Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
32: Fitting Room Confessions
Coming of Age Sex Story: 32: Fitting Room Confessions - Bharath always thought going to America would mean fast love, wild parties, and maybe a stewardess or two. What he got instead? A busted duffel bag, a crying baby on the plane, and dormmates he never thought could exist in real life. Thrown into the chaos of Georgia Tech’s freshman year, Bharath begins an unforgettable journey of awkward first crushes and culture shocks. A slow-burn, emotionally rich harem romance set in the nostalgic 90s—full of laughter, lust, and longing.
Caution: This Coming of Age Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa mt/ft mt/Fa Consensual Fiction Humor School Sharing Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory White Female Hispanic Female Indian Female
The Student Center’s multipurpose room was alive with sound - a mix of pounding dhol rhythms, clapping, and sneakers squeaking on polished tile. At one end of the hall, a boombox thumped out the track again. And again. And again.
“From the top!” Nandita called, clapping twice. “Let’s get this tight! And boys - I need your hips to move like you’re not storing textbooks in your back pockets!”
Groans echoed from the male contingent.
The girls, of course, were on fire.
Mia spun effortlessly through the footwork sequence, curls bouncing, her steps sharp and hips loose. Camila twirled beside her, laughing even as she landed her turns perfectly. LaTasha, Sarah, and Marisol hit every beat with a confident, sassy grace. They moved like they owned the floor.
In contrast ... the boys tried their best.
Bharath was focused - deeply focused - but his footwork was a split-second late on every count. Jorge had rhythm but forgot one arm movement every single time. Ravi’s shoulders were tense as hell, and Tyrel looked like he was doing the moves with a two-second WiFi lag.
Nandita gave them a look that had them quivering in shame.
“Okay,” she said finally, holding up a hand. “We’re ... getting there. Ish. The girls are killing it. Boys, you’re ... adorable.”
“We’re trying!” Ravi groaned, wiping sweat off his forehead. “Why do we have to shimmy?”
“Because this is an Indian dance,” Sarah shot back, “and in India, men shimmy with pride.”
Bharath looked like he was calculating the torque on his hips. “Is there a diagram for this?”
“No,” Nandita said flatly. “Only shame and judgement from our ancestors.”
They ran the routine one more time - girls smashing it, boys barely holding the line - before Nandita clapped her hands decisively.
“Alright, that’s enough. We’ll fine-tune the finale tomorrow. You’re all done.”
The group collapsed into cheers and applause.
“Now,” Nandita added, grabbing her bag and slinging it over her shoulder, “I need all of you. We’re going dress shopping. The store closes at eight.”
Tyrel froze. “Wait, like-we have to come?”
Nandita turned to him. “Yes. You’re our moral support, bag holders, opinion givers, and snack suppliers.”
“But-” Ravi started.
“No buts,” she said. “We danced. Now we conquer fashion.”
Tyrel backed his pickup truck out with a grin on his face and a plan in his heart.
The boys stood in a loose clump around the tailgate.
“So,” Jorge said, hands on hips, “we really gonna do this?”
“Yup,” Tyrel confirmed, pulling his cap low. “Y’all can’t fit in the cab, and we’re not going on the highway. So yeah - you’re riding back there.”
Ravi raised a brow. “Is that legal? I know I did it once during Couchball (see Their Wonder Years: Vignettes) - but that was a moral stand.”
Tyrel shrugged. “Not technically. But we ain’t crossing interstates. We goin’ side streets only. If you see a cop, duck.”
Bharath looked delighted. “Like actual ducking?”
“Yes,” Tyrel said. “Think of it like a stealth mission.”
Ravi turned to Jorge. “This is the stupidest thing I’ve ever agreed to.”
Jorge grinned. “I love it.”
Bharath was already hopping up into the bed of the truck. “This is going to be so much fun.”
Jorge followed, dragging Ravi up behind him.
The girls climbed into the cab, laughing as Mia wedged herself between Marisol and LaTasha.
“I can’t believe they’re riding like cargo,” Camila giggled.
“They volunteered,” Sarah reminded her.
“They’re excited, ” Marisol added, watching Bharath wave from the back like a puppy going on a joyride.
Tyrel slammed the driver-side door. “Y’all hold on. And no yelling ‘WHEE’ at every corner.”
The wind whipped through their hair as the pickup cruised through the late-evening streets. Streetlights blurred into golden halos. The occasional honk and whoosh of a passing car made the ride feel even more illicit.
“This is amazing!” Bharath yelled, grinning so wide his cheeks hurt.
Ravi clutched the edge of the truck. “If I die because of dress shopping-!”
“You’ll die fabulous!” Jorge whooped, throwing his arms out like wings.
They passed a group of frat boys walking a keg down the sidewalk. One guy gave them a salute. Another yelled, “LEGENDS!”
Bharath ducked and popped back up. “We are so doing this again.”
Ravi’s hair was a mess. “I hate how much I’m enjoying this.”
Up front, Mia turned in her seat and poked her head through the tiny sliding window.
“You boys okay back there?”
Bharath beamed. “We’re the wind.”
Mia winked. “Try not to fly away. We need you alive for the fitting.”
Tyrel pulled into a strip mall parking lot with a slow, deliberate swerve that made the guys holler in joy.
Nandita hopped out first. “Alright, soldiers. Fashion war awaits.”
The girls linked arms and strutted toward the boutique.
Behind them, the boys climbed down from the truck, exhilarated and breathless.
Jorge slapped Bharath’s back. “We should dance like that on stage. Just three dudes in a pickup.”
Ravi snorted. “Please. I’m still dizzy.”
“Come on,” Bharath said, jogging to catch up with the girls. “Let’s go hold handbags and get judged on our lack of knowledge about colors.”
Tyrel stretched his arms. “We suffer now ... but we feast at Taco Bell later.”
“Yes!”
“No we’re ain’t,” deadpanned LaTasha as the other girls nodded.
“Oh...”
And just like that, the crew marched into the boutique - ready to face chiffon, sequins, and chaos. Together.
The boutique was a riot of color and chaos.
Silks and sequins shimmered in every corner. The fluorescent lighting bounced off crystal-studded lehengas, zari-trimmed dupattas, and mirrors that seemed to reflect every ounce of male misery in triplicate. Tyrel, Ravi, and Jorge stood together near a circular couch, arms crossed, eyes glazed, shifting from one leg to the other like cattle awaiting judgment.
“How long does it take to try on a damn dress?” Ravi whispered, tugging at his collar.
Jorge shrugged. “I think I’ve seen the same lehenga twelve times.”
“It’s all the same color, man,” Tyrel muttered. “Red, dark red, light red, lighter red. It’s like wedding Groundhog Day.”
A saleslady whisked past them, clutching an armful of gold bangles. Someone inside the changing area squealed.
The boys exchanged a look.
More giggles erupted. Then a voice called out - LaTasha’s, unmistakably playful and wicked: “Baaaabe ... come here. I need your eyes.”
Tyrel straightened. “Mine?”
Another door creaked. Camila’s voice, soft and accented, floated out. “Jorge ... por favor, could you check this for me?”
Then Nandita, crisply and sweetly: “Ravi, come help me with the back hook? It’s being rude.”
The three boys froze.
Ravi blinked. “Did they just...?”
Tyrel was already halfway to the dressing area. “Every man for himself.” He then disappeared like a looney toon leaving behind just his outline.
The trio stumbled through the velvet curtain entrance to the fitting zone like they were entering Valhalla. The girls had taken over the entire back half of the boutique - there were discarded sandals and glittering accessories strewn across chairs, sari wrappers lying like casualties of war, and a faint whiff of expensive perfume in the air.
And then they saw them.
LaTasha turned first, her dusky skin glowing under the gold tones of her blouse. It was cropped high, the embroidery just skimming the edge of her bust, and the lehenga below her hips was tied but askew. Her hair was pinned up, showing off her neck and collarbones like an invitation.
Tyrel swallowed hard.
Nandita stepped out next, one hand holding her half-draped dupatta. The deep maroon silk curved perfectly around her waist, and the choli - God help them - was threatening to disobey gravity. She smiled as she caught Ravi’s stunned expression.
Camila emerged last. Her pale blue lehenga shimmered with tiny bells and silver thread. She leaned up on her toes to whisper in Jorge’s ear: “I want to try something new tonight. Something I practiced.”
Jorge turned red from his jaw to his ears.
“You alright, baby?” she teased.
He nodded slowly. “I need to ... sit down.”
Tyrel had backed into a corner and was now clinging to a clothing rack like it could save him from spontaneous combustion.
LaTasha tilted her head. “You okay, sugar?”
Tyrel nodded. “Yep. Totally fine. Jus dyin’ a little.”
She walked up to him and gently brushed her chest against his arm while “adjusting” her skirt. “You know, I think it might be time.”
“For...?”
She smirked. “For us. You and me. To stop pretending we’re just foolin’ around.”
His brain shut down for five seconds.
At the same time, Nandita was behind Ravi, adjusting her bangles while whispering in his ear. “After the show ... I think I want to go all the way. You’ve been so patient. So good to me. I want you.”
Ravi made a noise that may have been “ohgodyes” but came out more like a strangled hiccup.
Jorge, meanwhile, was trying to breathe normally as Camila brushed her fingers down his chest. “You’re coming home with me tonight, okay?”
He nodded like a man hypnotized.
Ravi turned to Tyrel. “Is this real life?”
Tyrel didn’t answer. His knees were shaking too much.
Tyrel turned slowly in place, eyes glazed. “We’re not prepared. No one warned us. This wasn’t in the guy manual.”
LaTasha took his hand and placed it firmly on her bare waist, grinning as he froze. “Feel that?”
“I feel ... terror.”
“It’s desire, baby.”
Across the room, Ravi was still recovering from Nandita’s whisper. She leaned forward now, lifting her arm as if adjusting her blouse, but letting her chest brush against him as she did.
“You’ve seen me in salwars, kurtas, hoodies ... but not like this,” she whispered. “Tonight, I want you to help me take it all off.”
Ravi knocked over a nearby mannequin.
“Easy, tiger,” Nandita laughed, catching his arm.
Camila was now looping her dupatta loosely around her shoulders - not to cover up, but to highlight. Jorge, poor boy, looked like he had aged ten years in five minutes.
“You really practiced something new?” he asked, voice an octave too high.
Camila tilted her head. “It involves breath control. And maybe ropes. You’ll find out tonight.”
Jorge blinked. “Breath-oh Dios.”
“I bought mangoes,” she added sweetly, as if that made it better.
“Why would mangoes make it-?!” Jorge was spiraling.
Ravi gripped the edge of the display table. “Okay. Okay. We need an emergency exit strategy. Something-anything-to survive till tonight.”
“Duct tape,” Jorge muttered. “Just duct tape ourselves to the truck bed and pray for unconsciousness.”
“You think Tyrel’s truck can go fast enough to knock us out?”
Behind them, a shop assistant cleared her throat politely and whispered to Nandita, “Ma’am, would you like to finalize these?”
Nandita smiled sweetly. “Yes. Please bill the blue, the maroon, and the champagne ones. Boys, go wait by the door.”
“We’re coming with you?” Ravi asked, dazed.
“To the register,” Nandita said. “Then we’re picking up mangoes. And after that-well. You’ll see.”
The sun had dipped below the horizon, but the pavement still radiated heat. The girls walked ahead, carrying garment bags and chatting as if they hadn’t just set off three cardiac events.
The boys trailed behind like survivors of a small war.
Tyrel leaned on the truck’s tailgate and exhaled. “We made it out.”
“Barely,” Jorge groaned.
“They were half-naked and full-danger,” Ravi whispered. “I felt ... spiritually altered.”
“Did Camila really say ropes?” Jorge asked.
Ravi nodded. “And mangoes. I’m not even sure if it’s one event or two.”
Tyrel looked toward the sky. “Lord, if you’re listening, give us strength. Or stamina. Whichever comes first.”
The girls turned back just then, eyes twinkling in the golden light.
“Buckle up, boys,” LaTasha called.
“Tonight,” Nandita said, lips curved into a grin, “is going to be... auspicious.”
Camila just winked.
And the boys, hearts pounding, legs weak, followed them into the truck - not to escape fate, but to meet it head-on.
The upstairs changing room of Apsara Couture was a maze of silks, mirrors, and mayhem.
Bharath stood at the center of it all, dazed. Trapped. Bewildered. He was surrounded by the richest colors of the subcontinent - royal blue, emerald green, deep maroon, and gold so bright it shimmered like fire - and, more alarmingly, by three gorgeous women in various states of undress, all of whom seemed to think he was the solution to their problem.
A very specific, very perilous problem.
“We need your hands,” Marisol said, frustrated, turning her back to him.
“Again?” Bharath asked, his voice rising with alarm and wonder as he stared at the strings of her choli.
“Yes, again,” Sarah called from across the room. “They keep coming undone. It’s like these blouses were designed to fall off.”
“They were,” Mia said brightly, adjusting her lehenga over her hips. “It’s half the appeal.”
Bharath’s brain nearly short-circuited. He had come here to help with a few final costume fittings before the Diwali performance. What he walked into was something far more hazardous: a whirlwind of bare backs, rebellious busts, and the unmistakable realization that not a single one of them was wearing a bra.
“Okay,” he mumbled, stepping behind Marisol. “Just-don’t move.”
She giggled. “That’s what I told you last time.”
He began threading the intricate tie behind her back, the silk cords already loosened from their brief attempt at movement. His fingers brushed warm skin as he tried to keep his hands steady. Every breath she took made it harder to focus.
Marisol looked over her shoulder, smiling slyly. “You’re breathing funny.”
“I’m concentrating,” he hissed. “On not dying.”
She shifted slightly - the soft curve of her back flexing under his palm - and suddenly the top tie slipped again.
Bharath sighed. “It’s like trying to tie a knot on a water balloon. That’s ... also breathing.”
Sarah, watching from the mirror across the room, laughed. “You’re doing great. You should add this to your resume: Choli Combat Technician.”
“I’m going to need a pension after this,” he muttered, finally securing the knot and stepping back.
But the moment Marisol turned, the choli tugged again - this time strained from the front - and the knot threatened to unravel.
Sarah clicked her tongue. “I told you - it’s not the knot. It’s the boobs.”
Bharath blinked. “Sorry?”
“The boobs,” Sarah repeated, more helpfully this time. “There’s too much pressure on the front. These blouses aren’t made for women with actual curves. They’re made for mannequins.”
“God help us when we start dancing,” Marisol added.
Mia emerged from behind the curtain next, her lehenga fully fastened, sitting beautifully on her fabulous body, but her choli ... still hanging from her neck like a polite suggestion.
“Bharath,” she said sweetly. “Can you help with mine?”
His heart skipped.
Oh God.
She looked like an apsara. A sinful dream in soft pink and silver. Her breasts looked like they were praying to be released-barely, barely contained by that delicate slip of embroidered silk.
Bharath felt the floor vanish beneath him.
It wasn’t just hot.
It was personal.
It was every half-formed fantasy from his boyhood - of movie heroines, calendar girls, temple dancers - now alive and wicked and sitting inches from him, asking for help while spilling out of tradition like temptation made flesh.
“No,” he said immediately.
She pouted. “But it won’t stay up.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You tied Marisol’s.”
“Yes I did.”
Sarah stood now, tugging hers down in the back. “Okay, then maybe you should do mine instead. Because I just did a spin and flashed the entire window.”
“Mia first,” Marisol said, already tying her dupatta to cover herself for a moment. “Let’s not destroy the poor boy all at once.”
Bharath sighed, defeated, as Mia turned her bare back to him and pulled her hair to one side. The choli cords dangled like a trap. Her skin was soft, golden, flawless - the small of her back a perfect curve leading down into the gentle flare of her waist. She smelled like strawberries and youth and something deeply unwise.
He focused.
Thread. Pull. Loop.
Mia wriggled. “Too tight.”
He adjusted.
She breathed in.
The top slipped again.
“It’s the boobs,” Sarah called helpfully from the corner.
“Yes, I know it’s the boobs,” he snapped.
Mia giggled and reached behind her, brushing his fingers. “I don’t mind if it’s a little tighter, you know.”
Bharath flinched like he’d been struck.
“You’re doing great,” Marisol said, draping her dupatta in front of the mirror, mostly to give him a break from the sensory assault.
Sarah wasn’t helping. She stood now, choli completely unfastened, back to him in the mirror, fanning herself with a dupatta.
“Can someone please help me hook this thing? It’s like trying to staple Jell-O.”
Bharath turned slowly. “You want me to do it?”
“Unless you’d rather Mia do it.”
Mia grinned.
“I’ll do it,” Bharath muttered recalling their tutoring session. He wasn’t sure he could survive a repeat of that right now.
He walked over carefully, as if stepping through landmines. Sarah stood still, arms up slightly, the choli draped across her chest but unhooked in the back. Her skin was already flushed from the heat and the teasing. The top gaped slightly, revealing just a hint of side curve. She watched him through the mirror as he approached, a smile playing at her lips.
“This is an extended torture session, isn’t it?” he asked.
“From the tutoring session?” she asked innocently. “Maybe.”
He reached up to the tiny hooks and tried not to look down. Or sideways. Or at all. Her skin was soft beneath his knuckles. Her breath caught as he pulled the fabric snug.
“You okay?” he asked softly.
“Mmhm,” she moaned softly into his ear. “Just a little ... overstimulated.”
He fumbled the hook.
She giggled.
“Got it,” he squeaked, finally stepping back.
Sarah turned and faced him fully now - the choli secure but doing absolutely nothing to hide the lush curves beneath. “How do I look?”
“Like temptation incarnate,” he said admiringly.
She smirked. “Good answer.”
Mia returned to the mirror, examining herself critically. “This really does nothing for support.”
Marisol walked up beside her. “Which is the point, I think.”
The three of them now stood before the massive mirror, side by side: Marisol in shimmering wine-red with gold trim, Sarah in deep peacock blue, and Mia in that provocative pastel pink and silver. All three cholis were tight enough to threaten rebellion, all three lehengas riding low on bare waists.
And none of them - he was now absolutely sure - had worn a bra or panties.
They looked like actual apsaras who’d stepped out of Indraloka for a calendar shoot designed specifically to ruin him.
He sat down on the nearest ottoman and buried his face in his hands.
“I give up.”
“You okay, baby?” Marisol said, walking over.
“No,” he mumbled. “I’m having a crisis. A real, spiritual crisis.”
Sarah tilted her head. “Too much?”
“Yes. Too much! You’re all... too much.”
Marisol laughed low. “You really like us in Indian clothes, huh?”
He didn’t answer. He was trying not to explode.
Sarah smirked. “Noted. We’ll keep that in mind.”
Marisol traced a finger down his chest. “Maybe we’ll wear this to bed next time. Cholis. No bottoms. I must say I like what it does to our busts. They look spectacular.”
Sarah nodded sagely looking at the outrageous cleavage on display.
Bharath groaned and covered his face again.
“Say it,” Marisol coaxed. “You love us like this.”
“I worship you like this,” he breathed. “You look like dreams I didn’t know I was allowed to have.”
Mia sat on his lap suddenly, straddling his thighs like it was the most natural thing in the world. Her thighs were bare beneath the lehenga. Her choli straps brushed his shoulders.
“Poor baby,” she said, stroking his hair.
He turned red. “Mia - get up - please! I’m only human.”
She didn’t.
Mia didn’t move immediately.
Instead, she looked at him, really looked, her expression no longer playful but soft, serious, vulnerable in a way he hadn’t seen before.
“I know what you think,” she said quietly, hands resting lightly on his chest. “That I’m just teasing. That I’m being reckless. That maybe, I don’t understand what this means.”
Bharath opened his mouth, but no words came.
Mia leaned in, close enough that he could feel her breath against his cheek.
“But I do,” she whispered. “I’ve seen how you are with them. With Marisol. With Sarah. You’re not just the love of their lives, Bharath. You’re their ... center. Their gravity. The man they trust with their whole selves. You are their forever.”
Her fingers slid up to cup his face, thumbs brushing his jaw. “I’m not here because they pushed me. I’m here because I’ve come to realize that I’ve never wanted anything more than to belong to you like that. Not just for the sex. Not just for the sisterhood. But because I love you. Truly. Madly. Deeply.”
His breath caught.
Her voice trembled now, but she didn’t stop. “I love you completely. Not with one foot out the door. This is scary, and stupid, and too fast ... but it’s also real. And I’ve never felt this sure about anything in my life. You are my man for life when you have me.”
He stared at her, stunned. His hands, still clenched at his sides, didn’t know whether to hold her or push her gently away.
“Mia...” he began.
“I know,” she said softly, before he could go on. “You’re not sure yet. I can see it. I can feel it.”
He nodded slowly, swallowing hard. “I don’t want to break what we have. You, me, Marisol, Sarah ... this isn’t just teasing anymore. It’s serious. I don’t want to reach for you unless I’m sure I can honor what you’re offering.”
Mia’s lips curled-not in a smirk, but something warmer. “Then think about it.”
And just as he exhaled in relief-thinking that was the end of it-Mia shifted her weight with practiced grace and slid his hands up, guiding them under her blouse until his palms cupped her fantastic breasts, full and warm and defiant beneath the sheer silk.
He froze. Eyes wide.
“Mia-”
She smirked now, just a little. “That’s just insurance. So you think the right way.”
He blinked. Stared. Didn’t pull away.
Didn’t move at all.
Just held her. Reverently. Like her body was proof of everything she’d said.
Behind them, Sarah let out a breath. Marisol leaned forward, eyes shimmering. They saw the shift. Felt it.
Mia leaned in close, her voice trembling again-but with joy this time.
“I meant it,” she whispered, forehead resting against his. “I love you. And I’m going to keep loving you. Whether you’re ready now ... or tomorrow. Or later.”
Bharath looked up at her, his hands still full of her warmth, her truth. His heart beat so loudly he was sure she could feel it through her chest.
“I believe you,” he said softly. “And that scares me more than anything.”
She smiled.
And this time, it wasn’t wicked or coy.
It was the smile of someone already his.
Instead, Sarah joined them, kneeling beside the ottoman and leaning her head against his arm. “We were just testing you.”
“And I failed,” he said weakly.
Marisol sat on his other side, draping her dupatta across his lap like a blanket of modesty that only looked modest.
“You passed,” she said s oftly, kissing his cheek. “You stayed a gentleman. Even when you were clearly suffering.”
“Which means,” Marisol said, grabbing his wrists and guiding them behind her, “you’ve earned a little reward.”
She planted his hands firmly on her hips-then lower, over the bare curve of her ass where her lehenga dipped scandalously low.
“Grab it,” she whispered. “Tell me what you’ll do to it.”
He clenched, overwhelmed, aroused beyond words.
“I’m going to bend you over the dresser,” he growled in Tamil. “And spank you until you cry and come.”
She whimpered into his neck back in Tamil to his delight. “Do it chellam. Tonight. After you ruin Sarah - ruin me too.”
Sarah kissed his other cheek. “But we do like seeing you squirm.”
Mia leaned in and kissed his nose. “And maybe just a little ... hard.”
He groaned and tried to hide his face in Mia’s shoulder.
“Tonight’s going to be chaos, isn’t it?” he mumbled.
“Mmhm,” the girls hummed together.
“Can I request a moment of silence? Like, just thirty seconds of no stimulation?”
“Nope,” Marisol said sweetly. “We’re going to make you hold all our stuff in the truck too.”
“And help us rehearse the finale with lifts,” Sarah added.
“Which means touching hips,” Mia added, bouncing slightly on his lap.
Bharath made a sound that could only be described as a prayer to every Hindu god in existence.
And then he laughed - helpless, breathless, stunned.
He had no armor against this kind of affection with a sudden realization.
He didn’t want armor.
He wrapped his arms around all three of them and pulled them close, kissing their temples, holding them like he never wanted to let go.
“I love you,” he whispered to Marisol.
“I love you too,” she said instantly.
He turned to Sarah. “I love you.”
“Good,” she whispered, “because I’ve already told the boutique owner you’re paying for my dress.”
“Fair,” he murmured-only for her to grab his hand and slide it right under the edge of her choli.
“Sarah -”
“Shhh.”
Her eyes locked with his. “You said I looked like temptation. Touch your temptation.”
She arched into him slightly, and he cupped her without thinking - fingers molding over softness, thumb brushing the curve reverently.
“You want this later?” she whispered, biting his ear. “Say so.”
“I want it,” he growled. “I want you in this exact outfit. No panties. Nothing but bangles.”
Finally, he looked at Mia - and paused.
Her eyes were wide. She was breathing fast. Her cheeks were flushed.
“I don’t expect it,” she whispered, before he could say anything. “Not yet. But know that I am yours - completely.”
Bharath smiled and rested his forehead gently against hers.
“Let’s just start with this,” he said softly.
Mia nodded, and for a long, perfect moment, they all just sat there - surrounded by color and fabric and tension and affection. A tiny sanctuary of shared breath, laughter, and unspoken promises.
Then Marisol broke the silence.
“Okay. Time to go. If we don’t leave now, Nandita’s going to kill us.”
Sarah stood. “And I need you alive, Bharath. At least until the lifts are done.”
Mia got off his lap, not without a lingering glance, and gathered her dupatta.
Bharath stood last, adjusting his shirt and mumbling to himself.
“Cholis are evil.”
“We’ll let you practice again tomorrow,” Marisol said, linking her arm with his.
He just groaned.
And followed them out into the cooling evening air - flustered, turned on, and completely, irrevocably in love with three dangerously unholy women in dangerously holy clothes.
The boutique door chimed behind them as they stepped into the night, arms heavy with garment bags and laughter still echoing from the final fitting mishaps.
Tyrel popped the tailgate on his truck, his face unreadable as the boys silently helped each other load the precious, heavily beaded outfits into the bed with the kind of reverence usually reserved for antique glassware or ticking bombs.
The girls were still giggling as they piled into the cab.
“My choli hates me,” Marisol said between peals of laughter. “It has one job-containment-and it failed like a freshman during finals.”
Sarah smirked. “It succeeded from my point of view.”
“I think it gave Bharath an aneurysm,” Mia added, casually flipping her hair.
From the back of the truck, Bharath blinked into the cool air, still haunted by the physics-defying neckline he’d tried (and failed) to secure. His fingers remembered the way Mia had wriggled under his touch. The way Sarah had moaned when the hook finally caught. The way Marisol had whispered, tighter, like she was daring him to lose control.
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