Jon forces himself to calm his breathing and smooth out his expression - he knows he tends to frown when he’s under pressure.
The Head of the Institute - who he almost called “Mr Magnus” when shaking his hand, holy shit - is reading though his résumé, occasionally humming - though whether it’s from appreciation or disapproval, Jon can’t tell. He’s currently way too busy worrying his cuticules to identify which emotions (if any) are passing on Mr Bouchard’s severe but attractive face.
Then, finally, the man looks up and smiles. His teeth are white and straight, his eyes distant, as if they don’t really belong in his face.
“You seem like a very promising young man, Mr Sims. I feel like we’re going to accomplish great things together.”
Don’t frown, Jon reminds himself despite his eyebrows attempting to knot themselves into one. He nods, engaging a level of eye contact with Mr Bouchard he hopes is appropriate.
“Of course. I’ll try not to disappoint.”
“Oh,” Bouchard all but purrs, “I doubt you will.”