19: A Campus Transformed

The world outside was still gray with sleep, painted in streaks of soft gold from the early morning sun. But Bharath was already awake-very awake.

He lay perfectly still, listening to the rhythm of their breathing. One breath, warm and slow against his chest. The other, faint and shallower, brushing past his neck. He blinked, vision adjusting to the soft light of dawn filtering through the gauzy curtains.

He didn’t move. Not yet.

Because he was wrapped in the kind of luxury no man could ever really prepare for. Marisol was pressed flush against his right side, her bountiful chest rising and falling against his face, one thigh slung lazily over his own like she was anchoring him to the mattress. Her silky hair had taken over the pillow, a fragrant, wild mess that tickled his jaw.

On his other side, Sarah had curled up half on top of him sometime during the night. Her arm was draped over his chest possessively, one knee tucked into his hip. Her hair smelled faintly of coconut and mango shampoo, and one soft breast had found its home against his cheek.

He was sandwiched between warmth, softness, femininity. Not some fantasy-but real, tangible skin, breath, curves, and heartbeats.

And nestled against both sides of his face?

Heaven.

Two breasts, both DDs, both exquisite in their own way. Each one resting against his cheeks, his jawline, his lips if he angled his head just so. Warm, soft, grounding. Sarah’s breast, to his left, had slipped free from the sheet and rested lightly against his neck. Its weight was gentler, higher, more sculpted, the kind of shape that sat snug in his palm and left him always wanting more. Her nipple-small, pink, and upturned-was already peeking through the morning chill.

To the right, Marisol’s fullness rested in decadent contrast. Heavier, softer, and more generous, her breast felt like the comfortable cushion in the world. Her nipples, darker and broader, carried the kind of sensitivity that turned her voice into music if he so much as grazed them.

He didn’t try to be poetic. There was no poetry here-just awe. The raw kind.

He tilted his head slightly, brushing his nose against Sarah’s breast. Her scent hit him immediately-a hint of the lotion from the night before. It was faint but unmistakable, and it made his mouth water. Slowly, reverently, he brought his lips to her nipple and gave it a soft kiss. She stirred, not fully awake, but her body responded anyway-her back arched faintly and a quiet hum escaped her throat.

His hand slid under the blanket and over her hip, fingers tracing the dip of her waist until he cupped the swell of her breast in his palm. She felt perfect. He thumbed her nipple, watching it stiffen against his touch. She whimpered softly in her sleep and squeezed her thighs around him without meaning to-her inner thigh grazing against his length with enough friction to make him grunt low in his throat.

She didn’t even realize what she was doing.

He turned to his other side and inhaled deeply. Marisol’s skin was warm and faintly salty, with the earthy sweetness of amber and cinnamon. He pressed his face into the generous slope of her chest, nuzzling until he found her nipple with his lips. Then he kissed it, slow and deep. She didn’t move at first-just sighed-and then muttered something in slurred Spanish that he couldn’t understand but made his chest tighten anyway.

His hand found her other breast under the sheets. His palm sank into it as if her body molded itself for his hands alone. When he rolled the nipple gently between his fingers, her hips shifted and her leg tightened around his.

Bharath blinked, looked down at his morning state, then sighed.

He pulled both women closer with each arm-left arm curled around Sarah, right hand still teasing Marisol. Both girls let out small sounds of contentment, unconsciously nestling into him further.

He could stay like this forever.

And then he saw them. Faint, but there.

Marks.

On Sarah’s breast near the curve of her sternum-one of his love bites, nearly faded. Another, lower on Marisol’s collarbone-darker, but already lightening at the edges.

He grinned. He remembered that night clearly. They had made him promise-both of them-that he’d never let their marks fade. That when one started to disappear, he’d replace it. Not out of possessiveness, they said. Out of reverence. Out of belonging.

He kissed the fading mark on Sarah first, just above the spot where her heart beat under skin. A soft, open-mouthed kiss. She squirmed lightly in her sleep, her grip on his waist tightening.

“Again...” she mumbled, barely conscious.

He smiled. “Later,” he whispered, and kissed her again anyway. Then his teeth found the spot just beside it, and he left a fresh one-gently, but firm enough to make it last.

She let out a moan and pressed her hips forward into him.

He turned to Marisol next. Her clavicle was already home to a mark from the night before, but he wasn’t about to leave it half-faded. He traced his tongue just below it, then bit-soft, slow, just enough pressure to make her arch and mutter, “You better be replacing the one that’s fading, mi corazón...”

“I am,” he said softly. “I always keep my promises.”

She hummed, her leg hiking higher over his thigh. Her hips found his, rubbing sleepily against his hardness.

“Don’t tease,” she said, half-awake.

“Who’s teasing?” he murmured, kissing across her breast again and drawing her nipple into his mouth.

Sarah stirred next, waking more fully. She blinked, rubbed her eyes with the back of her hand, then looked down at him.

“What time is it?” she murmured.

“Too early,” Bharath said between licks.

“You’re already up,” she said, voice gravelly with sleep. “And already causing trouble.”

She reached down and grabbed his hand, guiding it back to her chest. “I want one too. A fresh one.”

“You got yours already.”

“Doesn’t count,” she said. “I wasn’t conscious while you did it.”

Bharath chuckled and kissed her again-this time just below the curve of her underboob, teeth scraping gently. Sarah gasped. “That’s better.”

Marisol smirked, one eye now open. “Do me again.”

He didn’t argue.

He leaned into her chest again and sucked deeply, using his tongue to swirl around her already stiff nipple before biting just under the curve of her mound. This time, she let out a full moan and dug her fingers into his hair.

“You’re such a good boy when you’re horny,” she teased breathlessly.

Sarah giggled. “He’s not just horny. He’s ravenous.”

“Damn right I am,” Bharath mumbled, still focused on Marisol’s breast.

Sarah tugged his head back and guided it to hers. “Then prove it.”

He was only too happy to oblige.

For the next few minutes, Bharath took turns lavishing attention on both women, cupping, licking, sucking, marking. His hands moved from breast to breast, his thumbs pressing into soft flesh, fingers trailing along ribs, massaging the weight in each palm like they were his personal prayer beads.

Marisol arched into him with abandon, murmuring encouragement between breaths.

Sarah whined when he left her for more than a few seconds. “Come back here. No favoritism.”

He laughed into her chest.

Her response was to pull him deeper, breasts squishing against his face. “That’s your fault if you can’t breathe.”

By the time the alarm finally buzzed to life, shrill and annoying from the nightstand, all three of them were tangled in a mess of limbs and flushed skin.

Marisol slapped the top of the alarm clock with a grumble. “Kill it.”

Sarah whined, “Five more minutes.”

“I have to go,” Bharath said reluctantly, untangling himself one limb at a time.

“No,” Marisol said, wrapping her arms around his waist.

Sarah clung to his forearm. “You’re warm. We’re cold.”

“I’ll come back sweaty,” he teased.

“Gross,” both girls said at the same time, but neither let go.

He kissed them each again, then gently pried himself loose. Marisol rolled toward Sarah and tucked her head into the crook of her neck. Sarah’s arms wrapped around her automatically.

As he stood, stretching with a quiet groan, he glanced back at the bed.

Two women, tangled in sheets and hair and each other, marked with his love, glowing in the soft light of morning.

He almost crawled back in.

But instead, he pulled on his shorts, grabbed his towel, and headed to the gym-still aching. Still smiling.

The gym smelled like iron, sweat, and early morning regret.

Bharath pushed open the door to the Georgia Tech Athletic Center, towel around his neck, shirt still clinging from the Atlanta humidity. The weight of his morning-of lips, of breasts, of belonging-lingered in his bones. But this? This was a different ritual.

Inside, Jorge was already there. Alone, for once. No Discman. No chaos. Just him and the soft clink of metal as he racked a pair of dumbbells back into place.

“Early bird,” Bharath called out.

Jorge turned with a grin. “Look who survived the lionesses. I thought they were gonna eat you alive this morning.”

“They did,” Bharath said, chuckling as he dropped his gym bag. “But I’m here. Just barely.”

“Man,” Jorge said, stretching his arms behind his head, “you know people are gonna talk, right?”

“They already are.”

Jorge nodded. “Yeah, well, let ‘em. You looked happy. That’s rare around here.”

There was a pause as Bharath grabbed a set of weights and joined him at the benches. The clinking of metal echoed between sets, their movements syncing in quiet rhythm-inhale, lift, lower, exhale.

“Thanks for being cool about all this,” Bharath said, wiping sweat from his brow.

“You kidding?” Jorge scoffed. “I think it’s beautiful, bro. Real talk? You didn’t just get lucky. You earned that love. They see something in you. We all do.”

Bharath smiled, humbled. “You ever think it’s too much? Like ... all of this?”

Jorge considered it, then shrugged. “Sure. But love’s not supposed to be measured. It’s supposed to be felt. And from where I’m standing? You’re feeling it. Hard.”

Another few reps passed in silence before Bharath glanced sideways.

“What about you?” he asked. “You and Camila seem tight.”

Jorge paused mid-curl.

“Oh.”

“Oh?” Bharath grinned. “That’s the sound people make when they’re in deep.”

“Shut up pendejo,” Jorge muttered, his cheeks coloring. “It’s not like that.”

“It totally is.”

Jorge sat back, letting the weights rest on his thighs. His voice was quieter now.

“She’s ... everything, man. Funny, sharp, wild. She dances like the floor’s afraid of her.”

Bharath nodded. “You smile more when she’s around.”

Jorge exhaled, laughing nervously. “Yeah. I’m thinking of asking her to be my girl. Like ... officially. At Club Zero.”

“On Halloween night?”

Jorge nodded, eyes drifting.

“She loves that place. The energy, the lights, the music. I thought ... maybe I’ll ask her during the last set. Something chill. Just us, you know?”

Bharath’s smile widened. “She’ll say yes.”

“You think so?” Jorge’s voice cracked slightly.

“I do. She looks at you like you invented laughter.”

Jorge laughed out loud at that. “Que saico. Are you trying to ghostwrite my vows?”

“No,” Bharath said, pressing into his final reps. “Just saying. If I didn’t already have two girls licking bite marks onto me every morning, I’d be jealous.”

Jorge clapped his back. “Proud of you, hermano.”

They finished in silence, the sweat drying over pride and something deeper-brotherhood. Not the performative kind. The real kind. The kind forged not just in reps or teasing, but trust.

As they walked out of the gym together into the morning sunlight, Jorge nudged him.

“So ... your girls. Are they cool with body glitter and fog machines?”

“Why?”

“Because Camila said if you three show up as anything less than a synchronized costume trio, she’ll revoke your club privileges.”

Bharath laughed.

“Then we better bring the thunder.”

The front door creaked open.

The house smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet-maybe vanilla body mist or whatever Sarah had in that lotion she used. The air was warm, still, too quiet. A soft hum of conversation had gone silent the moment he turned the key.

Bharath stepped inside, damp towel slung around his neck, shirt clinging to his chest with the ghost of sweat. His legs were sore, but that warm ache only made him feel more alive.

And then he saw them.

In the kitchen. Barefoot. Standing at the counter like it was some kind of cursed tableau designed to destroy him.

Marisol was leaning forward slightly, sipping from a mug, wearing nothing but a clingy white tee that barely reached her belly button and a black thong riding high over her hips. Her curls were tied up messily, exposing her bare shoulders and the hickey he’d left on her collarbone.

Sarah, beside her, was wearing a pale blue tee stretched tight across her breasts-no bra-her nipples tenting the fabric like headlights. Just a delicate, teasing jiggle every time she shifted her weight. A soft grey thong and her long, toned legs completed the ensemble. She’d twisted her hair into a clip, but a few wet strands curled at her temple.

They both turned when they heard him.

Marisol smiled first-slow, knowing, like she’d been counting the minutes.

Sarah tilted her head. “He’s baaack,” she murmured.

“Finally,” Marisol said, setting her mug down. “We were going to start without you.”

Bharath dropped his gym bag with a thud.

“Are you trying to kill me?”

“No,” Marisol said sweetly. “Just punish you for leaving us hot and bothered.”

Sarah crossed the kitchen, hips swaying deliberately, and reached for his towel. “You’re all sweaty.”

“Yeah. It was a good session.”

“Mm.” She lifted the towel and dabbed at his chest. “That’s our line.”

Bharath inhaled sharply.

“We didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Marisol said, coming up behind him. “Just groped us a little, got us all warm and needy, then slipped off to do bicep curls.”

Her hand slid around his waist. Then lower.

“You know what that does to a girl’s ego?” she whispered in his ear.

Sarah kissed his collarbone. “Or her patience?”

Bharath’s breath hitched. “We have class in an hour.”

“Then you’d better make it count,” Marisol said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the bathroom as Sarah pulled his shorts down.

The sun filtered through the rustling branches lining 10th Street, casting dappled light across the quiet sidewalk. It was a crisp Atlanta morning, the kind that made you feel like something important might happen - even if it was just a midterm.

Bharath felt different today.

Not because he had an exam. Not because he was sore from Jorge and his brutal gym routine that morning. But because he was walking to campus with one woman wrapped around each arm - and not in some imaginary fantasy. This was reality.

On his left, Sarah walked in a peach sundress that flattered every amazing curve she had while it fluttered around her knees, her hair bouncing gently as she looked up at him, lips already curved in a secret smile looking like Miss September in a Playboy magazine.

On his right, Marisol clung to his arm like it was her personal property. She wore his button-down shirt - open over a black tank top - and a pair of cutoff shorts that made heads turn a full block away. Her hair was tied into a messy bun, her lips still flushed from their morning bath. She looked radiant. Smug. Possessive in the most affectionate way.

They were talking about something inane - a stray cat Sarah had tried to feed last night - but none of them paid attention to the outside world.

They were a world to themselves.

And they were about to detonate it.

The gates near the College of Computing stood ahead like the mouth of a coliseum. Students trickled across campus, clutching coffee in Styrofoam cups or books underarm. Most wore bleary Monday expressions. No one expected magic before 10 A.M.

Until they saw them.

First came the subtle slowdown - a guy in a backpack who did a double take.

Then a girl crossing the quad nearly tripped on the curb, her mouth opening slightly as she tracked the trio moving confidently down the pathway.

Bharath, quiet and composed, his arms firmly held by two women.

Marisol, hugging his arm with the contentment of someone who knew exactly where she belonged.

And Sarah, head tilted toward Bharath, giving him a look that promised everything and then some.

Voices started to murmur behind them.

“Wait ... is that-?”

“Are they both...?”

“No way. No way. Is she okay with-what?”

People were frozen like deer in halogen.

This wasn’t just two girls walking with a guy. This was the Marisol Rivera - sharp-tongued, Latina bombshell from Calculus 101 who once made a T.A. stutter - casually snuggled against Bharath, watching the other girl kiss his shoulder like it was hers too.

And Sarah Goldstein, the sexy but withdrawn, older chem engineering junior who rarely smiled in class but now glowed like she’d found the cure to boredom and loneliness.

Together.

With him.

What in God’s name was happening?

Jorge was already at the steps, lounging with his arms crossed, red Georgia Tech cap turned backward trying to rap some reggaeton song. Ravi stood next to him, balancing a textbook on one knee, his expression frozen somewhere between awe and secondhand smugness.

Ravi nudged Jorge. “They’re coming.”

Jorge took a slow sip from his water bottle and smirked. “Oh yeah. Cue the shock and awe.”

As Bharath, Marisol, and Sarah stepped onto campus proper, a full circle of heads turned.

The dorm gossip mills had nothing on this moment.

A guy from Glenn Hall dropped his Discman.

A girl from the library steps blinked, looked at her friend, and whispered, “Is that the Rivera girl? With... him?”

“That’s Sarah on the other side. The junior.”

“No way. No way. What is he? A cult leader?”

And then it happened.

Just as they reached the base of the CoC stairs, Sarah turned, dropped Bharath’s hand, and stepped in front of him.

Without hesitation, she kissed him.

Not a polite peck.

A long, slow, volcanic kiss.

And then she turned to Marisol and did the same. Then kissed Bharath again with more heat if that was possible.

There was an audible gasp from the side of the quad. A guy in a Tau Kappa Epsilon sweatshirt choked on his bagel. Somewhere behind them, a visiting parent on a campus tour murmured, “Well, this is a very ... progressive university.”

And what made it all worse - or better, depending on where you stood in the universe - was what Marisol did next.

She smiled.

She didn’t flinch. She didn’t glare. She didn’t stiffen.

She just slid closer, wrapped her arm tighter around Bharath’s, and watched the kiss like she was proud of it.

When Sarah finally pulled away, she gave Bharath a satisfied little sigh and adjusted his collar.

“Don’t miss me too much,” she said, brushing a strand of his hair back. “See you at lunch, baby.”

Then she turned, tossed Marisol a wink, and walked away swaying her hips enticingly toward the biomedical building.

No one said a word.

No one could.

A grad student let out a long, low whistle.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” he said to the stunned students around them, “that was the single most incredible thing I have seen in my entire Georgia Tech life. And I once saw a guy blow up a vending machine with a home-built EMP.”

Ravi was slack-jawed. “I knew it was happening. I knew it. But seeing it...”

“Better than porn ese,” Jorge said reverently. “It’s art.”

Bharath and Marisol walked towards them sheepishly. “Was it too much?”

Ravi laughed. “Too much? Bro. You just walked through campus like Zeus on Valentine’s Day. If anything, that was not enough. I think you may have cured seasonal depression.”

Marisol just leaned in, eyes sparkling, and whispered, “Told you we’d break a few brains.”

Across the quad, a stunned group of freshmen watched the trio - now just Bharath and Marisol - climb the steps.

“Bro...” one whispered. “That was sexy Sarah. From the chem lab.”

“Yeah.”

“And she kissed him. Like. Tongue and everything.”

“Yeah.”

“And the other girl was smiling.”

A pause.

“I gotta start lifting.”

The hallway was abuzz as students pretended to be studying or adjusting backpacks, but really, everyone was watching them.

No one asked questions. No one dared.

The silence said it all:

And most chilling of all:

What if this is just the beginning?

Bharath sat down in the lecture hall, Marisol curled up beside him, her legs folded on the chair like she lived there.

Ravi and Jorge took their spots behind them.

Ravi leaned forward and whispered, “The guy in the back row is still staring. He hasn’t blinked in two minutes.”

Jorge added, “He just dropped his pencil for the third time.”

Marisol smiled lazily and tucked her hand into Bharath’s. “I like this.”

He turned to her. “You’re not ... embarrassed?”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Why would I be? We’re not doing anything wrong.”

He nodded slowly. “It’s just-”

“Babe,” she said softly, “the looks don’t bother me. They’ll get used to it. And if they don’t? Let them stare.”

From the back of the room, a voice muttered, “He must know hypnosis.”

Jorge choked on his laugh. “Or ancient Kama Sutra scrolls.”

Ravi whispered, “Or maybe ... maybe women just like him.”

Everyone stared at him. “ ... Okay, yeah, mind control sounds more realistic.”

There was a strange energy in the room.

Ayesha felt it the moment she stepped into the lecture hall. It wasn’t just the usual Monday groans or midterm dread. It was the hush-before-a-storm kind of energy - a low murmur running through the air like static clinging to skin.

She slid into her usual spot next to Zara, dropping her notebook onto the desk.

“You feel that?” she muttered.

Zara looked up from applying her lip gloss. “Feel what?”

Ayesha gestured vaguely around the room. “Everyone’s whispering.”

Zara paused, scanning the space. A small cluster of guys in the back were murmuring animatedly, gesturing toward the door. Two girls in the front row were already giggling before class had even started.

“What’s going on?” Ayesha asked, frowning.

Before Zara could respond, the door opened again - and in walked Bharath.

With Marisol.

Together.

Like, very together.

Marisol was holding his arm. Not just resting her hand there, but actually hugging it. Like she was letting the world know it belonged to her.

They didn’t say a word. Just walked past the rows of seats calmly, like this wasn’t weird. Like the whole lecture hall wasn’t turning its head and watching.

They took two open seats near the middle, Bharath sliding in first. Marisol stayed close - her hand brushing against his thigh briefly before she reached for her bag. Her hair was tied up, but even from where Ayesha sat, she could see the red mark on Marisol’s neck.

A love bite?

Ayesha blinked.

She’d heard the rumors earlier that morning - something about a dramatic kiss near the CoC building - but she’d rolled her eyes. Georgia Tech was full of lonely nerds who’d turn a smile into a marriage proposal in their heads.

But this?

This was real.

Even Zara noticed. “Okay, what the hell?” she whispered. “Since when is Marisol playing the girlfriend game?”

Ayesha tried to keep her voice steady. “I thought she was just using him for tutoring. But...”

She trailed off.

Because Marisol wasn’t acting like someone leveraging a dork for midterm help. She was glowing. Relaxed. Possessive.

Like she wanted to be seen with Bharath.

Like she didn’t care who knew.

Bharath was saying something softly - Ayesha couldn’t hear the words, but it made Marisol laugh and rest her head briefly on his shoulder before swatting him playfully.

Ayesha’s stomach tightened. She looked away, trying to focus on her notebook, but she couldn’t stop the memories that came flooding back.

The airport ride.

Back in August.

He’d been so friendly. So genuine. That quiet confidence under the shyness - and that smile. They’d talked the whole way from the airport to campus. It had been easy. Natural. For a brief, stupid moment, she thought maybe-

Then Zara had seen him. Said he looked like a “Fresh off the boat nerd.” And Ayesha - stupid, shallow Ayesha - had laughed along and slowly pulled away. Told herself it was survival. That popularity had a price.

But she’d never hated him. Not really. And now...

Now he was sitting in class next to the hottest girl in their section, like he belonged.

And somehow, no one was laughing anymore.

It was hard to focus.

Even Professor Carmichael - a man who once yelled at a student for sneezing during a quiz - looked like he’d forgotten how time worked. He called roll twice, pronounced Bharath’s name as Borat before giving up and muttering something about “early-onset fog brain.” The chalk screeched across the board as he fumbled a basic derivative. At one point, he stared out the window like he was remembering the girl who got away.

A few rows up, one student whispered, “I think he’s having an existential crisis.”

Another replied, “We all are.”

The room practically vibrated with suppressed questions. Eyes darted toward Bharath and Marisol over and over. A few students just stopped pretending to take notes and openly watched them like they were a live episode of General Hospital.

A guy across the aisle leaned toward his friend and whispered, “I saw them together near Tech Green this morning. She was holding his hand like she’d kill anyone who tried to take it.”

Another girl chimed in, “But wasn’t he kissing the other girl? The older one?”

“Yeah. Like ... really kissing her. With commitment.”

“They say Marisol just stood there and smiled.”

“Maybe it’s a study group thing?”

“Yeah, I always kiss my group members. With tongue.”

A beat.

“ ... Respect.”

Zara leaned toward Ayesha, frowning. “Are we sure he’s not part of some ... international exchange program for Casanovas?”

“Or a secret heir?” someone muttered nearby. “Like a Tamil prince?”

“Honestly, he’s probably just really good at coding and cuddling,” came another voice.

A guy near the back slapped the table in defeat. “I’ve been going to the gym for six months and all I got was a shin splint and mild depression!”

Students didn’t so much leave class as they leaked out in waves - dazed, slow, buzzing with confusion.

Everyone tried to act normal. No one succeeded.

A guy tripped on the stairs trying to get one last look at Marisol. A freshman stared into space and whispered, “They both kissed him like he invented kissing.” One T.A. stood outside with a clipboard and forgot how to read.

Ayesha was packing her things in silence, though her brain was a tornado.

Zara said what she was already thinking: “Okay. That was weird. But like ... hot-weird. Not bad-weird.”

Ayesha just nodded numbly. “Uh-huh.”

Then came the sound.

Heels clicking on linoleum.

Confident, graceful.

Like trouble. Like power.

“Bharath!”

The hallway froze.

Heads turned.

Even the vending machine paused its hum.

There she was.

Sarah Goldstein, in her flowing peach sundress, her breasts jiggling, her hair down and gleaming like it had its own lighting team. She looked like a shampoo commercial directed by Fellini. The fluorescent lights seemed to soften just for her.

“Oh my god,” someone whispered.

“She’s actually real! This is happening!” muttered another frantically. “She wasn’t in a fever dream.”

A third voice, in absolute disbelief: “That’s also his girlfriend? Her AND her?!”

Sarah didn’t walk so much as glide. Her eyes locked on Bharath like she hadn’t seen him in years - like he was both dessert and salvation.

Ayesha instinctively turned, caught in the undertow like everyone else.