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—youknew?"
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 notus. 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.
