Me:I think I'm going to throw up.
Three dots bubble up immediately. God bless Braiden and his obsessive need to be near a phone at all times.
Braiden:Don't puke in the library. The carpet is disgusting enough. Is he there yet?
Me:No. I'm early. B, I'm literally vibrating. Make it stop.
Braiden:It's just Morse. You argue with him every day. You thrive on conflict.
Me:I thrive on winning. He makes me feel like I'm losing even when I'm right.
Braiden:That's called sexual tension babe
Me:I HATE YOU
Me:Also I haven't eaten since like 11 and I had three espresso shots and I think I can hear colors.
Braiden:omg eat something
Braiden:There's a granola bar in my desk if you die
Me:If I die you can have my Nintendo switch
Braiden:Already assumed that was the arrangement
I drop the phone onto the table and lean my forehead against the cool laminate.
Braiden doesn't get it. Nobody does. They think it's funny, a spectator sport. And yeah, part of me loves it. When I'm going toe-to-toe with Devan, when those eyes lock onto mine and he dissects my arguments, I feel... real.
That sounds dramatic. I know it sounds dramatic. I sound like those posts on the Westbridge confessions page that everyone screenshots and makes fun of. "To the mysterious alpha in my Thursday seminar, I think about you every time I see a thunderstorm." That kind of cringe.
But it's TRUE, okay?
That's the dirty little secret I keep tucked under my ribs. Westbridge is full of geniuses. Legitimate, effortless geniuses. Kids who got perfect SAT scores without studying. Kids whose parents are on the board. Kids who casually mention their "summer home in the Hamptons" like that's a normal thing to have.
And then there's me: Sam Sharma, whose dad drives a Honda Civic with 200,000 miles on it and whose mom still clips coupons even though I'm on a full scholarship. Whose parents are legends in their fields.
But Devan is the smartest person I've ever met. Scary smart. And when he looks at me, even when it's like I'm a particularly annoying bug, heseesme. He treats me like a threat. Like an equal.
If Devan thinks I'm worth the fight, maybe I actually belong here.
I sit up, smoothing the front of my hoodie. My heart is doing this weird flutter-thump thing. It's the coffee. Definitely the coffee. Three espresso shots on an empty stomach was a choice. A bad choice.
Or maybe my suppressants are wearing off. I've been on the heavy-duty blockers since freshman year because I cannot focus on Econ 201 if I'm swooning every time a cute alpha walks by.
Usually, the campus smells like a muddled mix of cheap body spray and anxiety. But today... today my skin feels too tight. My senses are dialed up to eleven. I can smell the whiteboard markers. The dust in the vents. The leftover Thai food someone microwaved three floors up.
That's... that's not normal, right? That's a lot.
The door handle turns.
My breath hitches. I plaster on my patented "I am totally chill and definitely not hyperventilating" smile. Spin my chair around.
Devan walks in.
Seeing him in a lecture hall is one thing. Seeing him walk into a ten-by-ten soundproof study room is... a lot.
He takes up so much space. He's not just tall; he's dense. Like a black hole He's wearing black, of course. A sweater that fits too well across those broad shoulders, dark jeans, boots. His hair falls into his eyes, and he looks...
