my heart nearly punched its way out of my chest.

I swallow. “It’s… nothing. Just nerves. I wasn’t expecting to actually get the TA position.”

Sandy narrows her eyes. “Lottie.”

Her tone is gentle, but firm. The kind that makes you want to tell the truth even when you’re not sure you understand it yourself.

I exhale slowly, trying to think of a way — any way — to dodge the truth without outright lying. I’m not ready for Sandy to know. I’m not even ready to admit it to myself. Whatever happened in that classroom is still too raw, too confusing, too electric to put into words.

“I, uh… met someone interesting,” I say finally.

Her brows lift, subtle but sharp. “Oh?”

I nod, forcing a light laugh. “Yeah. I didn’t think they’d occupy my mind so much.”

Something flickers across her face — quick, unreadable, gone before I can catch it. A shadow of something. Disappointment? Curiosity? Jealousy? I can’t tell. Sandy’s expressions are usually so open, but every now and then she shutters herself like a window in a storm, and I’m left guessing.

Sometimes I think she might have feelings for me. But she never acts on anything directly — just small gestures, lingering touches, soft looks I try not to interpret. I don’t want to assume. I don’t want to hurt her. And I definitely don’t want to complicate things when I barely understand my own emotions.

“They must’ve made a good impression,” she says, releasing my arm, her tone light but her eyes too focused. “If they’ve got your mind so full of them.”

I smile, trying to keep it casual. “I’m not ready for a relationship. Right now, it’s just school for me. I’m staying focused on that.”

She nods, looking away for a moment — long enough that I notice the tension in her jaw, the way her fingers curl slightly at her sides. When she turns back, her smile is bright, practiced, almost too smooth.

“That’s good,” she says. “It’s always smart to stay focused on one main thing. A relationship would be… distracting.”

Her voice is steady, but something underneath it feels tight. Controlled.

I nod, watching her carefully, trying to read the micro‑expressions she’s so good at hiding. But Sandy has a poker face that could win championships. She only ever shows what she wants me to see.

And right now, I can’t tell if she’s relieved, disappointed, or something else entirely.

I think I made the right decision not to tell her the truth — not yet. Not when I don’t even understand it myself.

Only time will tell what this means — for me, for her, for whatever is happening beneath the surface of that spark in neuroengineering.

But for now, I keep walking beside her, pretending everything is normal.

Even though nothing feels normal anymore.