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Pride rises warm and easy through me. “Good catch. It doesn’t.”

“We’re doing this in class, aren’t we?” Eli asks.

“Absolutely.”

He bites into the honey cake with the resigned expression of a student accepting fate.

A hand slides over my shoulder. My friend Scarlet stands beside me in a dark green dress, her red hair twisted at the nape of her neck. She has become one of the public faces of the corrected exhibit, though attention wears awkwardly on her.

Her alpha, Wes, remains near the artifact case, broad and watchful in black. Roman, her beta mate, stands beside him with a sketchbook tucked beneath one arm.

“You found the mislabeled springs,” Scarlet says.

“They tried to send the south spring east.”

“Ambitious.”

“It’s geographically disastrous.”

Her mouth curves. Scarlet’s hand travels down my arm and squeezes my fingers before she turns toward the reporter waiting near the route map. The affection stays with me after she goes.

I love touch with an embarrassing amount of sincerity. A hand linked through mine. Honey leaning against my shoulder. Junie fixing my head scarf. I collect those gestures with the care other people give pressed flowers.

Since my family moved closer to my sister and her babies, I notice their absence more. My parents call. My sister sends pictures. They visit whenever they can. I miss being expected at dinner.

My phone buzzes inside my bag. A new family photo fills the screen. My sister sits on her porch with her sleeping infant against her chest while her alphas play sidewalk chalk with their toddler. Dad stands at the grill, and Mom waves from the porch swing.

Wish you were here, my sister writes. Mom says we need a new picture of you.

I glance down at the glitter handprint on my overalls and take a selfie.

Current aesthetic: woodland preschool teacher attacked by a craft store.

Three heart reactions appear before the mayor taps the microphone.

Guests drift toward the central gallery to listen to him. Honey catches my eye and points at a tray of iced drinks. Junie hands it to me when I reach the catering table.

“You’ve got glitter on your chest,” she says.

“A tiny historian put it there.”

“Very festive.” Junie beams and bumps her shoulder against mine before returning to the tea pitchers.

I carry the tray into the gathering crowd. The mayor welcomes everyone back to Heritage Hall and praises the town’s resilience. Sunlight pours through the windows, catching fountain spray outside and scattering bright fragments of light across the floor. Gardenia, coffee, citrus glaze, alpha spice, floral omega perfume, and cool water mingle in the warm gallery.

Halfway to the front row, peppermint brushes across my tongue. I slow. Vanilla follows, soft and warm. Rosemary opens beneath it with the green brightness of stems crushed between damp fingers.

I look toward the catering table but don’t see any rosemary garland or mint. The scents travel when I move. Heat gathers beneath my curls. My palms grow damp against the tray.

“Honey?”

She lifts her head.

I draw another breath. Peppermint. Vanilla. Rosemary. “Do you smell that?”

Junie comes around the table. Scarlet turns away from the reporter.

I lower the tray and lift the collar of my shirt toward my nose. The perfume rises from my skin.