Chapter 6 Devan
Devan
"No," I say, staring at the whiteboard. "Absolutely not."
Sam stops mid-gesture, the red marker hovering over a sprawling, chaotic mind map that looks less like a research proposal and more like a conspiracy theorist's basement wall. "What do you mean, 'no'? It's brilliant. It's innovative."
"It makes no sense," I say, leaning back in the uncomfortable library chair. "You can't just introduce a variable for 'vibes', Sam."
"It's not 'vibes', Devan. It's 'the human factor.'" Sam pouts. Actually pouts. He pushes his glasses up his nose—he only wears them when he's tired, and they make him look ridiculous—and glares at me. "You're being a killjoy. A buzzkill with a spreadsheet fetish."
"I'm being the person who wants us to pass this seminar," I say, though my resolve is already crumbling.
We've been in the study room for six hours. It's Saturday night. The rest of the campus is probably out drinking cheap beer or making bad decisions in dorm rooms. We are here, surrounded by stacks of books, three laptops, and the smell of dry-erase markers.
I watch Sam pace the small room. He's wearing oversized grey sweatpants and a t-shirt that says Entrophy is inevitable (yes, it's misspelled—he thinks it's hilarious). His hair is a mess of curls that have been tugged and twisted in frustration.
"You're staring," Sam says without turning around. He's erasing a section of the board. "You're undressing me with your eyes. I can feel it. It's distracting." He turns, grinning. "Stop looking at my ass and look at my data."
"I can multitask."
Sam laughs, that bright, loud sound that settles in my chest. He caps the marker and leans against the whiteboard, crossing his arms. "Okay, Mr. Precision. If you hate my 'vibes' variable, what's your solution? We need something that explains why people do dumb stuff when they panic."
"We need sugar," I say, standing up.
Sam blinks. "What?"
"You're crashing." I walk over to his backpack, which has dumped its contents onto the floor, and nudge it aside with my foot. I reach into my own bag, the leather satchel Sam calls my 'grandpa bag', and pull out the stash.
"I am not cra—" Sam cuts himself off as I set the items on the table.
A bag of chili-lime rolled tortilla chips, a king-sized pack of peanut butter cups, and a bottle of that neon-blue raspberry soda that looks radioactive.
Sam stares at the table. Then at me. Then back at the table.
"Shut up," he whispers.
"Eat," I say, sitting back down. "You get mean when your blood sugar drops."
Sam picks up the soda. "This is the blue one. The specific blue one from the vending machine in the basement of the Science Center. The one they don't sell in the cafeteria."
"I know."
"And these chips..." He crinkles the bag. "I only eat these when I'm stressed about deadlines."
"I know. You always hit the basement vending machine before midterms. You have a ritual."
He looks at me, his dark eyes wide. "You noticed my snack ritual."
"I notice everything about you," I say. "I know you hum when you're reading something you like. I know you tap your pen when you're thinking. I know you hate the texture of velvet but love fleece."
Sam moves fast. One second he's by the whiteboard, the next he's in my space, his hands gripping the edges of the table, leaning in until our noses are almost touching.
"That is," he breathes, "the creepiest, most romantic thing anyone has ever said to me."
"I'm efficient," I say, my eyes dropping to his mouth.
"You're a stalker."
"Guilty."
Then he kisses me—quick, hard—and snatches the chips.
"Okay, Stalker," he says, tearing the bag open and hopping onto the edge of the table. "You've proven your obsession. Now prove your point. Fix my thesis."
We work.
Sam is chaos. He throws ideas at the wall to see what sticks. He thinks in broad, colorful strokes, connecting dots that shouldn't be connected. But I'm the filter.
He pours the raw material; I refine it.
"Okay, look," I say, grabbing the blue marker. I circle the mess he made in the center of the board. "The core idea here is solid. How panic spreads through communities. But your evidence is all over the place."
Sam chews on a chip, watching me. "Ouch. Tell me how you really feel."
"You talked to, what, fifty people? And you think you've cracked the code on human behavior?" I meet his gaze. "You're brilliant, Sam. But you're winging it because you know you're charming enough to bullshit your way through the presentation."
Sam stops chewing. Something flickers across his face, there and gone. He swallows, wipes the chili dust from his lips with the back of his hand, and looks at me.
"Winging it," he repeats, testing the word.
"With the structure," I clarify, my pulse kicking up. "Not the concept."
Sam slides off the table. He stalks toward me. "So prove me wrong. Show me where it falls apart."
"I can," I say. "Right now."
"Do it." He stops right in front of my chair, boxing me in. "Tear it apart, Devan. Don't go easy on me."
I stare up at him. He's flushed, his breathing a little faster. And I realize this is what he wants.
He likes this.
"Fine." I turn to his laptop, pulling up his spreadsheet. "You talked to fifty people and you're acting like that's enough to predict how millions will behave. That's not data, Sam. That's a focus group."
"So what do you want me to do?" He leans over my shoulder. "Interview a thousand people? I don't have time for that."
"You don't need more interviews. You need historical backup."
"Like what? Old news articles?"
"No. Consumer confidence surveys. They've been tracking how people feel about the economy for decades. If your fifty people match the patterns from historical data, suddenly you're not just guessing. You're proving a trend."
Sam is quiet for a second. "Holy shit. If we layer the survey data over my interviews, we can show the pattern repeating. It's not anecdotal anymore, it's a trend across decades."
He's right. It's the missing piece. He just took my criticism and flipped it into a solution.
"That's... actually brilliant," I say.
Sam's face changes.
"Say it again. Say I'm right." He shifts, his thigh pressing against my arm. "I want to hear you admit it."
"You're right."
"God, that's hot."
I push the laptop away. The screen saver flickers on.
"You just fixed your entire proposal," I say, my voice gone thick. "You just... made it work."
"We fixed it," Sam corrects. He runs a hand through my hair, gripping the strands at the base of my skull. "I wouldn't have gotten there if you hadn't called me out."
I look at him, really look at him. The messy hair, the chili-dust stained lips, the fierce intelligence burning in his eyes. It's not just that he's pretty.
It's his mind.
I've never been turned on by someone solving a research problem. But here we are.
"Sam," I warn.
"Devan," he mocks, breathless.
I grab him by the waist and haul him forward. He yelps, a surprised laugh escaping him as I pull him onto my lap. He straddles me, the chair creaking under us.
"Whoa," Sam gasps, his hands finding my shoulders to steady himself. "Library. Public building. Very thin walls."
"I don't care."
"You... solving problems together really does it for you, huh?" Sam asks, already breathless.
"Shut up. I like how you think. I like that you didn't back down."
I kiss him. Messy and desperate. Our teeth clash. He tastes like fake blue raspberry and salt. He kisses me back with the same ferocity, pulling at my hair.
I go for his waistband. "Lift up."
"Devan, the door—"
"Locked," I lie. I don't know if it's locked. I don't care. If the Dean walks in right now, I'll stare him down.
Sam lifts his hips, and I yank his sweatpants down. He's hard, the scent of him flooding the small room.
"You... you made me think," he gasps. "It's your fault."
"Yeah?" I stroke him slowly, watching his face. "Thinking gets you hot?"
"You getting all intense about data gets me hot. It's embarrassing. Don't make it weird."
"I'm going to make it so weird."
I fumble with my own jeans until I'm free. I can't wait.
I grip his hips, positioning him, and thrust up.
Sam cries out, a sharp, broken noise that I swallow with my mouth. He clamps down on me, tight and hot, and the sensation is so intense I see stars.
The chair groans ominously.
"You're brilliant," I tell him. "You're so fucking smart."
Sam whines, his eyes rolling back. "Devan..."
"Say it," I demand, hitting that spot inside him that makes his toes curl. "Tell me you know how smart you are."
"I know," he sobs, clutching my shirt. "Fuck—I know—!"
He comes with a muffled shout into my shoulder. I bury my face in his neck.
We stay like that, panting. The air conditioner hums. Sam goes limp against me.
"We are..." he wheezes, "going to get kicked out of school."
"Worth it," I say.
"All we have is a half-finished proposal and a bag of chips."
"And a breakthrough," I remind him, kissing his sweaty temple.
"And a breakthrough." He lifts his head, blinking at me. "That was... educational."
"Very," I say.
This room is going to smell like us for a week. Someone else's problem.
I look at the whiteboard.
It's a mess. But in the center, where we combined our ideas, it's clear. It's strong. It's better than anything I could have done alone.
I've spent my whole life thinking intelligence was a solo sport. That I was a fortress, and other people were just distractions. But looking at that board, seeing Sam's wild colors mixed with my rigid structures...
I don't want to beat him.
I don't want to win the internship if it means he loses. I want to work with him.
"We should finish the abstract," Sam says, pulling me from my thoughts. He's back in his seat, looking rumpled but focused. He pops a peanut butter cup into his mouth. "If we grind for another hour, we can sleep Sunday."
By 1 a.m., the proposal is done.
"We did it," Sam whispers, staring at the final PDF on the screen. "Holy shit, Devan. We actually did it."
"It's good," I say. "Really good."
"It is," a voice says from the doorway.
We both jump.
Professor Foster is standing in the doorway. He's wearing a tweed coat and holding a stack of papers.
Does he know? Can he smell it?
But Foster isn't looking at us. He's looking at the whiteboard.
He steps inside and studies the diagram. "Interesting approach. Historical data to validate contemporary observations." He turns to look at us, a small, cryptic smile on his lips. "Impressive work, gentlemen."
"Thank you, sir," I manage. Sam nods.
"I expected nothing less from my two top students," Foster says. He checks his watch. "Late night for a Saturday. I like it."
He turns to leave, then pauses, his hand on the doorframe.
"The competition for the Johnston is going to be fierce this year," he says. "Marcus Sterling is heading up the board, and from what I hear, he's looking for something special. A singular vision."
He looks between us.
"Interviews are next Friday," he adds. "I hope you're both ready to show him what you can do. Alone."
He nods once and walks away, his footsteps echoing down the corridor.
I look at the whiteboard, our shared work. Then I look at Sam.
Sam is staring at the doorway, his hand going to his neck, covering the mark.
"Next Friday," Sam whispers.
"One week," I say.
The whiteboard doesn't look like a triumph anymore. Because Foster is right. We built this together. But only one of us can walk through that door and win.