Chapter 11 Devan
Devan
Yesterday, we walked these halls like condemned men heading to the gallows. Today, Sam's hand is warm in mine, and there's something that feels almost like hope buzzing under my skin.
Or maybe that's just the four cups of coffee and zero hours of sleep.
"You're squeezing too hard," Sam murmurs.
I loosen my grip. "Sorry."
"Don't be sorry. I'm terrified too." He flashes me a grin that's only slightly manic. "But like, a fun terrified. Like a roller coaster."
"I hate roller coasters."
"I know. That's what makes this metaphor perfect."
We stop outside Sterling's door. The oak looks more imposing than yesterday, if that's possible. The brass nameplate gleams like a warning.
Sam takes a breath. "Okay. We go in there, we present the proposal, and we don't blink. No matter what he says."
"And if he laughs us out?"
"Then we leave with our dignity and our relationship intact." Sam squeezes my hand. "That's the win condition, remember? Not the internship. Us."
He's right. I know he's right. But god, I want this to work. Not for me—for him. For us. For the future we stayed up all night building.
I knock.
"Come in."
We push through the door. Sterling is behind his desk, same as yesterday. Dr. Thorne is notably absent. It's just him, in his expensive suit, with that shark's smile.
"Mr. Morse. Mr. Sharma." He gestures to the chairs. "I have to admit, I'm curious which one of you is here to sign the non-compete."
"Neither," Sam says.
We don't sit. We stand in front of his desk, shoulder to shoulder. Sam pulls the proposal from his bag—twenty pages, bound as professionally as possible from the all night printer station in the library—and sets it in front of Sterling.
"What's this?" Sterling picks it up, flipping through with a frown.
"A counter-offer," I say. My voice is steadier than I expected. "You gave us two options. We're proposing a third."
Sterling's eyebrow rises. "I wasn't aware this was a negotiation."
"Everything's a negotiation," Sam says. "You taught us that."
A flicker of something crosses Sterling's face. Surprise, maybe. Or amusement.
He leans back in his chair, still holding our proposal. "Enlighten me."
"A joint internship," I say. "Both of us or neither of us. We split the stipend, share the workload, and deliver twice the output."
"That's not how the Johnston works."
"It's not how it's worked before," Sam corrects.
"But look at page seven. We've outlined a collaborative model that addresses every concern you raised yesterday.
You said we were a liability because we couldn't separate personal and professional.
Fine. We're not separating them. We're integrating them. "
Sterling flips to page seven. His eyes scan the text. His expression gives nothing away.
"You said our connection made us hesitate," I add. "But connection isn't weakness. It's accountability. When we work together, we catch each other's blind spots. My quantitative rigor with Sam's qualitative insight. His creativity with my structure."
"You're stronger together," Sterling says flatly. "That's your pitch?"
"That's the data," Sam says. "Page twelve shows the productivity analysis. Page fifteen has the projected deliverables. We're not asking you to take a risk on sentiment. We're showing you the math."
Sterling is quiet for a long moment. He sets the proposal down on his desk. Folds his hands.
"You know," he says slowly, "when I designed this little test, I expected one of two outcomes. Either you'd tear each other apart fighting for the spot, or one of you would play the martyr and hand it over." He looks between us. "I didn't expect you to flip the table entirely."
"Is that a yes?" Sam asks.
"It's an observation." Sterling stands, walking to the window. He looks out at the campus below, hands clasped behind his back. "The internship has never been shared. There's no precedent."
My heart sinks. Sam's hand finds mine again, hidden behind our bodies.
"But then again," Sterling continues, still facing the window, "there was no precedent for me either, thirty years ago."
He turns back to us. Something in his expression has shifted. The shark is still there, but underneath it—something older. Softer.
"My mate and I spent three years trying to destroy each other," he says. "We were at rival firms. Every deal, every client, every win—it was a war. I thought that's what ambition required. That love and success were mutually exclusive."
I blink. Sam's grip on my hand tightens.
"We almost lost each other," Sterling says quietly. "More than once. It took us far too long to figure out what you two seem to have figured out in a semester."
He picks up our proposal again, weighing it in his hands.
"The Johnston has never been shared," he repeats. "But institutions that don't evolve become irrelevant. And frankly, the work you've outlined here is better than anything either of you produced solo."
Sam makes a small, choked sound beside me.
"So yes, Mr. Sharma. Mr. Morse." Sterling sets the proposal down with a decisive tap. "It's a yes. Joint internship. You start in June."
For a second, I can't breathe. I can't move. The words don't compute.
Then Sam lets out a whoop that probably echoes through the entire building and throws his arms around me.
I catch him automatically, lifting him off his feet. He's laughing—or maybe crying, it's hard to tell—and I'm pretty sure I'm doing both.
"Thank you," I manage, looking at Sterling over Sam's shoulder. "Sir. Thank you."
Sterling waves a dismissive hand, but there's a ghost of a smile on his face. "Don't thank me yet. The workload is going to be brutal. And if you think I was tough in the interview, wait until you see me as a supervisor."
"We can handle it," Sam says, pulling back from me but keeping an arm around my waist. "We're a good team."
"You'd better be." Sterling sits back down, already reaching for another file on his desk. "Now get out of my office. I have actual work to do."
We're halfway to the door when his voice stops us.
"Oh, and gentlemen?"
We turn.
Sterling isn't looking at us. He's looking at a photo on his desk, one I didn't notice yesterday. Two men, standing on a beach somewhere tropical, arms around each other.
"Hold onto each other," he says quietly. "The career, the accolades, the corner office—none of it means anything if you go home to an empty house."
He looks up, and for just a second, the shark is gone entirely.
"Trust me on that one."
***
We make it to the stairwell before I pin Sam against the wall.
"We did it," I breathe against his mouth. "Holy shit. We actually did it."
"I know." He's grinning so wide it must hurt. His hands are fisted in my shirt, pulling me closer. "I can't believe—Devan, we did it."
I kiss him. It's messy and desperate and tastes like joy. He makes a sound into my mouth—half laugh, half moan—and wraps his arms around my neck.
"We should celebrate," he gasps when we break for air.
"We should tell the others."
"We should do both." He pulls back, eyes bright. "Group text. Then your room. Then we don't leave for at least twelve hours."
"Deal."
He pulls out his phone, thumbs flying.
Sam: WE GOT IT. BOTH OF US. JOINT INTERNSHIP. NOT A DRILL.
The responses come immediately:
Braiden: OH MY GOD
Braiden: I'M SCREAMING
Braiden: WES IS SCREAMING
Braiden: WE'RE ALL SCREAMING
Jionni: called it. told toby you two would burn the system down
Toby: Congratulations! This calls for a celebration. Daily Grind, 7pm?
Wes: ??????
"Seven gives us..." Sam checks the time. "Six hours."
"More than enough," I say, and drag him toward my building.
***
Clothes come off in a trail from the entrance to the bed—his jacket by the door, my shirt over a chair, his pants somewhere near the desk. By the time we hit the mattress, we're down to boxers and I can't stop laughing.
"What?" Sam asks, grinning up at me from the pillows.
"Nothing. Everything." I hover over him, taking in the sight—his flushed cheeks, his wild hair, the mark on his neck that's faded to a pale pink but still mine. "I just can't believe this is my life."
"Believe it, big guy." He hooks a leg around my waist, pulling me down. "Now stop being sappy and start being sexy."
"I can be both."
"Prove it."
I kiss him slow and deep, savoring it. There's no desperation tonight, no fear, no ticking clock. Just us and time and the sweet certainty of knowing we made it.
"I love you," I murmur against his jaw. "Have I said that today?"
"Only about twelve times." He tilts his head back, giving me access to his throat. "But I'm not tired of hearing it."
"Good." I kiss down his neck, pausing at his pulse point. "I love you." Lower, to his collarbone. "I love you." Across his chest, tongue flicking over a nipple. "I love you."
"Devan—" His voice hitches. His fingers card through my hair. "Stop teasing."
"I'm not teasing. I'm worshipping." I look up at him, chin resting on his sternum. "There's a difference."
"The difference is I want you inside me, like, five minutes ago."
"Impatient."
"Horny. There's a difference."
I laugh—a real, full laugh that I feel in my chest. When did I become someone who laughs during sex? When did I become someone who laughs at all?
Sam. The answer is Sam.
I work my way back up his body, shedding my boxers along the way. He shimmies out of his own, and then it's skin on skin, nothing between us.
"Hi," he whispers.
"Hi," I whisper back.
He's already wet when I reach between his legs—slick and open, like his body knew what was coming. I slide two fingers into him easily, watching his face as he gasps.
"Ready for me?"
"Been ready." He rocks down onto my hand. "Always ready for you."
I line myself up and push in slow. The heat of him is overwhelming—tight and perfect and home. His legs wrap around my waist, pulling me deeper, and I bottom out with a groan.
"God," Sam breathes. "Never gets old."