"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."
