The smell of burnt sugar is oppressive, heavy in the air and cloying, sticking to George’s skin and hair and wafting like blue smoke in front of his eyes, making him blink slow and deliberate, labored and trying to focus. He thought he’d become used to it, the Alpha smell, being around it all the time, but it’s like he can see Jaymi’s fingerprints glow phosphorescent everywhere in the room that he’s touched: the desk, the lamp, the beside tables, the closet door and George’s own suitcase, still half-packed at the foot of the bed because there’s no telling when they’ll be sent to leave. It’s baked into George’s clothes and the smoke is, too, ashy and hearth-hot. It makes George want to take his clothes off.
He lets out a measured breath through his teeth and defiantly pokes at the keys of his laptop.
He can manage.
Jaymi’s someone else’s. He always has the scent of Olly on him, lime and flowers and omega.