He's sitting up straighter, hoodie bunching at his shoulders. He's stopped tapping his pen. He wants this. I can see it in the set of his jaw. Sam Sharma, for all his smiles and parties, is a shark.
If he gets it, he'll move to D.C. in June. He'll be gone.
If I get it, I'll be the one leaving.
It's a zero-sum game. My win is his loss. His dream is my nightmare.
Fuck.
Fuck fuck fuck fuck—
"The committee looks for individual brilliance," Foster continues, scanning the room. "But they also value the ability to synthesize conflicting viewpoints. Which is why your thesis proposals will not be solo endeavors."
A groan goes through the room. Group projects. The bane of every high-achiever's existence.
"You will be paired for the next three weeks," Foster says, raising his voice over the noise. "And you will not be choosing your partners. I have taken the liberty of pairing you based on... complementary skill sets."
My pulse spikes. I know what's coming. Foster is a sadist who thinks friction creates heat.
He starts reading names. "Miller and Zhang. O'Connor and Levine. Patel and Davies..."
I tune them out. I just stare at the back of Sam's neck. He's tense. He's waiting for it too.
"And finally," Foster says, a smirk on his lips. "Mr. Morse and Mr. Sharma."
The silence is louder than the whispers.
My alpha settles. A heavy, dark satisfaction.Mine. Close.
My brain, however, is pulling the fire alarm.
Three weeks of late nights in the library. Coffee runs. Arguments. Just the two of us, dissecting philosophy and economics while I try to keep my hands from dragging him onto a table.
Three weeks. I can barely handle forty-five minutes in a lecture hall. How am I supposed to survive three weeks of one-on-one time without doing something catastrophically stupid?
I'm going to say something weird. I'm going to stare too long. I'm going to accidentally call him "baby" or something and then have to transfer schools and change my name and move to Montana.
Sam spins in his chair.
He mouths a single word at me.
Finally.
Does he mean finally we settle who's smarter? Or finally, he gets to crush me?
"The project is fifty percent of your grade," Foster adds, oblivious to the fact that he just threw raw meat to a starving animal. "And the quality of your collaboration will weigh heavily on my recommendations. I suggest you get started."
Books snap shut and chairs scrape as everyone scrambles for the exit.
I don't move until I have the roar under my ribs locked down. I smooth my face into the mask of Devan Morse: the asshole.
I stand and use my height to carve a path to the door.
Sam is waiting there.
Up close, the scent is obscene. Lemon zest and warm cotton and burnt sugar. It hits the back of my throat. My brain short-circuits.
He's shorter than me, but he takes up twice the space.
