Chapter 8 Devan
Devan
This tie is trying to kill me.
I've adjusted it four times. It's still too tight. Or maybe my throat is just swelling shut from anxiety. That's a thing, right? Stress-induced throat closure? I should Google it. After I survive this interview. If I survive this interview.
The air in this room is recycled and stale, smelling of floor wax and old coffee and desperation. Underneath it all, I can smell Sam.
He's sitting six inches to my right, close enough that I could reach over and touch his knee. But I can't. Because right now, in this room, he's not my mate.
He's my competition.
Sam is wearing his "serious suit"—navy blue, fits him perfectly, makes him look like a young professional instead of the chaos gremlin who probably ate peanut butter cups for dinner last night.
He's vibrating slightly, that constant energy barely contained.
His hands are folded in his lap, knuckles pale.
Marcus Sterling and the entire Johnston committee are watching us. I'm not stupid enough to show weakness in front of a shark.
"Mr. Morse," the woman at the center of the table says. Dr. Aris Thorne, Dean of the Business School, has eyes like lasers and a haircut sharp enough to slice bread. "You seem distracted."
"Just focused, ma'am," I say. "Taking in the room."
"Take in the question instead."
Shit. I wasn't listening. I was too busy staring at the way Sam's collar is barely covering my bite mark.
I bullshit an answer about adaptive parameters and regional variation. Thorne nods, unimpressed but not hostile.
Then Sterling leans forward, and the temperature in the room drops.
"We've read the proposals," Sterling says. "Both impressive. You're clearly the top candidates." His eyes flick to Sam's neck, to the spot where my mark is hiding. "Professor Foster speaks highly of your... collaboration."
He knows.
"But the Johnston is a solo seat," Sterling continues. "One position. One winner. So let's see how you perform when the gloves come off."
My stomach tightens.
"Mr. Sharma." Sterling's smile widens. "Critique Mr. Morse's proposal. Right now. Tell me what's wrong with it."
Sam's breath catches. "Sir?"
"You heard me. Tear it apart. Unless you don't think there are any flaws?"
It's a trap. We both know it. If Sam refuses, he looks weak. If he attacks me, Sterling gets his gladiator match.
I catch Sam's eye. Just for a second.
It's okay. Do what you have to do.
Something passes between us. Then Sam takes a breath, and I watch him transform.
The nervousness doesn't disappear, but he shoves it down. When he turns back to the panel, his eyes are sharp. He looks like my rival again.
"Devan's model is elegant," Sam begins. "Mathematically sound. He builds a beautiful structure."
"But?" Sterling prompts.
"But it's brittle." Sam's hands are steady now, gesturing as he talks. "He assumes people will act rationally in a crisis. They won't. His model shatters under real panic."
He turns to look at me. Not apologetic. Not cruel. Just honest.
"It's beautiful math," Sam says quietly. "But it doesn't account for the fact that people are messy and scared and stupid."
I stare at him. He's right. Three weeks of work, and he just found the one weakness I was blind to because I always assume logic will prevail.
Sterling is grinning.
"Mr. Morse? Response?"
I look at Sam. He's flushed, breathing fast, but his chin is up.
"He's right," I say. "I didn't weigh the behavioral component heavily enough."
Sterling's grin widens. "Good. Very good." He swivels toward me. "Now. Return the favor. Mr. Sharma's proposal," Sterling says. "It's... charming. Optimistic. Tell me why it's garbage."
I turn to Sam.
He's looking at me, and I can read everything. The fear. The hope. The challenge. I know his proposal inside and out. I know every weakness—the tiny sample size, the bias baked into his surveys, the way he's building policy on feelings instead of data.
I could protect him. Spin it. Make every weakness sound like a feature.
But that's not what he wants. If I protect him now, I'm saying he can't handle it. That's not love. That's condescension.
"Sam's proposal is built on a beautiful idea," I say. "Connection fosters resilience. Communities survive better together."
"I sense a 'but,'" Sterling says.
"He can't prove it. He talked to a handful people and built a theory about human behavior. That's not data. That's a focus group."
Sam's eyes widen. I keep going.
"His model is a beautiful painting of a house with no foundation. It's hope dressed up as policy."
Sam flinches. But he doesn't look away. And I see something shift in his expression. Not hurt.
Recognition.
There you are, his eyes say. There's my rival.
"The concept is strong," I add. "He's asking the right questions. He just hasn't found the right answers yet."
Sterling stares at me. Then he does something unexpected—he laughs. A short, sharp sound.
"One position," he says, almost to himself. His eyes move between us, assessing. "Such a shame, really. You'd make quite the team."
He says it like he's dissecting a specimen.
"But that's not how the world works, is it?" Sterling smiles. "One winner. One loser. That's the game."
I feel Sam tense beside me.
"Thank you for your time," Thorne says, closing her folder. "We'll be in touch."
"Soon," Sterling adds. His eyes don't leave us.
We stand.
"Thank you," Sam says to the panel.
We walk out together, the door clicking shut behind us. We walk in silence past the glass doors, around the corner. Away from observers. Then we both stop.
"That was..." Sam starts.
"Yeah," I say.
"You actually did it." He shakes his head, a weird, shaky laugh escaping him. "You eviscerated me in there."
"You eviscerated me first."
"I know." Sam runs a hand through his hair, destroying the careful styling. "God, Devan. 'Hope dressed up as policy'—"
"Too far? I can go back in. Tell them I was exaggerating—"
"No." He cuts me off. "It was right. It was fair. I hit you just as hard."
"Harder. The 'shatters under real panic' thing was brutal."
"The 'focus group' line was worse."
"The 'beautiful math that doesn't account for stupid people' was—"
"Okay, we're both assholes," Sam interrupts. But he's almost smiling. "We're both assholes who just tried to destroy each other in front of a panel that controls our futures."
"Yes," I agree.
"I didn't know you had it in you," Sam says. "The whole time we've been together, you've been so... careful. Protective. I was scared you were going to deflect. Spin my weaknesses into strengths."
"I almost did," I admit.
"What stopped you?"
"You did," I say. "The way you looked at me after your critique. Like you were daring me to match you."
"I needed to know you could do it," he says. "That when it mattered, you'd treat me like an equal. Not like something fragile."
"You're not fragile. You're the most terrifying person I've ever argued with."
"Good." He steps closer. "Because that was the hottest thing anyone's ever done to me, and I'm having complicated feelings about it."
A laugh escapes me. "You're turned on? I just called your life's work a painting with no foundation."
"I know." His eyes are dark. "And you were right. And you said it to my face. And then you told them I was asking the right questions anyway."
He grabs the front of my shirt.
"Do you have any idea how attractive that is? Being seen like that? Being taken seriously?"
He kisses me.
Hard and desperate and tasting like relief. His hands fist in my shirt, pulling me closer, and I grab his hips to steady us both.
When we break apart, we're both breathing hard.
"We can't do this here," Sam pants, even as his hands are already working at my belt.
"Bathroom," I manage. "End of the hall."
We half-walk, half-stumble toward it. I shove the door open, check that it's empty, and pull him inside. The lock clicks behind us. I press Sam against the door and kiss him.
"Fuck," Sam gasps against my mouth. "I can't believe we just did that. I can't believe you—"
"Shut up," I growl, and drop to my knees.
Sam makes a choked sound. I yank his belt open, shove his pants down just enough, and take him into my mouth.
He's already hard. We've been running on adrenaline and tension for an hour, and apparently mutual destruction is foreplay for us. Good to know.
"Oh fuck," Sam breathes, his head thunking back against the door. His hands find my hair. "Devan, we're in a—anyone could—"
I swallow him deeper. He stops talking.
It's fast. It's messy. This is desperate, me on my knees on a bathroom floor, still in my interview suit, sucking off my mate like my life depends on it.
Sam's thighs are shaking. He's babbling now—my name, curses, broken fragments.
"Devan, I'm gonna—I can't—"
I pull off just long enough to say, "Then do it."
I take him back in and he comes with a muffled shout, his whole body jerking. I swallow everything, working him through it until he's oversensitive.
When I pull back, he's slumped against the door, eyes glazed.
"Holy shit," he whispers.
I stand up, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. My knees ache from the tile.
Sam looks at me. Then down.
"Your turn," he says, and his voice has that dangerous edge.
"You don't have to—"
He's already spinning us, shoving me against the door, dropping to his knees.
"You just called my life's work a beautiful painting with no foundation," he says, fingers working my zipper. "And then you got on your knees for me in a public bathroom. The least I can do is return the favor."
His mouth is on me before I can respond.
It doesn't take long. Sam knows exactly what I like, exactly how to take me deep, exactly when to tease.
But he doesn't tease today. Today he's as desperate as I am, and I last maybe two minutes before I'm coming with a groan I have to muffle against my own arm.
He swallows and grins up at me like the chaos gremlin he is.
"We're definitely going to hell," he says.
"Worth it," I manage.
We clean up. Straighten our clothes. Sam catches my eye in the mirror. His hair is wrecked.
"We should go," he says. "Before someone calls security."
I nod.
"Sam."
"Yeah?"
"What Sterling said. About one winner, one loser."
Sam's expression sobers. "I know."
"He's going to try to use this against us. Whatever we are. He sees it as a weakness."
"I know," Sam says again. He turns to face me. "But he's wrong. Right? We just proved he's wrong. We went in there, and we fought, and we're still..."
He gestures between us.
"Still us," I finish.
"Still us," he agrees.
I want to believe it. I want to believe that Sterling is just another obstacle, that our bond is stronger than whatever game he's playing.
But I saw the calculation in his eyes. He's not done with us.
"Come on," Sam says, taking my hand. "Let's get out of here. I need real food and at least three hours of not thinking about economic theory."
I let him pull me toward the door.