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There's only one guy who would have his shirt half open and his blazer undone, and that's Adam. I rush over to him, at last seeing a familiar face, even if everyone's wearing a mask.

"Hey," I smile, as I notice that he's not alone. He had his back to me, but I know that frame anywhere.

He turns around slowly, and I feel as if he's sucking all the air out of the room as he does it.

"Hey."

Not the normal upbeat Adam I know, but one who looks haunted.

The woman beside him is petite and elegant, with golden blonde hair styled in soft waves that catch the light like spun silk. She's wearing a soft lavender gown that seems to float around her like morning mist, and her delicate silver filigree mask complements her porcelain complexion perfectly. When she looks up at me, I can see stunning blue eyes that sparkle with warmth Adam desperately needs right now. Everything about her seems to shimmer with an ethereal beauty that makes her absolutely radiant.

"Belle," Adam says, and there's a careful tension in his voice that makes my heart sink. "I'd like you to meet Seraphina. Seraphina, this is Belle, my... closest friend."

The pause before 'closest friend' is hesitant, as if he's trying to figure out how to introduce someone he couldn't trust until recently.

"It's lovely to meet you," Seraphina says, her voice is soft with just a hint of nervousness. She extends a gloved hand, and I notice the way she keeps glancing at Adam, like she's drawing strength from his presence.

"You too," I manage, though my voice sounds strained even to my own ears. "Are you from around here?"

“No,” she replies. "I almost didn't come tonight, because these sorts of events make me terribly anxious, but my sister insisted I needed to get out more."

"Seraphina's a teacher," Adam says, and there's warmth in his voice when he talks about her. I can smell the way his scent shifts as his clean beta scent becomesricher, warmer, tinged with something that might be contentment. "Third grade. She was telling me about her students and their latest art project."

“Great,” I say, trying to inject enthusiasm into my voice. Seraphina's scent is soft and comforting, like vanilla cupcakes and fresh linens, with an underlying sweetness that speaks of genuine kindness. It's the kind of scent that would make children feel safe, that would calm anxious parents during conferences.

"It is," Seraphina agrees, her face lighting up as she launches into a detailed description of her classroom's latest project. "We're doing a unit on community helpers, and the children are creating their own storybooks about the people who make their neighborhoods special."

Adam's scent deepens with interest, and I watch as he leans closer to her, completely captivated. "That's brilliant. You're teaching them that everyone has value, that every job matters."

"Exactly!" Seraphina's eyes sparkle with enthusiasm. "Yesterday, little Emma wrote a story about the crossing guard who always waves at her. And Ken's writing about the librarian who helped him find books about dinosaurs."

At the mention of libraries, I expect them to include me in the conversation, but they're so focused on each other that it's like I've become invisible. Adam's scent is practically humming with contentment as he listens to her talk about her students.

"I've always thought teaching was one of the most important professions," Adam says, and his voice has taken on that soft quality he usually reserves for talking about things he's passionate about. "Shaping young minds, helping them discover who they are..."

"It's not always easy," Seraphina admits, tucking a strand of blonde hair behind her ear. "Some of the children come from difficult situations. Last month, I had a little girl who was acting out because her parents were getting divorced. It took weeks to help her feel safe enough to talk about what was happening at home."

Adam's scent spikes with protective concern. "How do you handle situations like that? The emotional weight of caring for children who are hurting?"

And suddenly they're deep in conversation about childhood development and emotional support strategies, their voices overlapping with excitement as they discover shared philosophies about nurturing young people. Adam's usual careful reserve has completely disappeared around Seraphina, and her shy nervousness has melted away as she talks about her passion.

I stand there watching them, feeling increasingly like a third wheel. Their scents are mingling now, creating something warm and harmonious that speaks of natural compatibility. Adam's protective instincts, which can sometimes feel overwhelming with me, seem perfectly matched with Seraphina's gentle nature.

"The key is consistency," Seraphina is saying, her hand unconsciously moving closer to Adam's on the table beside them. "Children need to know that adults in their lives are reliable, that they'll show up no matter what."

"Yes," Adam agrees fervently. "Stability and trust. That's the foundation of everything."

They're talking about seven-year-olds, but I can hear the deeper conversation underneath, about the kind of partnership they both want, about shared values and life goals. It's beautiful to watch, honestly, but it's also making me feel incredibly alone.

"I've always wanted children of my own," Seraphina admits softly, and her scent carries a note of wistful longing. "A family where everyone feels safe and loved."

"Me too," Adam says, and his voice is so tender it makes my chest ache. "I think you'd be an amazing mother. Your students are lucky to have you."

The way they're looking at each other, the way their scents are harmonizing, it's like watching two people fall in love in real time. And while part of me is happy for Adam, another part feels like I'm intruding on something intimate and private.

"Excuse me," someone says behind me, and I turn just as a server carrying a tray of drinks tries to navigate past our little group. But there are more people crowding around now, other couples drawn to this section of the library, and the server misjudges the space.

The collision happens in slow motion. The server bumps into me, hard, sending me stumbling forward. The tray tilts, and suddenly I'm drenched in what smells like champagne punch,the sticky liquid soaking through the bodice of my rose gold dress and dripping down onto the floor.