11: Sacred Tuesdays

The dining hall smelled of burnt toast and overcooked hash browns, but Bharath didn’t care. He was hungry. Sore, but ravenous. He limped slightly as he reached their usual table and found Jorge already there, towel draped around his neck, still glistening from his early morning gym session.

“Look who finally showed up,” Jorge said, grinning. “We thought you were dead.”

Bharath dropped his tray on the table with a grunt. “Close enough.”

Jorge took one look at him and narrowed his eyes. “You’re skipping the gym again?”

Bharath winced as he sat. “I got stabbed, Jorge.”

“Is that your new excuse?” Jorge smirked. “Next you’ll tell me you rescued a princess and slayed a dragon.”

“Close,” Bharath muttered through a mouthful of eggs.

Tyrel sauntered over, plopping a folded newspaper onto the table with the grace of a magician revealing his finale.

“Page three,” he said dramatically. “You’re famous.”

Bharath raised an eyebrow. Jorge leaned in, unfolding the copy of the Atlanta Journal-Constitution with a flourish. A headline on the page read:

MUGGING INTERRUPTED NEAR MIDTOWN STATION — UNKNOWN GOOD SAMARITAN INTERVENES

Below it, a blurred photo of flashing lights, yellow tape, and an ambulance van.

“No names?” Bharath asked, relieved.

“Nope,” Tyrel said. “But the reporter called the guy a ‘quiet, Indian student who vanished before reporters arrived.’ Sound like anyone we know?”

Bharath groaned.

“Atlanta Batman,” Tyrel declared, holding out a fist for Jorge, who bumped it with a grin.

Ravi arrived late, sliding into the seat beside Bharath with a frown.

“You should’ve told me, man,” he said. “Jorge filled me in. You really okay?”

“I’m fine. Just a little sore.”

“You’re nuts,” Ravi muttered. “I mean, respect bhai — but you are nuts.”

“Totalmente!,” Jorge said. “I go to the gym for twenty minutes and Bharath’s out here earning vigilante status.”

“Dude’s skipping biceps to fight crime,” Tyrel added. “Respect dawg.”

“Can we not turn this into an origin story?” Bharath sighed. “I didn’t vanish into the shadows. I got taken to the ER.”

“Did you at least wear a cape?” Tyrel asked.

“Or tights?” Jorge grinned.

“Guys,” Ravi said, shaking his head, “he literally got stitched up for this.”

They gave him a moment’s silence as a mark of respect.

Tyrel took a bite of his breakfast sausage and said with his mouth full, “Atlanta Batman. I’m printing t-shirts.”

Bharath rolled his eyes but couldn’t help the grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Maybe he had done something wild. Maybe for once, he didn’t feel like the awkward foreign kid tagging along.

As the bell tower began its ten-minute warning chime, trays clattered and chairs scraped back. The boys stood up, grabbing their bags.

“Take it easy,” Jorge said, clapping him on the back. “No heroics till Friday.”

“No promises,” Bharath said with a shrug.

Tyrel winked. “Keep the city safe, Batman.”

As they walked out toward campus under the soft Atlanta morning sun, Bharath let himself enjoy the warmth — not just from the light, but from the laughter, the teasing, the sense that these were his people now.

Bharath walked a little slower than the rest, letting Jorge and Tyrel’s chatter fade into the background as they veered off toward their lecture halls. Ravi tossed him a backward wave and disappeared into the crowd.

And just like that, he was alone again. Backpack slung over one shoulder, sun at his back, stitches tugging gently with each step.

He tugged the hoodie tighter across his chest and exhaled.

Atlanta Batman.

The words made him smile. Not because he believed them. But because, for once, he felt like the people around him weren’t laughing at him for his clothes or his accent — they were celebrating him. Like he mattered. Like he had done something that proved he belonged.

He didn’t feel like a hero.

He still flinched when he replayed the moment — the glint of the blade, the sound of Sarah’s scream, the blur of motion as he swung that pole harder than he’d ever swung a cricket bat back home.

But then he thought of Marisol’s voice in his ear. The way she’d whispered I love you like it was a vow. The way she had looked at him afterward — not like he was reckless, but like he was hers.

And Sarah.

The way her hands had trembled when she passed him tea. The way her eyes had gone soft with something that wasn’t just gratitude.

That ... scared him.

He hadn’t done anything. Hadn’t even thought anything noble — just reacted like a teenager who’d seen two goddesses sleep-entwined in his lap.

But even as he told himself that, something uneasy twisted in his stomach.

Was that true?

Or was he just trying to nullify a feeling he wasn’t ready to face?

He pressed a hand to his forehead.

He was in love with Marisol. He knew that. Every part of him sang for her — her laugh, her warmth, the way she looked at him like he was made of more than flesh and mistake. She had given herself to him without fear. Said she belonged to him.

And yet ... when Sarah had curled into him, when her cheek brushed his chest and her leg slung over his hip, his body had betrayed him. Not in malice. Not even in intent. But in reflex.

Was that normal?

Or was he cheating, even in thought?

The word struck like a slap. He winced. What kind of man gets aroused by someone else the morning after his girlfriend says “I love you”? What did that say about him?

He’d never been in love before. Never been with anyone. He didn’t have rules for this. Amma and Appa had loved each other deeply — but their world was clearer, older. Bound by dharma and duty. You married once, and that was it. You didn’t lie with one woman while dreaming of another.

But this wasn’t dreaming. Not really.

It had just ... happened.

Still, he couldn’t shake the shame. Marisol made him feel like a man. Like someone worthy of devotion. And now, here he was, blood still warm from the way Sarah had looked curled beside them.

He didn’t want to want Sarah. He didn’t want to disrespect Marisol, even in silence. But part of him — the part that remembered the way Sarah had looked at him while stirring pancake batter, lips parted, gaze soft — couldn’t lie. Something had shifted. A current had passed between them.

He buried his face in his hands. His stomach turned.

What’s wrong with me?

Or ... was there nothing wrong at all?

Could it be that his heart — so unused to being seen, held, wanted — was just overflowing? That love didn’t always mean less for someone else, but something... more?

He didn’t know. And that scared him more than anything.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” he muttered aloud.

There was something real forming. He didn’t know what to name it. Didn’t know how to carry it. But it was there — humming just under the surface of things.

For most of his life, Bharath had felt like a background character. The quiet kid. The nerd. The foreigner trying to keep up.

Now?

He wasn’t sure who he was becoming.

But for the first time in a long time, he wanted to find out.

He adjusted his strap, pulled his walkman headphones over one ear, and let the hum of Atlanta swallow him again.

Whatever came next ... he’d be ready.

Bharath leaned against the low wall outside the CoC building, the early buzz of campus life milling around him. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his bandaged side still aching, but his mind elsewhere entirely.

He was nervous.

Not about class.

About her.

And then, like some karmic reward for surviving the previous 48 hours, there she was — Marisol — walking up the stone path like she owned the sidewalk and the sun. A short black skirt swayed around her hips. A fitted tee hugged her in all the right places. Her hair was wild, her earrings catching the light like little warnings.

Bharath’s mouth went dry.

Students turned to look. One guy practically walked into a trash can.

And then she was in his arms.

She kissed him before he could speak — hungry, public, unapologetic. Her hands were in his hair. His were at her waist, then sliding lower, then stopping just short of danger.

A few feet away, someone wolf-whistled.

“Jesus Christ,” someone else muttered. “Get a room.”

Marisol pulled away, flushed and radiant, and turned toward the voice. “Get me one,” she said sweetly, then turned back to Bharath with a satisfied smirk.

He stared at her, dazed. “You’re ... dressed to destroy me.”

“That was the idea,” she said, straightening his collar like a challenge. “You’re healing, not dead.”

“Barely.”

They started walking toward the CS building, still holding hands.

“Also,” she said casually, “you’re coming home with me tonight.”

Bharath nearly tripped. “Wait — what?”

“My mom wants to meet you.”

He stopped in his tracks. “Your mother?”

“Yes,” she said with a smile too wide to be reassuring. “I told her about us.”

“All of ... us?”

She nodded. “Everything.”

Bharath stared at the pavement. “Marisol, that’s ... a lot.”

“I know,” she said. “But she’s old-school. She worries. You disappeared with me for a whole weekend, and I didn’t come home till Monday night. If I don’t bring you home, she’s going to assume you’re either married to someone else or planning a murder-suicide.”

“That’s not comforting.”

“She’s going to love you.”

“You don’t know that.”

Marisol’s face softened. She stopped, stepping in front of him. “Hey. It’s just dinner. You’ve done harder things. You got stabbed.”

“Exactly. I’ve met knives. I haven’t met Latina mothers.”

She laughed — not unkindly. “It’ll be okay. You’re polite. You’re smart. You’re respectful. You’re...” She tilted her head. “Weirdly formal, which she’ll like.”

Bharath still looked uneasy. “What if I mess it up?”

“You won’t,” she said. “Just ... be honest. Be you. And maybe don’t bring up Star Trek.”

He cracked a reluctant smile. “Noted.”

They resumed walking, her fingers squeezing his lightly.

Up ahead, Ravi and Jorge were waiting near the lecture hall doors.

“Finally!” Jorge called. “We thought you two eloped.”

“Or died of horniness,” Ravi added.

Bharath waved them off. “We’re here, aren’t we?”

“Barely,” Marisol muttered under her breath, brushing imaginary creases from her skirt.

“Damn, Marisol,” Jorge said as they approached. “You’re dressing like the semester’s already over.”

Marisol smirked. “Maybe it is. For me.”

Ravi leaned toward Bharath. “You ready for class today? Or is your girl keeping you too... occupied?”

Bharath didn’t answer — just shot him a look halfway between embarrassment and wonder.

Ravi whistled. “This man’s gone.”

They all laughed and walked into the lecture hall, but Bharath’s nerves lingered.

Tonight, he was going to meet her family. So soon!

And somehow, that felt scarier than any knife.

The lecture hall buzzed with the low thrum of fluorescent lights, keyboard taps, and the occasional click of a pen. Professor Matthis was already halfway into a spiel about inheritance hierarchies and polymorphism, gesturing wildly at a Java class diagram projected on the screen.

And Bharath?

Bharath was drowning.

Not in the syntax. Not in the code.

In her.

Marisol sat exactly one seat away from him, her legs crossed, her spiral notebook tilted just so, her pen moving with casual grace. The hem of her black skirt kept sliding up just a bit more each time she shifted, and Bharath couldn’t stop looking. Or rather, glancing, then immediately forcing his eyes back to the whiteboard. Then failing. Repeating. Dying.

She looked ... unfair.

Hair loose, lips glossed, earrings swinging with every scribble. And then there was her chest — contained only technically by the snug fitted tee she’d knotted slightly at the side. He’d seen those breasts last night. Touched them. Tasted them.

His mouth remembered more than he wanted it to at 10:12 AM.

A little whisper of memory stirred at the base of his spine.

Stop it. Focus.

He turned back to the board.

Something about classes extending other classes. A diagram. Circles. Arrows. Words.

“Bharath.”

He blinked. Ravi was nudging him. “What’s ‘method overloading’ again?”

Bharath opened his mouth.

Nothing came out.

Ravi stared.

So did Jorge, from the other side.

“Hermano,” Jorge whispered, frowning. “Are you high?”

Bharath shook his head violently. “No. No—just ... tired.”

Ravi looked unconvinced. “Bhai, you’re never tired. You’re usually three pages ahead of the professor. You didn’t even open your laptop.”

Bharath blinked. He hadn’t. It was still zipped in his bag.

Shit.

Marisol leaned slightly toward him, breath warm at his ear. “You okay, baby?”

He swallowed hard. Baby. The word hit him square in the chest.

“I’m fine,” he muttered, already turning red.

She gave him a knowing smile. “You sure? You seem ... distracted.”

Distracted? She was the distraction. Sitting there like a fever dream in a skirt, skin still glowing from his hands the night before.

And now her mom wanted to meet him?

He tried to focus on the board again.

“Let’s define a class hierarchy,” the professor droned. “Dog extends Animal. Cat extends Animal. But Cat can override speak() differently...”

Speak?

He couldn’t even breathe right now.

In his peripheral vision, Marisol uncapped her lip balm and ran it slowly across her mouth.

Bharath’s leg bounced under the desk like it was trying to flee the building.

“Hermano,” Jorge hissed. “Explain this stuff. Please. I’m lost.”

Bharath stared at the slide. The words blurred.

“ ... We can override a method from the superclass if we use the same signature—”

He could recite this in his sleep.

But not today.

His brain was full of soft moans and black lace and the way Marisol arched when he bit her nipple just right.

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’ll send notes later.”

Ravi looked genuinely worried now. “Oh mere bhai. What’s happening? You’re never off.”

Bharath dropped his head into his hands. “I think I’m broken.”

Jorge leaned in. “Is it the stabbing?”

“No,” Bharath said flatly. “It’s her breasts.”

Both of them went still. They looked at her.

And then, together: “Fair.”

They backed off for now.

But Bharath sat through the rest of the class hearing none of it. Just the soft, echoing whisper of Marisol’s breath in his ear the night before. Just her fingers curled in his hair. Her body pressed against him like she belonged there. Like they were already something inevitable.

He was in love.

He was overwhelmed.

And he was one dinner away from being cross-examined by a Latina mother who probably thought he was either a nerdy rebound or a future problem. He had taken her virginity. It wasn’t the kind of thing a person could apologize for and return back if they were not happy about it.

His pen hovered over his blank notebook.

Inheritance, abstraction, polymorphism?

Not today.

Today he was fighting the battle of hormones vs. survival.

Bharath shuffled behind Marisol like a shell-shocked soldier.

His backpack hung lopsided on one shoulder. His eyes were glazed. His hair — usually tidy — was sticking up in odd places from all the times he’d run his hands through it during class. Jorge had stopped talking to him altogether. Ravi just muttered “desi Casanova’s glitching” under his breath.

Marisol glanced back and frowned. “Mi amor, qué pasó?”

No response.

She stopped walking. Bharath nearly bumped into her.

“Okay. What’s going on with you?”

He blinked slowly, like he was just now seeing her. “What?”

“You’re not okay,” she said, putting her hands on her hips. “You didn’t speak for an entire hour. You didn’t even correct the professor when he mixed up compile-time and runtime polymorphism.”

He groaned softly. “Please don’t say polymorphism right now.”

Marisol blinked, confused.

“Mi amor,” she said more gently, stepping in closer. “Is this about ... tonight? Meeting my mom?”

Bharath’s stomach twisted. “Maybe.”

She reached up, brushing his cheek with her knuckles. “It’s going to be okay. My mom’s tough but fair. She just wants to look into your soul and make sure you’re not going to ruin her daughter’s life.”

He gave her a look. “You’re not helping.”

Marisol smiled sympathetically. “Okay, okay. Then let’s make a deal.”

She leaned in, lowering her voice to a purr. “We skip lunch. Find somewhere private. You use my body to relieve all that tension you’re carrying.”

Bharath inhaled sharply — audibly.

His eyes widened, and his backpack actually slipped off his shoulder and hit the ground.

“W-what?” he croaked.

Marisol arched an eyebrow, clearly enjoying herself. “I’m serious. You’re clearly wound up. And it’s my fault, isn’t it? Walking in here looking all edible—” she gestured vaguely at her own figure “—and then talking about moms and dinner and God knows what else.”

He swallowed hard, backing up a step. “You’re trying to kill me.”

She laughed. “No. Just trying to make my man function again.”

“I’m barely functioning as it is!”

“Oh, I noticed,” she said sweetly. “You were staring at the whiteboard like it was a vision from the Bible.”

“I was trying not to picture your breasts in my mouth during a lecture about Java classes!”

Marisol’s eyes glittered. “And were you successful?”

He gave her a helpless look.

She sighed dramatically, then kissed him — quick and hard.

He staggered again, grabbing a bike rack for balance. “Okay. You’ve definitely broken me.”

She leaned in close, whispering against his ear. “Physics next. You better pull it together before I start thinking I need to punish you.”

Bharath whimpered.

She winked. “Now walk. And maybe think about anything that isn’t under my clothes. Like my panties.”

“That only made things worse! Why would you say that?”

As she turned and strode off toward the physics building, hips swaying slightly, Bharath stood there in the middle of the quad — dazed, flushed, half-erect, and convinced he had no hope of surviving the rest of the day.

The lecture hall was only half full. Most of the class sat near the back, hoping to avoid the professor’s eye — a wiry man with a permanent scowl and a voice that sounded like he gargled chalk every morning.

Bharath sat near the front. That had been the rule. “Focus zone.” “No distractions.”

Today, he was in hell.

Because next to him — legs crossed high, skirt somehow shorter than he remembered it being this morning — sat Marisol, taking zero notes.

Instead, she was leaning back in her chair, casually chewing on the end of her pen, eyes fixed on the board as if she were paying attention.

Her left hand, however, was under the table.

On his thigh occasionally rubbing his cock when she felt noone was looking.

Bharath’s pencil twitched mid-equation.

A warm squeeze.

Bharath jerked upright in his seat, eyes wide.

Marisol’s hand moved higher.

He coughed, choking slightly, then reached for his water bottle and missed.

She giggled soundlessly beside him.

Then slid a folded scrap of paper toward his elbow.

He looked at it like it was radioactive.

Then, cautiously, opened it.

“Still thinking about my breasts? Or are you onto thighs now?”
“PS: I’m not wearing panties.”

He nearly died.

His leg hit the underside of the table. His chair made a sound like a wounded animal.

A few heads turned.

Bharath smiled weakly. “Sorry. Just ... excited about ... atoms.”

Marisol’s eyes glittered with wicked delight.

The professor continued his lecture, oblivious to the emotional carnage happening in row four.

Bharath dug into his notes, desperately pretending to care about displacement.

Focus. Focus. You’ve done this before. You aced physics back home.

But then Marisol leaned in — slow, deliberate — letting her breath warm his ear.

“I’m going to ruin you after dinner,” she whispered.

He closed his eyes and physically whimpered.

And still — somehow — took down perfect notes on projectile motion, friction coefficients, and thermal equilibrium.

Because he was Bharath.

And no amount of under-the-desk hand play, sexy whispers, or “no panties” declarations was going to break him.

Outwardly.

Inwardly? He was already planning revenge.

Sweet, thorough, utterly depraved revenge.

And she had no idea what she had just unleashed.