Page 36 of Citius

But Morgan’s pheromones were non-existent, save for a faint metallic thread trailing behind her. The hallmark of long-term exposure to maximum-strength heat suppressants and a taboo in the field of designation medicine.

An unanticipated discovery coupled with an unwelcome one. I’d only noticed because I’d been following two steps too close, subconsciously trying to scent her. Because I was interested in her as a woman.

And Morgan Van Daal wasnotsupposed to interest me.

Before starting her fellowship, I knew Morgan was a gymnastics superstar forced into early retirement by a freak accident. Like most athletics department staff, I figured she was looking for a vicarious dopamine hit by working with student-athletes, as close to former sports glory as you could get without competing. It was a big draw for me, too.

Our encounters should have been minimal, occasionally crossing paths on the sidelines or attending the same lecture. She was meant to be a peripheral figure until her fellowship ended next July. Then she’d move on to a permanent placement at a different university or research hospital—another face in an endless parade of former colleagues. I never intended to learn more about her.

Then Anya called, suggesting that PheroPass might benefit from a talented sports medicine fellow with a unique point of view. Code for an omega physician with a strong work ethic—one which she couldn’t, ingood conscience, assign to the traumatic brain injury research project like most of the other fellows. Morgan had too much personal experience with the subject matter.

Her academic and clinical background was perfect on paper, and Anya rarely asked anything of me at work—she wasn’t supposed to, as per our prior agreement—but I hesitated.

A growing number of Redwing executives viewed Owen’s technological research and development division as a money pit, only kept afloat by their booming pharmaceutical business. The recently appointed chief finance asshat made things ten times worse.

Their constant demand for profit stripped PheroPass’ project scope to the bare minimum, eliminating dozens of planned functions and outputs, reducing Owen’s ambitious vision to a withered husk.

He would have preferred they’d killed it outright.

While I worried about wasting Morgan’s time and talent if she joined, Owen had no such qualms. His terse reply made it clear: producing results was the medical fellow’s responsibility, not ours. I never expected that his almost thoughtless decision would lead to the revitalization of PheroPass.

It started with her late-night emails, overflowing with logical questions and insightful suggestions—all the more impressive because she was the newest team member. There are only so many ways to politely ask if the powers-that-be were obtuse idiots, but Morgan found every single one.

Each new email was a revelation, her arguments perfectly aligned with Owen’s original intentions. She identified reporting gaps and highlighted the lack of equal analytics for betas and omegas with unerring precision. Her weekly clinical reports packed an even bigger punch.

One of Owen’s deputies championed her recommendations with the Redwing executives, while I did the same with my direct reports and the football coaches. Even someone as thick-headed as Coach Garvey understood the need for the reproductive cycle algorithm.

Ultimately, the Redwing execs had no choice but to greenlight its addition.

And I began to see Morgan as an equal… Maybe even a partner.

The graceful slope of her sculpted nose was an accidental discovery. I’d only meant to look her in the eye while answering a question about a pheromone trend graph. A momentary lapse in judgment. A minor slip-up. It didn’t mean anything in the long run.

But noticing the alluring thickness of her figure and the strength of her well-trained body? That had been an unforgivable mistake. One Icouldn’t stop thinking about.

Adhering to professional ethics meant putting Morgan squarely inside the restricted zone. Hands-off.No furtive glances at her toned arms when she took off her lab coat during a long meeting. Absolutely no internal debates about the color of her eyes—were they more of a honey brown or an amber? None of that. She was forbidden.

I could try to deny my attraction to her, but our height difference was impossible to ignore.

When you’re over a foot taller than your most fascinating new colleague, it’s hard not to notice the way her eyes narrow into vengeful slits when the light gets too bright or how her gaze fogs over as a headache rolls in. Or how tense her shoulders become when she focuses, risking muscle strain during every football game.

And her humor? Sharp and a touch dry, with a glimmer of mischief.

There are the devious glints she tries to hide—the ones that reveal how much she secretly enjoys judging people, especially students who take their Narwhal pride a little too far during games.

But if you’re lucky enough to earn her favor, Morgan can’t help but betray her softer side. Take Alijah Peck, for example. One look from his pleading puppy dog eyes, and she’s a goner.

Or maybe she likes pretty boys who don’t shop in the big-and-tall section. Not a point in my favor, but it didn’t matter.

I couldn’t date her. Neither could Alijah due to university regulations. At least not without a formal courting agreement. Just two more men in a long line of chumps drooling over her.

And I wasn’t deluding myself that my behavior was more honorable than theirs.

Our meetings started running long because I wanted to keep talking to her. Most of our conversations were legitimate business, discussing the latest PheroPass data and deciding which findings to act on, but I wasn’t above pulling up a tangential research study or asking for her opinion on a recent article to prolong our time together. To hear one more thoughtful opinion. To dig a little deeper.

Another minute together might let me decipher one of her carefully controlled expressions. I might even uncover the secret to drawing out her elusive scent.

But the greatest mystery was her almost supernatural imperviousness to pheromones, whether it was my amaretto, Alijah’s orange zest, Garvey’s burnt match aroma, or anyone else’s. It was baffling.

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