14: Making Room

The first thing Marisol felt was heat.

Not the kind that crept gently, but the kind that claimed — thick, consuming, and utterly male. Bharath’s arm was draped across her chest like a possessive chain, his forearm tucked beneath her breasts in a way that made her pulse flutter. His palm cupped her softly, reflexively, like he’d found the perfect shape in sleep and refused to let go.

And then there was the rest of him.

His body was wrapped around her from behind, all limbs and simmering warmth. One leg tangled over hers like an anchor. His breath tickled her neck in slow, uneven waves. His cheek nestled into her curls.

And pressed snugly between the curve of her backside and his pelvis...

Oh.

Marisol’s lips parted in a sharp, quiet breath. Morning wood. Rigid. Bold. Hot, even through the thin barrier of his boxers and her sleep shorts. It throbbed slightly with every slow, unconscious movement of his hips, like his body hadn’t gotten the memo that they were supposed to be resting.

She lay still, wide-eyed against the pillow. Not because she didn’t want to move — but because she did. Desperately. Because she could feel every inch of him now. Because the cling of him, the weight of him, the scent of sleep and skin and boy — it was all perfect.

And dangerous.

She exhaled shakily, heart thudding with a sudden, overwhelming tenderness. When had this awkward, nerdy boy become the center of her world? Just over a week ago, she had lambasted him for staring at her for too long. He was foreign in every way — a sweet, quiet guy with no clue how gorgeous his smile was.

Now he was her gravity.

Her comfort.

Her chaos.

God, how did she fall this hard, this fast?

She smiled into the pillow and bit her lip as his fingers flexed gently in his sleep, a subtle squeeze of her breast that sent a jolt straight to her core.

He was dreaming. Of her, maybe.

The thought curled heat through her abdomen.

Her mind flashed to the night before — how he had clung to her after walking her sister home, still shaky from everything they’d been through that week. She’d held him like he was something precious, and he had slept like a child in her arms, safe and silent.

But there was nothing childlike about the way he was holding her now.

Marisol swallowed hard.

She should’ve been cautious. Her mother’s voice still echoed in her mind:

“He seems like a good boy. Honest eyes. But you’re young. Be careful. Love is beautiful — until it isn’t.”

She had meant to be careful.

But lying here, with Bharath clinging to her like his body remembered things his mind didn’t, caution had become a distant country.

She was gone.

And she didn’t want to come back.

Her thighs pressed together as a slow ache bloomed between them — low, urgent, impossible to ignore. She twisted slightly, just enough for his morning hardness to shift along the cleft of her ass.

He groaned in his sleep, breath hitching.

Her body reacted before her brain could. A slow roll of her hips. Just enough friction to feel him pulse against her.

Another groan. This time half-conscious.

She smiled, wild and triumphant. Time to wake the beast.

“Bharath...” she whispered, brushing her fingers along the arm that caged her in. His skin was warm and smooth, the faint scrape of stubble at her neck.

He nuzzled closer, breath hitching as her ass pressed back against him deliberately.

“Mm-mm...” he murmured. “Floating...”

“You’re not floating,” she said, her voice thick with amusement. “You’re groping.”

“Safety measures...” he muttered sleepily, fingers tightening around her breast. “You’re my life preserver...”

She laughed, twisting to kiss his jaw. “You’re my pervert.”

“Only yours.”

The words landed with a quiet thud in her chest. Only yours. No hesitation. No sly grin. Just truth.

She turned in his arms, now fully facing him. His eyes were still mostly closed, hair adorably mussed, face soft with sleep. But there was tension in his body now — a rising awareness. His morning desire strained beneath the fabric of his boxers, and when she pressed her thigh gently against it, his eyes finally opened.

Dark. Dazed. Hungry.

“I...” he cleared his throat, voice hoarse. “Hi.”

“Hi,” she whispered, leaning in to kiss the corner of his mouth. “We should get up.”

He blinked. “Why?”

“Because,” she whispered, brushing her nose against his. “If we wait too long, the entire dorm will line up for showers, and we won’t get one.”

His eyes widened. “Shower?”

She smirked. “With me.”

For a moment, he was frozen. Then he bolted upright like a switch had been flipped. “I’ll grab the towel!”

They scrambled, whisper-laughing, tripping over sheets and limbs and each other’s bare feet. She threw on one of his t-shirts — too big, too soft — and a pair of shorts without underwear. He didn’t even bother with a shirt. Just the towel, tucked around his waist like he was about to receive some divine revelation.

The hallway was still quiet. 4:45 AM on a weekday.

They darted down the corridor, hearts thudding, trying not to make noise.

By the time they reached the communal showers, the sky was only beginning to lighten.

The steam hit them first — thick and warm, curling up from the tiles like a beckoning hand. The space was empty. Marisol turned on one of the stalls and stepped inside, peeling off her damp t-shirt in one smooth motion.

Bharath froze in the doorway, towel slipping.

His jaw fell open slightly.

“Marisol...”

Her body was slick with condensation, skin glowing from sleep and arousal. Her nipples tightened in the cool air, and her hips tilted in invitation.

She turned, eyes heavy. “Come here.”

He obeyed. Dropped the towel. Stepped into the heat.

The water poured down, hot and cleansing, plastering her hair to her shoulders. She pulled him into the stream, her hands already exploring — shoulders, chest, the scar beneath his collarbone, the defined lines of his abdomen.

“You’re real,” she murmured.

“I hope so,” he rasped, eyes darting down to where her breasts pressed against his chest.

She reached for the soap, but he took it from her — lathering it between his palms, then running his hands reverently down her back, her hips, the curve of her thighs. She moaned, soft and low, pressing herself against him.

His erection brushed her stomach.

“You want me?” she asked, teasing.

His breath stuttered. “God, yes.”

She turned again, facing the wall. Looked over her shoulder, hair plastered to her spine.

“Then take me. Fast. Quiet.”

“Here?” His voice cracked. “Now?”

She reached behind, guided him between her thighs. “Now.”

He sank into her with a gasp, gripping her hips like a man caught in a wave.

The heat of her. The slickness. The tight, consuming pull of her body.

His knees nearly gave out.

“Mari...”

She rolled her hips back against him, smothering her own moan in the crook of her elbow.

His hands roamed — from her waist to her breasts to her soaked hair — trying to memorize everything at once.

The sound of skin on skin, muffled by rushing water. The slap of their hips. The soft grunt he couldn’t hold in.

And her.

Breathless.

Unapologetic.

Beautiful.

When she clenched around him, whispering his name like a curse and a blessing, he shattered. Buried deep. Gasping into her neck. Whole body trembling.

They stood there, under the water, chests heaving.

Neither spoke.

Then she turned in his arms, kissed him softly, pressed their foreheads together.

“Good morning,” she whispered.

He laughed, breathless. “Best morning of my life.”

They stayed like that, skin to skin, until the water turned cold.

By the time they tiptoed back to the dorm, toweling off and still smiling like fools, the hallway was just beginning to stir.

“Best Wednesday ever?” he whispered, nudging her.

Marisol looked at him — damp hair, flushed cheeks, the faint bruises of her grip on his arms — and grinned.

“It’s not even 5 AM.,” she said. “You better pray we don’t top it tomorrow.”

The air inside the lecture hall buzzed with subdued chatter as students filtered in for their Wednesday morning CS class. Jorge flopped into the seat next to Bharath, still yawning, while Ravi tossed his bag down with a sigh like it had disappointed him in some way.

“Midterms, man,” Ravi muttered, rubbing his eyes. “Why’d they hit us with that this early?”

“Welcome to Georgia Tech,” Marisol said sweetly, sliding into the seat next to Bharath with a fresh spiral notebook in hand. “Where hope goes to die by October.”

Bharath chuckled but was already scanning the syllabus. “It’s still three weeks away. We’ve covered most of the fundamentals already.”

“Oh thank God,” Jorge said, turning to him. “Because I was definitely counting on you to explain polymorphism in English later.”

Ravi smirked. “Our boy’s the Indian Yoda. Calm he is. Smart he be.”

“Focus you should,” Bharath replied in a perfect impression, which earned a groan and a high-five.

The banter helped settle some of the nerves. The Professor’s voice was its usual dry monotone, but Bharath tuned in quickly, already mapping out which topics to review and which ones to help Jorge, Marisol and Ravi with.

But when class ended and the others filtered out, Marisol nudged him gently. “Ready for part two?”

He nodded, and together they walked the short distance to their calculus class. The mood shifted as soon as they stepped into the room.

There she was.

Ayesha.

She was seated near the front — long legs crossed, flawless hair cascading over one shoulder, pager in hand, gum snapping softly between her teeth.

She looked ... unreal. Designer jeans, subtle smoky eyeliner, a crop top that skirted the edge of the dress code, and a practiced scowl that dared anyone to talk to her first. The people around her laughed too quickly at her jokes, hung on her words like acolytes.

And she didn’t even glance at Bharath.

But the silence she left in her wake was louder than any greeting.

Marisol felt Bharath stiffen beside her. She looked up, catching the faint flicker in his eyes — not longing, not regret. Just ... a soft ache. A memory.

She knew that look. She’d worn it herself before.

He didn’t say anything. Just kept walking with her to their usual spot in the second row.

Ayesha didn’t even blink.

It was like they were ghosts now.

Marisol settled beside him and leaned in slightly, her hand brushing his.

“You okay?” she asked quietly.

Bharath gave a tiny smile. “Yeah.”

He didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to.

She understood.

He remembered the girl who had once laughed with him in a taxi, kind and full warmth that only came with new beginnings. She wasn’t there anymore. This was someone else. Someone sculpted and sharp. Someone who had traded depth for shine.

And for the first time, he didn’t want her back.

The class began. Limits. Derivatives. Rate of change.

Bharath locked in.

Marisol stole glances at him as he scribbled through the professor’s questions with fluid grace, head tilted in concentration, fingers tapping lightly as he solved each problem before it was fully asked.

God, he was beautiful when he was in his element.

When class ended, Marisol didn’t wait.

She leaned over and kissed his cheek, right there in the aisle as students shuffled past them. A few heads turned. A few eyebrows rose.

She didn’t care.

Neither did Bharath. He turned to her and smiled like the sun had just walked into the room.

Ayesha glanced up at that moment, eyes flicking over them.

But her expression didn’t change.

Or maybe ... she didn’t let it.

Ayesha crossed one long leg over the other, her boot tapping a slow, idle rhythm as the last few stragglers filed out of the lecture hall. Her bubblegum snapped — sharp, deliberate.

Marisol was leaning over Bharath’s desk again. All soft eyes and ‘accidental’ skin. Elbow grazing his. Smile that said I’m effortless.

Please.

Ayesha tugged off her sunglasses with a flourish and turned to the girl beside her. “So we’re just ... doing this now?” she muttered.

Zara didn’t look up from her compact mirror. “Apparently. He’s gone full labrador.”

Ayesha snorted. “She even kissed him in public. You’d think he cured cancer.”

Zara smirked, reapplying lip gloss. “More like caught a squirrel and decided to marry it.”

They both laughed — quiet, catty — the practiced sound of girls who ruled high school and never unlearned it.

Bharath. God, of all people. Still slouchy, still earnest, still walking around like life owed him honesty. Back when he’d stammered through a “hi” on the quad that first week, Ayesha had pegged him in five seconds: Smart. Soft. Aching for someone to see him.

She didn’t.

She made sure of it.

Boys like Bharath were dangerous — not because they hurt you, but because they meant it. The poetry. The loyalty. The wide-eyed belief that love fixed things.

They’d crawl into your soul, and when you crushed them — and you had to, for your own survival — they’d haunt you. Make you feel like the villain in a rom-com you never agreed to star in.

So she’d iced him out. Gently. Cleanly. Like pulling duct tape off skin — one quick rip and no eye contact.

Now he was here. With her. With “sunshine and softness” Marisol, all curls and curves and actual laughter. Looking at him like he was safe.

“Do you think she’s serious?” Zara asked.

Ayesha shrugged. “I think she’s bored. Girls like her always want a story.”

Zara raised a brow. “And you don’t?”

“No,” Ayesha said, gum snapping. “I want receipts.”

Still, her eyes wandered back.

He looked good. Still awkward, still wildly unpolished. But there was something new in the way he held himself — like he’d stopped trying to be invisible. Like someone had finally handed him permission to exist without apology.

It wasn’t jealousy. Not really.

It was just ... unnerving. The way he looked at Marisol like she mattered. Like he mattered. As if the whole damn world hadn’t spent years proving otherwise.

She couldn’t remember the last time someone looked at her like that. Not without angle. Not without a mirror in it.

Zara followed her gaze and grimaced. “Ugh. They’re disgustingly cute. She’s gonna ruin him.”

“No,” Ayesha murmured, voice softer than she meant. “She’s gonna make him impossible.”

Zara blinked. “What?”

“Never mind,” Ayesha said quickly, rising from her seat and slinging her bag over her shoulder. “Let’s go. Before this turns into a musical.”

They walked out without looking back. But as Ayesha stepped into the corridor, she stole one last glance — just a flicker — at Bharath laughing, forehead pressed to Marisol’s like they were the only two people in the room.

The ache in her chest surprised her.

She chewed her gum slower.

Because the truth?

She didn’t want him.

She wanted what he believed was still possible.

The Student Center lawn was painted in soft gold and green, the kind of afternoon that made people linger. Autumn hadn’t yet taken hold, but it flirted with the breeze — rustling the trees, nudging the warmth aside just enough to make one grateful for the sun.

Bharath and Marisol sat beneath a red maple tree on a weathered but clean fleece blanket, the kind with frayed edges that had clearly survived a few bonfires and impulsive picnics. An open lunchbox lay between them, a half-eaten wrap in one corner, a small pile of orange segments in the other.

They were folded into one another without thinking — Bharath’s knee pressed against hers, Marisol’s hand lazily resting on his thigh. The conversation had meandered from lunch plans to homework gripes, then into that soft, quiet rhythm that couples share when no one else is watching.