Their Wonder Years: Season 1: Fall 1998
Copyright© 2025 by Tantrayaan
36: The One With The Haiku
Coming of Age Sex Story: 36: The One With The Haiku - 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
Bharath blinked awake to the sound of muffled hallway chatter and the dull buzz of the Smith 202 radiator.
The room was dark, save for a shaft of morning light cutting across the ceiling.
For a second, he was confused.
No soft arms wrapped around his chest. No bountiful breasts pressed against him. No sleepy kisses on his collarbone.
No tangle of perfumed hair across his face, no muffled giggles from the other side of the bed, no whispered “good morning, amor” from Marisol’s sexy morning voice or Sarah’s warm purr.
The bunk bed creaked beneath him as he shifted and realized with a thud: he was alone.
Truly alone.
No girls. No shared warmth. No Marisol tracing his ribs with idle fingers while Mia tried to steal the other side of his pillow. No Sarah rubbing circles into his back with sleepy affection.
It was just ... him.
A single guy on a cold bed in a dorm room that suddenly felt twice as empty as it should.
He lay there for a while, letting the silence press into him. It was almost funny - how normal this used to be. Just a couple of months ago, this was his every morning. But now?
Now it feels like I’ve been exiled from paradise, he thought, rubbing a hand across his chest.
There was an ache. A missing.
He swung his legs down and sighed.
Tyrel was snoring on the other bunk, Ravi face-planted into his pillow with a sock hanging off one ear. Jorge had long since claimed a sleeping bag on the floor, arms flung wide like he’d won a wrestling match in his dreams.
Bharath smiled.
Okay, he thought. There are still some joys here.
Eventually, they stirred and groaned their way out of sleep, complaining about sore thumbs and snack-induced bloating.
“Gym?” Jorge suggested through a yawn.
“Only if Bharath wears something other than girl-approved joggers,” Tyrel muttered, tossing a bundle of clothes at him.
Bharath caught it and raised an eyebrow. “You’re lending me your shorts?”
“You’re lucky I’m in a giving mood,” Tyrel said. “Use Ravi’s shoes though. My feet have standards.”
Ravi, too sleepy to protest, just grunted. He had to be frog marched to the common bathroom to change.
Jorge and Tyrel insisted that Bharath do his oft neglected duty to do so for once.
They shuffled toward the SAC together, half-joking, half-yawning. Bharath pulled on Tyrel’s oversized hoodie and Ravi’s slightly-too-tight sneakers, laughing inwardly at the contrast.
He was back with his boys. He was joking. He was grunting through weights and teasing Jorge’s form and racing Ravi on the treadmill.
And still ... he missed them.
Already.
Just a few hours. Not even twenty-four. And his arms already felt too empty. His chest too quiet.
He never realized how spoiled he’d become.
It started as a subtle discomfort. A vague awareness of something missing.
Sarah shifted under the blanket, eyes still closed, her cheek pressing softly against the pillow. She reached back automatically - a habit, now - searching for warmth behind her. A chest. An arm. The slight weight of a thigh draped protectively over hers.
But all she touched was Mia’s hip.
Warm, yes.
But not him.
She opened her eyes slowly, blinking into the soft glow of morning light filtering through the curtain. The room smelled of jasmine oil and cotton - familiar and safe. Mia was curled into a tight crescent, her lashes still resting on her cheeks, breathing steady and slow. Peaceful.
But something was wrong.
He’s not here.
Sarah exhaled quietly.
“Mari,” she whispered, her voice still gravelly from sleep. “Are you awake?”
A soft groan from the other side of Mia answered her. “Mm-hmm.”
“Do you ... feel weird?”
Another pause.
Then: “Yes,” Marisol said quietly. “I miss him.”
That did it.
Sarah rolled onto her back and sighed, staring up at the ceiling with her arm thrown across her forehead. “God, same. I woke up and my chest hurt for a second because I thought something was wrong.”
“I know,” Marisol whispered, her voice wobbling just a little. “I reached out and ... I expected to feel him. That stupid scruffy chest. That warm arm.”
“Or that breath on the back of your neck,” Sarah added. “Or how he curls into us halfway through the night even if he starts on the edge.”
Marisol shifted closer to Mia’s back, curling her legs tighter, as if trying to fill the Bharath-shaped void behind her.
“It’s ridiculous,” she muttered. “He’s just ... across town.”
“A few miles.”
“A morning away.”
They both sighed at the same time.
Sarah buried her face into the pillow and groaned. “How did we get so dependent on him so fast?”
“Because he’s perfect?” Marisol offered.
Sarah chuckled into the sheets. “Yeah. That checks out.”
Mia stirred between them but didn’t wake, her brow twitching as she snuggled deeper under the covers, a small smile playing on her lips.
“Look at her,” Sarah whispered. “Smiling in her sleep. Girl’s got dreams of him wrapped around her already.”
Marisol leaned in and kissed the top of Mia’s head. “I would too, if I were her.”
Sarah went quiet again. She felt that ache - dull, steady - blooming at the base of her spine.
“It feels wrong without him,” she murmured. “Like the balance is off.”
“I used to like sleeping alone,” Marisol said, her voice rawer now. “Used to need it. After breakups, after stress. It was how I recharged.”
“Same.”
“But now?”
“Now it’s like something vital is missing.”
They both watched Mia for a moment - her quiet smile, the softness of her skin in the morning light, the way her fingers curled gently against the pillow.
“He does this thing in his sleep,” Sarah said suddenly. “Where he rubs slow circles into my hip. Barely even there. Like he’s checking that I haven’t disappeared.”
Marisol nodded. “He holds me like he owns me. Not possessively. Just ... like he’s memorizing my shape every night.”
Sarah turned on her side to face her. “When he sleeps between us, he wraps one arm around each of us. Like we’re his world.”
Marisol smiled faintly. “Because we are.”
Sarah reached across Mia and took Marisol’s hand. Their fingers locked.
“Do you still think,” Sarah asked softly, “that you’d be okay if he had to go back to India?”
Marisol didn’t answer immediately.
She stared at the ceiling, her throat tightening.
“I thought I could be,” she said after a moment. “That I was strong enough. That I’d wait. That love could endure.”
“It can,” Sarah whispered. “But...”
Marisol closed her eyes. “But even this - this one night - hurts. Physically. Like a muscle I forgot existed is aching.”
Sarah nodded, blinking away a sudden sting behind her eyes. “It’s not weakness.”
“No,” Marisol said. “But it is truth. And I don’t know what to do with it.”
There was silence again, but it was full. Heavy with emotion. Thick with honesty.
“I think,” Sarah said finally, “you need to stop pretending you’re okay with any version of the future that doesn’t include all of us together. Especially him.”
“Yeah. I don’t know how I could have thought I did not need to be with him all the time.”
Mia sighed in her sleep and rolled slightly toward Sarah, burying her face into her shoulder.
They both looked down at her.
“She has no idea,” Sarah whispered.
“She’ll understand soon.”
Marisol leaned over Mia to press a soft kiss to Sarah’s temple. Then she snuggled closer from the other side, molding her body to Mia’s curve.
“We’ll get through this,” she murmured. “Together.”
Sarah smiled and kissed Mia’s hair. “All three of us.”
They fell into silence again, but it was different now. Less mournful. More resolved.
They missed him.
They ached for him.
But they had each other.
And that - for now - was enough to hold them.
The fluorescent lights buzzed above as trays clattered and bacon sizzled behind the counter, but none of it registered for the Georgia Tech breakfast crowd at the Brittain Dining Hall.
But none of it mattered.
Not today.
They were too busy staring at him. The wielder of the Thigh-GrabTM. Bringer of the Curve CollapseTM. The Prince of Pleasure himself - and he was alone. For the second time in a row!
Bharath stood in the middle of the dining hall, holding a tray of French toast sticks and watery orange juice, flanked by Jorge and Ravi like bodyguards escorting a dazed celebrity.
And for once?
There was no Sarah leaning on his shoulder.
No Marisol whispering in his ear.
Just ... him. Plain hoodie. Wild hair. Alone.
The whispers became a tidal wave. The fall of House Bharath had begun.
Across the hall, a freshman spilled his milk watching Bharath sit down with the boys at the long table near the windows.
Two girls in oversized denim jackets physically stopped mid-step in the cereal aisle, one whispering, “Oh my God. He’s alone. Again!”
Rumors had sparked the night before - a few whispers in the basement lounge after someone spotted him walking into Smith Hall unaccompanied.
But now?
Now it was confirmed.
The King walked without his queens.
Tyrel was the first to break the silence, glancing around at the gawking crowd like he was in a nature documentary.
“Brah,” he said, biting into a sausage link. “You’re being watched like you just ran over the Ramblin’ Wreck.”
Jorge leaned in, trying not to laugh. “I think someone just sketched your obituary on a napkin.”
“It says, ‘Here lies Bharath. Loved by two, now abandoned by both,’” Ravi added helpfully.
Bharath rubbed his forehead. “They’re just at Marisol’s mom’s place finishing the Diwali costumes. We planned this.”
LaTasha sauntered up to the table, plopping down next to Tyrel with a grin. “Mmm-hmm. Try telling them that.”
She jerked her thumb toward a group of stunned girls frozen over their oatmeal like they were watching Titanic in real life.
Camila and Nandita followed, both laughing before they even sat.
“You would not believe the whispers outside,” Camila said. “One girl said, ‘What if Marisol found out he’s been secretly married to Sarah this whole time?’”
“Oh, that’s nothing,” Nandita added. “Some frat bro by the library asked if Bharath had ‘emotionally disbanded the harem to pursue enlightenment.’”
LaTasha took a long sip of her chocolate milk. “Y’all, he just slept in a dorm room and didn’t get groped in his sleep for once. Let the man breathe.”
“Honestly,” Camila said, pretending to fan herself with a napkin. “It’s nice seeing you actually use your legs instead of getting dragged everywhere by desire.”
Jorge and Ravi exploded in laughter.
Bharath stared at them. “How am I the drama?”
Nandita grinned. “Dude, you are the drama. Own it.”
The gang split up outside, the morning sun creeping over campus.
Camila kissed Jorge on the cheek and headed toward Skiles Walk.
LaTasha adjusted Tyrel’s hoodie collar before letting him go, smirking. “If people ask, just say we’re still together. I don’t want rumors about you too.”
“You sure?” Tyrel asked. “We could throw ‘em off the scent, say I left you to become a monk.”
LaTasha raised an eyebrow. “You? Celibate? Please.”
She walked away laughing. Nandita gave Ravi a peck as well that made Ravi turn crimson.
Bharath, Ravi, and Jorge turned to head up the library steps toward the CS building, and that’s when it happened.
Again.
The murmuring.
The side glances.
The whispers.
One girl actually stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and said, out loud, “That’s the second time he’s alone.”
A guy in a Nirvana shirt turned to his friend and muttered, “He looked happier with them. Maybe he cracked. Too much pressure.”
“I heard he’s transferring,” someone else whispered.
A guy handing out flyers for a recycling drive leaned into Bharath. “Blink twice if you’re being emotionally held hostage.”
Ravi’s jaw dropped. “Oh my God, they’ve built an entire narrative in twelve hours.”
Jorge nodded solemnly. “This is what happens when you’re hot and emotionally available. People expect you to suffer publicly.”
Bharath covered his face with one hand. “I just want to go to class.”
The quad outside the College of Computing had become a full-blown media circus without a single camera in sight.
Word had spread like printer paper fire in the CS lab.
Marisol and Sarah were spotted walking to class together. Without Bharath. Again.
This was their second consecutive sighting sans king aka the prince of pleasure.
And that? That was cause for alarm.
By the vending machines, two business majors - who seemed to be doing brisk business - had set up a fold-out table with a sign that read:
ODDS ON BHARATH’S BREAKUP
1:3 - Girls are now dating each other
1:2 - The girls tell him it’s not him. It’s them
2:1 - Bharath ran out of Wild Stone
3:1 - The girls have become immune to Wild Stone
5:1 - Bharath is starting a new harem
6:1 - Marisol stabs Bharath. x2 bonus for blood
7:1 - Sarah spits on Bharath after Marisol beats him up. x2 bonus for blood
8:1 - All three break up live on the CoC steps
12:1 - Surprise marriage proposal
30:1 - Bharath is an alien and will get beamed up now that his mission on Earth is over
Beside them, a poli-sci student was collecting data on public sentiment: “Would you support Bharath in a post-throuple future? Circle yes or no.”
A guy in an “X-Files” T-shirt paced like a campaign manager. “This is a campus event. It’s got drama, it’s got romance, it’s got movement - all we need is resolution.”
Even the football team abandoned their practice to watch that morning.
It wasn’t just that Bharath was absent.
It was the way Marisol and Sarah had walked in.
Linked arms. Tight smiles. Lips pursed.
No teasing. No post-makeout glow. No flirtatious dishevelment.
It was clinical.
And that? That meant trouble.
Someone from the Zeta Psi porch whispered, “They’ve gone full Ellen De Generes and Anne Heche.”
Others speculated a public falling-out was planned for the noon rush.
“I bet they dump him,” one guy whispered. “I bet $100 on the breakup. I got 8:1 odds. Easiest $800 I’m going to make.”
“With a crowd.”
“Maybe with pie.”
The air buzzed.
The girls stood near the CoC’s front steps, sipping iced drinks. Marisol had her sunglasses on. Sarah had her arms folded and was tapping her foot.
Their beauty alone turned heads.
But without Bharath?
It was like two thunderclouds hovering over Atlanta’s social barometer.
A freshman passed by and whispered, “They’re too hot to be sad. That means something bad is about to happen.”
Near the steps, one guy whispered, “I heard they’re going to leave him for Ravi. Ravi’s been bulking.”
Another muttered, “Dude. They’re lesbians now. You can see it.”
“Why are they still on campus if it’s over?” someone asked.
“For the drama, “ said a journalism major solemnly. “They know what they’re doing.”
And then-
A ripple.
Like wind through a wheat field.
Someone near the bookstore turned.
Pointed.
He had arrived.
Bharath walked across the quad in slow motion - or at least, that’s how it felt.
Jorge and Ravi flanked him like backup dancers in a boy band music video. His hoodie was loose, his hair slightly windblown, and his backpack bounced with every confident step.
The air seemed to pulse.
Was that the Baywatch theme faintly playing from someone’s boom box?
No one could confirm.
It didn’t matter.
Because they saw him.
Marisol’s sunglasses dropped an inch.
Sarah’s breath caught.
And in a heartbeat - they moved.
They weren’t walking. They were running.
“OH MY GOD IT’S HAPPENING. IT’S HAPPENING!” someone screamed.
One girl fainted. The crowd leaned in. People stood on benches. One guy dropped his Walkman trying to rewind for dramatic tension.
Baywatch: Georgia Tech Edition had begun.
Their hair flowed. Their hips swayed. Their not-exactly-practical push-up bra enhanced breasts bounced with each graceful stride. They looked like slow-motion sprinting angels - if angels wore crop tops and academic urgency.
Bharath blinked.
“Oh no,” Jorge said.
“Oh yes,” Ravi grinned.
Before Bharath could react, they were on him.
Sarah jumped first, arms wrapping around his neck, kissing his cheek with force.
Marisol collided second, burying her face in his chest with a groan that was somehow both relieved and possessive.
Their arms tangled. Their kisses landed.
One on his lips. One at his throat. Both of them muttering things like, “We missed you” and “Never again” and “Don’t you ever disappear like that.”
He staggered back a step, laughing helplessly as the crowd erupted.
People clapped.
Someone whistled.
From the bench, a marketing major whispered, “There’s gotta be a way to sell this.”
The poli-sci student wrote down: “Reunited, general public approval: 96%.”
The betting table updated the odds table to: “Everyone back together, stronger than ever - No one wins.”
The X-Files guy sighed. “They’re back. And hotter than before.”
Marisol finally pulled back, cupping Bharath’s cheeks with both hands. “You smell like Ravi’s cologne.”
“I borrowed his shirt,” Bharath gasped. “I just wanted to go to class.”
Sarah ruffled his hair. “You are never walking anywhere alone again.”
Jorge crossed his arms. “So what’s the plan, your highness?”
Ravi added, “Because y’all just upstaged an entire week of student elections.”
Bharath looked between the two women in his arms.
Sarah beamed. “We were making costumes. We just didn’t realize being apart would suck so much.”
Marisol nodded. “Next time we’ll send Mia as a decoy. She’s got the curves and the hair for it.”
Someone in the crowd yelled, “WE LOVE YOU, KING BHARATH.”
He blinked. “Okay. I need to sit down.”
Sarah took his backpack. Marisol linked her fingers with his.
As they walked toward the stairs, the crowd slowly dispersed - some in relief, others in disappointment.
The show was over.
But the legend?
That had just begun.
Sarah was feeling magnanimous.
She’d done her duty. Kissed her man with enough heat to steam up windows. Reclaimed her throne and caused at least one freshman to faint and silenced the rumor-mongering horde with a performance worthy of a daytime Emmy.
Now it was time for her dramatic exit.
She turned to Bharath, sunglasses sliding down her nose just enough to reveal a devilish twinkle in her eyes.
“You’ll be okay without me?” she asked, cupping his jaw like he was a soldier heading to war.
“I’ll try,” Bharath whispered, dazed.
She leaned in and gave him one last volcanic kiss - a slow, molten thing that left bystanders speechless and Bharath visibly short-circuited. As she stepped back, he actually wobbled slightly.
Sarah smiled sweetly, turned on her heel, and began walking toward her engineering building.
With purpose.
With hips.
And with every ounce of dramatic sway a woman could muster while carrying a messenger bag with thermodynamics notes.
The crowd parted instinctively.
A girl near the steps whispered, “I think I’m straight, but also ... maybe not?”
Someone else muttered, “She walks like a Bond girl in a Dr. Dre remix.”
Marisol stared after her, blinking. “Did she practice that exit?”
Bharath coughed into his hand. “She doesn’t practice. She just is.”
Sarah stood on the steps like a goddess surveying the kingdom she had just reclaimed.
Her lipstick was slightly smudged from the volcanic kisses she’d just delivered to Bharath’s face, but somehow that only made her look more powerful - like a warrior leaving a battlefield victorious and glowing.
And then she turned and winked.
And walked away.
And it was not a normal walk.
It was a performance.
Hips swaying with mathematical precision. Ankles pivoting like a metronome. Her oversized sweatshirt slipped just enough to reveal one elegant shoulder - a fashion accident too perfect to be real.
The crowd parted like she was Moses with 90s sneakers.
Somewhere, someone dropped a pencil and forgot to pick it up.
The guy behind the betting table slowly turned his chalkboard around and erased all the odds.
“Show’s over,” he muttered, elated. No one guessed correctly! They had made a fortune!
By the vending machines, someone sighed, “She walks like Alanis sings.”
“She walks like Aaliyah dances,” someone else replied, almost reverently.
“She walks like she broke his spine and gave it back better, “ said a dazed mechanical engineer.
As Sarah rounded the corner and vanished from sight, the entire CoC courtyard seemed to exhale.
Marisol looped her arm through Bharath’s and tugged him toward the building.
“Alright, Romeo,” she said, glancing at the time. “Let’s actually make it to class before we have to reenact Titanic on the steps.”
Bharath was still flushed. “She kissed me so hard my jaw cracked.”
“Good,” she said. “Next time we’ll get you on the news.”
Jorge and Ravi fell beside them, shaking their heads.
Ravi was already wiping tears from his eyes. “You have no idea how unreal that looked from where we were standing. I saw professor Chen fan herself with a spiral notebook.”
“She dropped her beeper,” Jorge added. “She didn’t even notice.”
Bharath groaned. “Can we please act like this is a normal day now?”
“No,” said all three in unison.
They reached the walkway into the CoC building when it happened.
A lone figure stepped out of the shade. A sophomore, maybe. Wearing a tucked-in Tech polo. Cargo khakis. A worn JanSport backpack on one shoulder. Wide, anxious eyes.
And a heart full of feelings.
He approached cautiously. His steps were tentative, like he was afraid the moment might vanish if he blinked.
And then-
He stopped directly in front of Bharath.
Marisol arched an eyebrow.
Bharath tilted his head. “Hi?”
The guy’s eyes welled up - welled up - and he took a breath so shaky it could’ve powered a harmonica.
And then he hugged Bharath.
Full arms. Head-on-shoulder. Trembling emotion.
Bharath froze.
“ ... bro?” Jorge whispered, already turning red.
The guy pulled back and nodded solemnly.
“I just-” he said, voice cracking. “I knew the rumors weren’t true. I believed in you. I never stopped.”
Bharath blinked. “Thanks...?”
“I was in line at Chick-fil-A last night and someone said you were ‘emotionally unravelling.’ And I said, ‘No. He’s just emotionally multidimensional.’” His hands shook. “And then they called me delusional. But now- now look at you.”
Ravi turned away, biting his fist.
Jorge sank to the floor, whispering, “I can’t. I can’t.”
Marisol’s eyes were wide, somewhere between stunned and flattered. “That was ... poetic.”
The guy sniffed and offered Bharath a folded note.
“It’s a haiku I wrote last night. For you. And your path.”
Then he turned and walked away without another word, disappearing back into the flow of students like a wandering prophet who had delivered his truth.
The silence was deafening.
Then-
Ravi howled.
He dropped his notebook. He stumbled. He choked.
Jorge was wheezing. “Bro wrote him a haiku. A haiku!”
Bharath turned to Marisol, who looked like she was trying very hard not to smile. “What just happened?”
“You got your first fanboy breakup vigil,” she said. “Cherish it.”
Bharath looked down at the folded paper.
He didn’t open it.
He couldn’t.
Ravi peered over his shoulder. “I need to know what the last line is. Please tell me it ends with something like, ‘Her hips cracked the earth.’”
Jorge pulled the piece of paper from Bharath as Ravi and Marisol leaned over to read it with him.
Jorge gasped, wiping tears. “‘Chest bare, but heart full / Alone he walks, but not lost / Love returns with sway.’”
“STOP,” Bharath said, laughing despite himself as everyone rolled on the floor laughing.
They headed into the CS building as the morning returned to its usual buzz of students talking, payphones ringing in the hallway, and old soda cans being kicked under bulletin boards.
But for those who saw it...
The Show always delivered!
It had started with whispers in the library. By mid-morning, it was everywhere.
Bharath was seen walking alone.
Twice.
Yesterday evening near Smith Hall, and again this morning - crossing Skiles without Marisol on his arm or Sarah draped over him like she was born to lean.
No hands in his hair. No shared soda. No soft touches or smug little looks.
He’d just ... walked. With the boys. Like a regular guy.
The kind of thing that should’ve been forgettable.
But at Georgia Tech?
This was headline news.
In the Humanities Lounge, girls were already speculating with hushed excitement:
“Maybe they finally broke up.”
“He probably cheated. The quiet ones always do.”
“Or maybe they both dumped him and now he’s going through a humble phase.”
“God, if he’s single again ... I’m getting my eyebrows done.”
Ayesha listened, silent at first.
She told herself it was dumb.
Told herself she didn’t care.
Told herself it wasn’t real - the feeling in her stomach, the tightness in her throat, the part of her that suddenly thought:
What if I get a second chance?
She looked down at her reflection in the lounge mirror.
Not bad. But not... her best.
She reached into her tote for her compact and dabbed gently under her eyes. A little more gloss. A touch of liner.
Then she let her fingers rest against her cheekbone.
He looked at me like I was the sun, she thought.
That taxi ride - early August - when they’d both landed in Atlanta on the same student group flight. She’d barely looked at him at first. He was quiet. Polite. Awkward. Just another freshman from somewhere hot and far away.
But when he did look at her...
It wasn’t like the frat boys. It wasn’t greedy or strategic.
It was reverent.
She hadn’t known how badly she needed that until she lost it.
He had listened - really listened - while she chattered about orientation schedules, clothes that melted in the humidity, and how Americans never used spices correctly. He didn’t talk much, just nodded along, laughing shyly when she joked.
She remembered thinking: This one’s sweet. A little dumb, maybe. But sweet.
Then she’d let herself drift toward other boys - louder, cooler, hungrier for attention. It had felt like a better fit for her image. For her crowd.
And by the time Bharath became campus famous, she’d already thrown him away.
The rise had been quiet but impossible to ignore.
The stolen glances. The rumors. The day Marisol kissed him in front of the Tech Green and people actually cheered.
Ayesha hadn’t clapped. But her stomach had twisted.
And now...
He’d been seen alone. Twice.
Maybe the spell is broken.
She dared to let hope flicker.
Just enough to start fixing her hair.
That’s when Zara walked in.
And everything cracked.
She was wearing a violet cropped cardigan, buttoned low showing ample cleavage. Her lips were cherry-glossed, and her jeans hugged her like a compliment. She looked casual - but calculated.
And she was humming.
Ayesha blinked. “You look...”
Zara smiled. “Extra cute today? I know.”
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