6: Their First Time

As they strolled back from Centennial Park, Tyrel hung back slightly with Jorge and Ravi while Bharath and Marisol walked ahead, talking quietly.

Tyrel kept his voice low. “Alright. Operation Wake Up Dumbass is a go.”

Ravi asked, “Why do you keep changing the name of the mission? It gets confusing.”

Tyrel stared at Ravi.

Jorge smirked. “You think tonight’s the night?”

Ravi shrugged. “If she holds his hand in the park and he still doesn’t get it? We’re going to have to spell it out in ASCII or Binary.”

“She said yes to a frat party,” Tyrel said. “With him. That’s not subtle. Tonight, we close the deal.”

“Bueno! Are we still playing wingman?” Jorge asked.

“We’re doing more than that,” Tyrel said. “We’re clearing the dance floor, we’re playing DJ, and if needed — we’re faking emergencies so they get stuck together.”

Ravi nodded solemnly. “For love. And future hot girlfriends.”

Jorge added, “But mostly the hot girlfriends.”

Tyrel grinned. “If we’re giving up our chance with a dimepiece like Marisol, she better return the favor with interest.”

From ahead, Marisol called over her shoulder, “You guys scheming back there or just walking that slow?”

“Stretching!” Tyrel called back. “Just admiring the sunset!”

“Mm-hmm,” she replied, clearly not buying it — but amused.

Bharath glanced back, confused. “Everything okay?”

“Perfect,” Tyrel said. “Tonight’s gonna be legendary.”

The sun was just beginning to mellow, casting long golden stripes across the quad as the gang spilled out of the MARTA station, legs tired from walking and laughter still fresh from the day at Centennial Park.

Tyrel pulled his cap lower and cracked his neck. “Alright, nerdlings,” he said, pausing in the middle of the sidewalk, “tonight — we go feral.”

Bharath blinked. “Feral?”

“Rush week, baby,” Tyrel grinned, slapping Jorge’s shoulder. “Zeta Psi’s throwin’ a rager. Supposed to be wild. DJs, jungle juice, maybe even a fire-breather.”

Jorge looked thrilled. “I’ve always wanted to see a drunk guy try that.”

Ravi snorted. “I still don’t even know what Rush Week is, man. It sounds like a Coke ad.”

Tyrel threw his arms around both of them. “Rush week is when the fraternities and sororities recruit. Frats throw huge parties to lure dumb freshmen with bad decisions. And guess what?”

“We’re the dumb freshmen?” Bharath guessed.

“Exactly,” Tyrel beamed. “But with style.”

Bharath exchanged a look with Jorge. “You sure this isn’t ... too much?”

“Come on,” Jorge said. “It’s college! When are we ever gonna be this young and this stupid again?”

“I dunno,” Ravi said. “I was planning on being stupid for years.”

Behind them, Marisol adjusted the strap of her bag and raised an eyebrow. “You boys planning to get yourselves roofied or what?”

Tyrel turned with a wink. “We’re scouting the scene, miss. Gotta see what these frat guys think passes for charisma.”

“Chugging vodka and yelling ‘bro’ every five seconds?” Marisol offered. “Impressive.”

“You’re coming, right?” Jorge asked half-teasingly, winking at her.

Marisol winked. “Me? To a frat party?”

Tyrel winked back. “What, scared of the wild side?”

She gave him a knowing look, then glanced at Bharath, who was conspicuously silent — staring at Marisol’s hands in his with a dazed smile like they held the answer to all his existential questions.

“I don’t know,” she said slowly. “Sounds like I’d need a security detail.”

Tyrel gestured grandly. “Behold — your four bodyguards. Unarmed but dangerous. Ravi bites.”

Ravi gave a thumbs up. “More like bits. But confirmed.”

Everyone groaned at his bad computer science joke.

Marisol laughed, “You know what? Why not.”

Bharath looked up. “Wait — really?”

She shrugged. “I’ve never been to a frat party. And if I’m ever going to survive one, it’s with you guys. Plus...” She glanced at Bharath and smirked. “Gotta make sure someone doesn’t wander into the keg thinking it’s a urinal.”

“I would never—” Bharath began, horrified.

“Mm-hm,” she said, already looking for a payphone to call home.

As they waited for her to call home from a nearby phone, Tyrel leaned toward Jorge. “Did that just happen? Are we bringing her to this?”

Jorge nodded slowly. “God bless America.”

Marisol’s voice softened slightly as she spoke in Spanish to her mother. A moment later, she ended the call and returned to the boys. Bharath held her hands again causing her to blush.

“All good,” she said. “Told my mom I’m staying over at a friend’s place tonight.”

“Which isn’t technically a lie,” Ravi said. “We’re friends. Sort of.”

“You’re mascots,” she corrected. “Bharath is the only one keeping my faith in men alive.”

Bharath turned red immediately.

Tyrel clapped his hands. “Alright, squad. Go back, change into your party armor. Jeans, good shoes, no weird college tees — this ain’t study hall.”

“Wait,” Jorge said. “There’s a dress code?”

“It’s not Sunday at the church, but you gotta look good enough that they don’t bounce you at the door.”

Ravi nodded solemnly. “I shall attempt not to look like a mathlete.”

They split off in pairs, Marisol trailing behind the boys with Bharath as they walked back toward Smith Hall — her smile lingering just a little longer than usual when she looked into his eyes.

Saturday evening arrived like a buzz in the air — warm, electric, thick with the scent of cut grass and barbecue smoke drifting in from the frat row.

Back in Room 202 of Smith Hall, the boys stood in various states of wardrobe chaos.

“This shirt makes me look like a divorced uncle,” Jorge groaned, holding up a bright red button-down.

“It’s fine,” Bharath said, tying his shoelaces.

“You’re just saying that because your shirt fits,” Jorge grumbled.

Ravi emerged from the shared bathroom, sniffing his armpits. “Should I go light on the cologne or ... drown myself in it?”

“Don’t worry. You’ve got Wild Stone on” said Bharath.

“Depends,” Tyrel drawled from the futon, lounging in a crisp white tee, black jeans, and a gold chain that probably wasn’t real. “You tryna impress or confess?”

“I’m just trying to not look like I’m applying for a scholarship,” Ravi muttered.

Then — a knock at the door.

Bharath opened it.

And there she was.

Marisol.

Wearing a tucked-in tight black tank top, wide-leg high-waisted jean shorts, hoop earrings, and white sneakers. No makeup. Hair left loose over one shoulder. A denim jacket slung casually over the other shoulder. She looked like she’d just walked off the cover of an effortlessly cool magazine.

Bharath’s jaw forgot gravity.

Jorge actually dropped his deodorant.

Ravi blinked twice, frozen.

Tyrel let out a long whistle as he tried to sit down and stand up at the same time. “Well, goddamn.”

Marisol raised an eyebrow. “This is what peak male preparation looks like?”

Jorge recovered. “You’re not even dressed up. How do you look like that?”

She smirked. “It’s called style” as she fixed Bharath’s collar without asking.

Tyrel clapped his hands. “Aight peepz. Let’s roll out.”

The group began to shuffle out of Room 202 with a chorus of jokes and bravado, but Bharath lingered. His hands fidgeted at the edge of his shirt, where Marisol’s fingers had just been. His collar still held the ghost of her touch — casual, maybe, but it had sent something spiraling inside him. Something that had been trying to climb its way to the surface all week.

He turned, just as Marisol was about to follow the others out.

“Wait,” he said, a little louder than intended.

She paused, half in the doorway, eyebrows lifted. “Yeah?”

His mouth opened — then closed again. But he forced himself to breathe. Forced himself to meet her eyes.

“You look ... amazing,” he said, voice lower now. “I mean, you always do, but tonight, it’s like ... I don’t know. Like you’re walking out of my dreams.”

Marisol blinked. Her expression softened, just slightly. “That’s new,” she said, teasing. “Look at you flirting.”

“I’m not good at it,” Bharath said honestly. “But I wanted to say it anyway. Before we go.”

She stepped fully back into the room and closed the door gently behind her, muffling the sounds of the hallway. “Say what?”

“That I like you,” Bharath said, the words tumbling out now — too fast, too raw to stop. “I mean, really like you. Not just as a study partner. Not just because you’re funny or smart or gorgeous or ... or because you’re the only one who talks to me like I’m not some weirdo from another continent.”

She tilted her head, studying him.

“I like being around you. I look forward to every class - every day - because of you. And I know I’ve been ... slow, maybe even clueless, but it’s not because I don’t feel something. I just didn’t want to assume. Or scare you off.”

Her lips parted slightly, but she said nothing. Not yet.

He took a step closer. “I don’t just want to be your friend, Marisol. I mean, if that’s all you want, I’ll take it — because being near you is already more than I thought I deserved. But if there’s even a chance that you feel something too...”

He swallowed, voice almost trembling now. “I want more. I want to see where this goes. I want to hold your hand without wondering if it’s too much. I want to kiss you without pretending I’m just imagining it.”

Her breath hitched. She looked at him like he’d just knocked the wind out of her.

“You’re serious,” she whispered.

“I’ve never been more serious about anything,” he said. “You make me feel like I belong here. Like I’m more than just someone passing through.”

A beat of silence.

Then Marisol crossed the space between them in two quick steps and stood on her toes, her hands resting lightly on his chest.

“Bharath,” she said, her voice suddenly breathless. “I’ve been waiting for you to say something. All week.”

He blinked. “You have?”

She smiled. “Of course I have. You really think I come around just to borrow your notes?”

“I don’t know,” he said, dazed. “I thought maybe you were just nice. Or ... way out of my league.”

“You’re an idiot,” she murmured, and leaned in — not to kiss him, but to press her forehead against his. “But you’re my idiot.”

The doorknob rattled. Tyrel’s voice echoed through the wood. “Wakey wakey. Y’all makin’ out in there or what?”

Marisol laughed softly, eyes still closed. “Soon,” she whispered, only for Bharath.

Then she stepped back, opened the door, and walked out like nothing had happened.

Bharath stood there for a second longer, heart pounding, soul on fire — then followed her out into the dusk, knowing with utter certainty that the night ahead would be nothing like he expected.

And maybe — just maybe — everything he wanted.

They walked in a loose, excited formation down Techwood Drive, the Georgia Tech skyline looming golden in the background. The campus buzzed like a beehive, every path and quad crawling with students in party gear — tank tops, halters, heels, glitter, caps, Greek letters everywhere.

It was like walking into a movie set.

Lights blinked from every house along Ferst Drive. Music blared — everything from rap to rock to EDM. Students were already spilling out onto lawns with red Solo cups in hand, sitting on porches, standing on roofs, even playing beer pong on folding tables that had definitely seen better days.

“This,” Jorge whispered, “is not La Paz.”

“Or Delhi,” Ravi added, eyes wide.

“Welcome boys n girl,” Tyrel said, gesturing like a host on MTV Cribs, “to Fraternity Row.”

They passed by Sigma Alpha Epsilon, where a shirtless guy with six-pack abs was doing keg stands while the crowd counted aloud.

Further down, at Delta Chi, a DJ was set up on the balcony, spinning tracks over a thumping bass that vibrated the sidewalk.

At Kappa Alpha, girls in sparkly tops and heels posed for Polaroids next to a plastic flamingo that someone had spray-painted gold.

Marisol walked slightly ahead, unbothered by the attention she was getting, hanging on to Bharath. One guy actually tripped on the curb trying to get a second look at her.

Bharath walked with her, utterly mesmerized by the scenery.

“This is wild,” he muttered.

Marisol looked over her shoulder. “First frat party?”

“All of this is a first.”

“Well,” she said, flashing him a playful smile, “stick with me.”

She turned forward again, hips swaying slightly to the beat spilling out of the next house.

Jorge leaned in. “Dude. She chose to come with us. You seeing this?”

“I’m seeing it,” Bharath murmured. “I’m just not sure I believe it.”

Tyrel pointed toward a house up ahead — white columns, a neon beer sign in the window, and the muffled sound of Biggie Smalls shaking the windows.

“Zeta Psi baby,” he said. “Tonight, we party.”

Marisol turned around, walking backward now. “You boys ready to enter the lion’s den?”

Jorge fist-pumped.

Ravi looked terrified but nodded.

Bharath adjusted his collar.

Tyrel grinned. “Let’s go get our poor decisions on.”

And together, five first-years from five wildly different worlds walked up the steps toward the night that would change everything.

The bass thumped hard enough to shake the soles of their shoes.

Inside Zeta Psi, the air was thick with sweat, perfume, and the unmistakable stench of spilled beer. Strobe lights flickered in every corner. A makeshift bar had been set up in what looked like someone’s dining room, and students swarmed around it like bees at a rave.

“This place smells like broken dreams and vodka,” Ravi muttered.

“I’m home,” Tyrel said, eyes gleaming.

Jorge grabbed a Solo cup and raised it in triumph. “To cultural assimilation!”

Bharath glanced around, mildly overwhelmed. The sheer number of bodies — dancing, shouting, laughing — felt like sensory overload.

“I’ll be designated driver,” he offered to no one in particular. “Or ... designated shepherd.”

Marisol looked over her shoulder at him. “You don’t drink?”

He shrugged. “Never really felt the need. I’m already awkward and say weird things. I don’t think alcohol would improve that.”

Her smile curved. “That’s ... kinda hot.”

He blinked. “What?”

“You’re sober. Voluntarily. At a frat party. Surrounded by chaos. That’s rare.”

Bharath scratched his chin, sheepish. “I guess I just like remembering what I did the next day.”

“You’re like a unicorn,” she said, eyes glinting. “Cute, steady, probably good at math.”

He coughed. “I am good at math.”

She leaned in, whispering in his ear, “That’s the hottest thing I’ve heard all night.”

He swallowed. Hard.

Across the room, Jorge was already mid-conversation with a fiery girl in a black halter top and a devilish smile.

“Camila,” she said, with an accent that made Jorge straighten. “From Miami.”

“Jorge. Bolivia. Sort of.”

They laughed, clinked cups, and disappeared into the growing dance crowd.

Tyrel had found the keg and was demonstrating the correct posture for a stand like he was coaching Olympic gymnasts.

“Back arched! Core tight! Drink like your scholarship depends on it!”

Ravi went up next, flailing like a drunk scarecrow, shouting, “Victory tastes like cheap beer and freedom!”

Marisol, meanwhile, stayed close to Bharath, her arm occasionally brushing his. She’d started off sipping cautiously from her drink — something fizzy and pink. By her second cup, she was more animated, looser with her words. By the third, she was laughing harder than he’d ever seen, touching his chest when he didn’t even make a joke, leaning into his space without hesitation.

“Come on,” she said, dragging him into the hallway where the music was slightly less deafening. “You’re not allowed to just stand there being noble. Talk to me.”

“I am talking to you,” he said, amused.

“No. You’re listening. Big difference.”

Bharath chuckled. “Alright. What do you want to hear?”

She tilted her head, eyes mischievous. “Something true.”

He hesitated. Then said softly, “I didn’t think you’d come tonight. I thought maybe ... you’d want to be around cooler people.”

She stared at him for a second too long.

Then stepped forward.

“And that,” she said, poking his chest gently, “is exactly why I did come.”

His breath caught.

“Also,” she added, “you’re the only guy here not trying to get me drunk, flirt with my best friend, or impress me with their internship at some startup no one’s heard of.”

“Should I be doing those things?”

“Nope,” she said, looping her fingers briefly through his. “Just keep being you.”

They stood there for a beat, music pulsing from the walls, muffled cheers from a beer pong match echoing down the hall.

He looked at her. She looked right back.

Neither moved.

But something had shifted.

Something unspoken — warm and deliberate — curling between them like smoke from a slow fire.

Then Jorge staggered in, arm around Camila, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

“Best. Night. Ever.”

Tyrel followed, Ravi on his shoulders like a victorious gladiator.

“Time to head out!” Tyrel bellowed.

Marisol squeezed Bharath’s hand before letting go.

“Looks like the bodyguards are ready.”

He nodded, trying to ignore the butterflies in his chest.

And as they walked back down the glowing, noisy length of Fraternity Row, Marisol stayed close — her shoulder brushing his, her eyes occasionally glancing his way.

And for the first time ... Bharath let himself wonder if maybe — just maybe — she wasn’t pretending.

By the time they reached the next house on Fraternity Row — Delta Tau Delta — the party was in full swing.

This one was louder, sweatier, darker. A DJ spun bass-heavy club remixes from a platform set up in the living room. The walls pulsed with light. Everything smelled like cheap beer, body spray, and too much cologne.

Jorge and Camila were already dancing by the time the others stepped in. She was laughing at something he whispered into her ear. Jorge winked at Bharath as they disappeared into the crush of people like they’d been dating for months.

Tyrel immediately found another keg.

“Y’all need hydration!” he declared, pointing at a punch bowl with a floating rubber duck and several unidentifiable fruits.

Ravi was no better. He had both arms around two frat guys he didn’t know, singing something off-key and swaying like a flag in the wind.

Marisol leaned into Bharath, shouting to be heard. “This place is insane!”

He laughed. “It’s like a movie.”

“No,” she shouted, “this is the USA.”

“USA! USA! USA! USA! USA! USA!”

The chant went viral.

Jorge, Ravi and Bharath paused looking at each other.

“Are Americans coordinated at birth to shout that at a moment’s notice?” whispered Bharath to Marisol who was chanting lustily.

A reggaeton beat dropped — fast, sultry, pulsing.

Marisol grabbed Bharath’s wrist. “Come on.”

“Wait—what?”

“To the dance floor!”

“I don’t know how to—”

She was already pulling him into the crowd.

The room moved like a single organism. Sweat-slick bodies in sync, grinding, spinning, pulsing with rhythm. And in the center of it all, Marisol moved like she’d been born to the beat — hips fluid, arms raised, eyes glowing.

Bharath tried. He really tried.

He swayed awkwardly, tried mimicking the movements he’d seen in Bollywood movies, attempted a two-step that somehow involved both too much and too little footwork.

Marisol laughed, absolutely delighted.

“You dance like a confused penguin.”

“I told you—!”

“Doesn’t matter,” she said, grabbing both of his hands and placing them on her waist. “Just follow me.”

She rolled her hips, slowly, guiding his hands with her body. His breath caught. The warmth of her skin through her top. The press of her back against his chest. The smell of her shampoo mixed with faint sweat and perfume.

He forgot to move. Forgot to blink.

She glanced over her shoulder, catching his dazed expression.

“Still breathing?”

“Barely.”

“Good,” she said, with a wicked smile. “Now move.”

He did.

Badly.

But he did.

And she didn’t let go.

Their bodies moved together — imperfect but close, heat and music rising like steam around them. She laughed again when he tried to turn her and nearly knocked into someone else, but she stayed pressed against him.

“You’re the worst dancer I’ve ever seen,” she whispered.

“I aim to impress.”

And just when he felt like the world had shrunk to the size of her smile — he saw her.

Ayesha.

Across the room.

Her hair wild, eyes glassy. Surrounded by a group of guys — three, maybe four — all leaning in too close. One had his hand on her lower back. Another held out a drink.

She was laughing, but it didn’t reach her eyes.

Something in Bharath’s chest pulled.

She looked up — just once — and their eyes met across the room.

Something flickered.

Recognition. Regret.

Then one of the guys leaned in and whispered something in her ear, and she tilted her head, half-smirking.

Bharath looked away.

Marisol caught it all.

Her fingers curled around his shirt, gently tugging his attention back.

“Hey,” she said, softly now, close to his ear. “Let her go.”

He nodded, still a little shaken.

Marisol turned around fully, placing her hands on his shoulders.

“I’m here,” she said simply.

And then she kissed his cheek — slow, deliberate — letting her lips linger for just a second too long.

“Focus on now.”

Bharath exhaled, chest tight with something that wasn’t quite desire — but wasn’t far from it either.

The music changed. The lights pulsed gold. Around them, people blurred into shapes and color.

But Bharath only saw her.

Marisol — alive, electric, radiant.

And just like that, Ayesha faded into the background.

The party kept moving — from beer pong tables to living room dance-offs to half-sung karaoke in the backyard — but for Bharath and Marisol, time had slowed into its own rhythm.

The crowd had thinned just a little. Jorge had disappeared with Camila somewhere upstairs. Tyrel was holding court near the keg, telling exaggerated stories about his time “almost getting recruited by the Falcons.” Ravi was slouched on a porch bench, mumbling half in Hindi, half in English.

Marisol tugged Bharath’s hand.

“Come on,” she said. “Too many people. I need air.”

The music inside pounded like a second heartbeat — relentless, wild, sweaty. But out here, beyond the deck doors and beneath the canopy of cheap string lights, the night was quieter. Softer. Like a breath held too long.

Marisol led Bharath up the narrow wooden stairs, her fingers curled loosely around his wrist. He followed without question, eyes wide, still blinking at the sheer chaos of his first American frat party. She could feel the pulse at his wrist — fast. Nervous.

They reached the top landing, half-hidden from the main lawn by a tangle of ivy and shadows. A side nook. Private. Unclaimed.

She let go of his hand and leaned against the railing, staring out at the shimmer of the city beyond the trees. Her heart was doing a strange thing — not racing, exactly, but thrumming. Like anticipation stretched too thin.

Behind her, Bharath hovered awkwardly. Close, but not too close. His hands tucked in his pockets. His expression unreadable.

God, he was shy. And awkward. And impossibly cute.

And somehow, she couldn’t stop thinking about him.

Marisol turned slightly to face him, hip against the railing, watching as he tried to find something to do with his hands.

“I didn’t think you’d come tonight,” she said.

He smiled, small and uncertain. “I wasn’t going to. But ... I guess I didn’t want to miss something.”

She tilted her head. “What something?”

He hesitated, then shrugged. “You.”

It wasn’t smooth. It wasn’t even intentional. But it hit her like a dart to the chest.

She stared at him — this quiet, clever Indian boy who danced like he was fighting gravity, who held doors open without thinking, who made no effort to impress anyone but somehow impressed her more than any man ever had.

“You know,” she said, voice low, “I don’t usually notice guys like you.”

He blinked. “Guys like me?”

She nodded. “Smart. Serious. Sincere.”

“Sincere sounds like a dig.”

“It’s not. It’s rare.” She stepped forward, her voice softer now. “Most guys — they see someone like me and forget how to blink.”

He did blink at that — twice, rapidly. “I guess I’m not like most guys then.” said Bharath more confidently

She smiled. “You didn’t. Not really. You looked, sure. But you listened. You saw me.”

“I’m not really good at—”

“Shhh.”

She placed one hand gently on his chest.

The cotton of his shirt was damp with sweat from dancing, but beneath it—beneath all of it—was warmth, was safety, was the steady thrum of a heartbeat that seemed to answer her own. The music around them had faded into a kind of underwater echo. The low thud of a bassline, distant laughter from Mia’s birthday party, the clink of a glass somewhere—all of it felt removed, muffled. Like the world had stepped back politely to give them this moment.

Bharath stood frozen, breathless, staring into her eyes like he didn’t know if he was allowed to believe in miracles. Like he couldn’t tell if this moment was real or something he’d dreamt one too many times to trust anymore.

His eyes locked onto hers — uncertain, but not afraid. Searching.

And then—Marisol did what felt inevitable.

She leaned in.

Slow. Deliberate. As if she was moving through honey. No rush. No panic. Just clarity.

Their lips met.

A soft press—light as a whisper.

And then—

Fire.

Not heat. Not lust. Something more primal. More sacred. Something that cracked through the fabric of the air and shot lightning through her limbs. A spark so sharp and sudden that she gasped against his mouth, jerking slightly back in surprise.

It was like someone had lit a match inside her soul.

Her breath stuttered, eyes fluttering open just enough to catch his expression.

His pupils were blown wide, lips parted, a flush blooming on his cheeks. He looked stunned. Not just in awe, but transformed—like someone who had just stumbled through a door into an entirely different life.

“I—I don’t know if I did that right,” he whispered, voice low and hoarse.

Marisol let out a soft, breathless laugh. She hadn’t expected that. God, he was so earnest. So pure in his confusion. So ready to be hers.

“You did,” she murmured, and then her arms slid up, around his neck, anchoring him close.

And this time, she kissed him.

Deeper. Fuller.

And that’s when the world really tilted.

Bharath responded instinctively, his hands finding the curve of her waist, then pausing there—as if reverent. Like he was touching something precious. His lips, tentative for only a moment, grew more confident with hers guiding the rhythm. Soft. Searching. Hungry in a way that wasn’t greedy, but devotional.

He moved closer, as if pulled by a magnetic field that no physics textbook could explain.

It wasn’t just kissing. It was remembering. Like this wasn’t the first time. Like some part of them—ancient, eternal—had done this before.

And the connection?

It was absolute.

The kiss lit her up from the inside, made her toes curl and her stomach drop and her heart thunder like it was trying to escape. It flooded her with a dizzying cocktail of joy and panic and disbelief and overwhelming need. Need not just to be kissed—but to know him. To be known.

It was the best kiss of her life. Not because it was technically perfect, or because of any dramatic flair. But because of what it meant.

Because her body responded before her mind could even process it.

Because it made every other kiss she’d ever experienced feel like a placeholder.

Because it felt like her soul had finally found the other half of its name.

She let out a sound—something halfway between a whimper and a sigh—when his hand slid up her back, tentative but firm, grounding her. He wasn’t pushing. He wasn’t demanding. He was just there. With her. For her.

And then he made a sound too—deep in his throat—a helpless, reverent moan that made her knees buckle and her entire body sing. She clung to him like gravity didn’t work the same anymore.