Chapter 5 Sam
Sam
Iwake up to the smell of pine and the weight of an arm that could probably bench-press me draped across my ribs.
For a second, I have that disoriented panic of waking up somewhere unfamiliar. Wrong ceiling texture. Navy sheets instead of my chaotic tie-dye situation. And I am naked. Like, aggressively naked.
Then I try to move, and my body sends a very loud, very specific memo to my brain: You were claimed last night, you absolute disaster of a human being.
The soreness is everywhere. A delicious, heavy ache in my muscles. A tenderness between my legs that throbs with my heartbeat. But the thing I can't stop feeling is the phantom weight of him inside me. Like my body is still shaped around him. Still stretching.
Get it together.
I turn my head on the pillow—carefully, because everything hurts in the best way—and look at him.
Devan Morse is asleep.
Actually asleep. Not brooding. Not calculating the statistical probability of something boring. Just... out. Face smushed into the pillow. Black hair a complete disaster. Mouth soft and slightly open.
He looks younger like this.
The memory of last night hits me. Him confessing he's known since freshman year.
That he's wanted me since the moment I walked in late wearing that stupid red scarf.
While I was busy picking fights and trying to prove I wasn't just another omega coasting on my parents' reputation, he was. .. what? Pining?
It doesn't compute. Devan Morse doesn't pine. He calculates. He assesses. He probably has a spreadsheet somewhere with color-coded tabs.
And apparently, he decided I was the variable he couldn't solve.
That's actually kind of romantic. In a terrifying, obsessive way.
"You're thinking too loud," a raspy voice mumbles.
I jump so hard I almost fall off the bed.
Devan's eyes are still closed, but there's a tiny smirk tugging at his mouth. "I can hear the hamster wheel from here."
"I'm not thinking," I lie, clutching the sheet to my chest. "I'm processing. There's a difference."
One eye cracks open.
"Processing what?" he asks. "The structural integrity of my mattress? Because I'm pretty sure we tested that thoroughly."
I snort. "I'm processing the fact that you're secretly a stalker. You memorized my snack habits, Devan. That's serial killer behavior."
"It's observation." He shifts closer, his leg sliding between mine. "I'm an economist. I observe."
"You're a creep."
"Your creep," he corrects. His hand finds my hip under the sheet, thumb stroking the bone. "Officially. Biologically."
I should have a comeback for that. Something sharp and clever. But his thumb is doing this little circle thing and my brain is short-circuiting.
"You're not allowed to be smug about this," I manage. "You waited forever. That's weird."
"I was being strategic."
"You were being a coward."
He opens both eyes now, rolling to face me fully. He's focused on me like I'm the only data point in the room.
"I was being careful," he says quietly. "If I'd claimed you before you were ready, you would have hated me. You would have felt trapped."
I go still. He's right. If some random alpha had marched up to me freshman year, all chest-puffing and destiny-talk, I would have run so fast I'd have left a cartoon dust cloud. I wanted to be seen for my brain, not my biology.
"You let me fight you," I realize. "All those arguments. The library debates. The passive-aggressive grade competition. You were..."
"Letting you win?" He raises an eyebrow. "No. You won those because you're brilliant. I just gave you someone worth fighting."
"God, you're arrogant."
"I'm accurate."
He pulls me closer, eliminating the inch of space between us. I let him. I'm a weak, weak man.
He tastes like sleep and something that's just him.
"Morning," he mumbles against my lips.
"Morning," I whisper back. "We have class in..." I crane my neck toward his desk clock. "Two hours."
"Plenty of time."
"Plenty of time for what?"
His hand slides from my hip, drifting lower. "Research."
"You—" I gasp as his fingers find a very sensitive spot. "You can't just—oh god—you can't just call it research every time you want to—"
"Practical application of theoretical knowledge," he says, way too coherently for someone whose hand is currently between my legs. "Very scientific. Very rigorous."
I grab the back of his neck and pull him down on top of me.
Dignity is overrated anyway.
An hour later, we're showered, dressed, and walking across campus toward Marcel's coffee cart. I'm wearing yesterday's jeans and one of Devan's black hoodies, which is gigantic on me and smells so strongly of pine that I keep getting distracted and walking into things.
Devan's hand is warm in mine. He hasn't let go since we left his dorm.
Forty-eight hours ago, I was stress-eating ramen and hate-reading his last essay. Now I'm wearing his clothes.
Life comes at you fast.
Marcel's cart is already swarming with morning caffeine addicts. His eyes go straight to my neck.
Right. The mark.
Devan's hoodie doesn't cover it completely. The bite is sitting right there, dark and obvious, like a neon sign that says THIS OMEGA HAS BEEN THOROUGHLY CLAIMED.
"Well, well," Marcel drawls, already pulling espresso shots. "Look what we have here."
My face goes nuclear. "Just a vanilla latte, please. Extra shot."
"Make it two," Devan says. His hand settles on the small of my back.
Marcel's scowl does something weird. It might be approval? It's hard to tell with a face that perpetually looks like it's sucking on a lemon.
"About damn time, Morse." He slides two cups across the counter. "I was starting to think you'd stare holes in the back of his head forever."
I choke on air. "You—you knew?"
Marcel snorts. "Kid. Everyone knew. This one—" he jerks his thumb at Devan, "—used to watch you like you were the last croissant in the case. Every single morning."
Devan's hand tightens on my back, but he doesn't deny it. "I thought I was being subtle," he mutters.
"You thought wrong." Marcel waves us off. "Congratulations on the mating. Now get out of my line. You're holding up the queue."
We grab our drinks and escape to a bench near the library. The morning air is crisp. The campus is waking up around us, students shuffling to class, the distant sound of someone's alarm still going off in the dorms.
My phone goes off.
I pull it out, expecting a text from Braiden. Instead, the screen shows a calendar notification:
Johnston Internship - Finalist Interviews - 2 weeks
"Shit," I whisper.
Devan looks over. "What?"
I hold up my phone. "The internship. Interviews are in two weeks."
His expression flickers. Just for a second. Then he smooths it out, but I saw it.
Right. Because we're both finalists. For the same position.
"We knew this was coming," Devan says. "It was always going to be an issue."
"I know." I stare at the notification. "I just... we haven't really talked about it. What happens when we walk into that interview room. How we're supposed to..."
Compete against each other. Watch one of us win while the other loses.
I can't finish the sentence.
"Sam." Devan takes my coffee and sets both cups aside. Then he takes my hands, turning me to face him. "Look at me."
I look.
"I don't care about the internship," he says.
I blink. "What?"
"The Johnston. The interviews. The whole thing." He squeezes my hands. "It's not the priority."
"Devan, it's the biggest opportunity of our—"
"You're the priority. The internship is just a job," he continues. "It's important, yes. It would be good for either of our careers. But it's not us. It's not this."
He lifts my hand and presses his lips to my knuckles.
"No matter what they throw at us in that interview room," Devan says quietly, "you and I are the goal. Everything else is just... noise."
I want to believe him. God, I want to believe him so badly.
But there's a cold, practical part of my brain that won't shut up. The part that's been running worst-case scenarios since the moment I saw that notification.
"And if one of us wins?" My voice is smaller than I want it to be. "What happens to us then? What if… what if this tears us apart, Devan? What if we can't survive it?"
His expression softens. He reaches up, cupping my face in his hands.
"Then we'll deal with it." He presses his forehead to mine. "We're a team now, Sam. Whatever happens in that room, whatever games the committee wants to play, we face it together. Not against each other. Never against each other."
"You make it sound simple."
"It is simple." His breath is warm against my lips. "The hard part was finding you. Everything else is just logistics."
I let out a shaky laugh. "Logistics. Right. Just casually competing for the same life-changing opportunity while being biologically bonded. No big deal."
"No big deal," he agrees. He kisses the corner of my mouth. "We'll figure it out. I promise."
I nod. "Okay," I whisper. "We're a team."
"We're a team," he echoes.
He kisses me, soft and reassuring, and for a few seconds, I believe it.