8: Three's Company

The blue and red lights tore through the darkness like a tidal wave.

Two police cruisers screeched to a halt near the mouth of the alley, doors flying open before the engines had even quieted. Uniformed officers spilled out, shouting orders, flashlights cutting across the grimy walls.

“Drop the weapon!”

“He’s down—he’s down!” Marisol shouted, arms raised protectively over Bharath, her hand still pressed against his side.

“Ma’am, step back—”

“He’s the one who helped her! He’s been stabbed!”

One of the officers knelt beside Bharath, who was starting to slump, his skin pale and slick with sweat.

“Sir? Can you hear me?”

Bharath blinked slowly, trying to nod. “Yeah. Just ... dizzy.”

Another officer jogged over to the young woman leaning against the wall. Her mascara had run down to her chin, her blonde hair was wild and tangled, but her eyes were clear now — locked onto Bharath.

“That’s him,” she said hoarsely. “He saved me. They had a knife. They were going to...” Her voice cracked. “If he hadn’t shown up, I don’t know what would’ve happened.”

The officer at Bharath’s side looked up grimly. “It’s not a deep puncture but it looks like he’s been bleeding for longer than we thought. He needs stitches. We need EMS now.”

Marisol’s face went white. “No, no—he said it wasn’t anything —he said—”

“He probably didn’t feel it through the adrenaline,” the officer said gently. “Ma’am, he’s lucky. If this hit a little to the left—”

“Don’t,” she whispered. Her hands trembled. “Don’t say that.”

Bharath’s head lolled to the side. His eyes found hers.

“You’re not allowed to leave me,” she said, her voice cracking. “You hear me? Not after all this.”

He smiled weakly. “You’d yell at me again.”

“Damn right I will,” she breathed, tears slipping down her cheeks.

The ambulance pulled up then — lights silent, urgency in motion.

Two EMTs ran out, bags swinging. They crouched next to Bharath, assessing quickly, efficiently.

“Name?” one of them asked.

“Bharath,” Marisol replied, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead.

“Vitals are dropping,” the other EMT murmured. “BP’s low.”

“Let’s get pressure on that wound. And he needs fluids stat.”

They worked with swift precision — cleaning the wound, applying pressure, taping gauze down tightly. Bharath flinched but didn’t complain.

The blonde woman — Sarah, as the officers now addressed her — walked over, shaking slightly. “Is he going to be okay?”

Marisol looked up at her, eyes swollen with tears.

Sarah’s own were brimming. “He saved my life.”

Marisol nodded slowly.

The EMTs lifted Bharath carefully onto the stretcher. He grimaced, but said nothing.

“Hospital?” Marisol asked, already wiping her face.

“Grady,” the EMT said. “Closest ER that can do immediate stitches and imaging.”

“I’m going,” Marisol said.

“You family?” one officer asked.

“I’m his girlfriend and I’m not leaving him,” she said, fierce now, standing straighter. “That’s all that matters.”

Sarah stepped forward. “Me either. He saved my life. The least I can do is sit with him while he gets stitched up.”

The officer nodded. “Go.”

Marisol turned away, when she saw one of the officers with a cellphone. She begged if she could use it to call home. The officer consented and gave it to her. Her fingers shook as she dialed.

“Mami?” she said softly when her mother answered.

“ ... Marisol? It’s so late. What happened—”

“I missed the train. I’m okay, I promise. I’ll be home early in the morning.”

“Que paso Ninacita? You sure?”

“Yes. I’m with friends. Safe. Don’t worry. Te quiero, Mamá.”

She hung up before her mother could ask more.

By the time she reached the ambulance, they were already loading Bharath in.

Sarah held the door open.

Marisol climbed in beside him, not caring about rules or questions or anything except staying close.

Bharath looked up as they bumped over the first pothole.

“You came,” he whispered, dazed.

“Of course I came, dumbass.”

He managed a half-smile.

His hand reached out, fingers curling around hers. She took it instantly, holding tight, pressing it to her heart.

“You scared the hell out of me,” she said.

“I’d do it again.”

“Don’t,” she whispered, leaning down, pressing a kiss to his knuckles. “Don’t you ever put yourself at risk like that again.”

He closed his eyes.

“I saw her face,” he murmured. “She looked like she thought it was over.”

Marisol turned her head away, swallowing hard.

Sarah sat across from them, arms folded tight, shoulders shaking.

“I’ve never been so scared in my life,” she said quietly. “I thought ... I thought that was it. Until he just ran at them like—like a movie hero or something.”

Marisol nodded, brushing away another tear. “That’s who he is.”

Sarah looked up, meeting her eyes. “Then I hope he knows how lucky he is to have someone who sees it.”

Marisol looked down at him — her sweet, stubborn, foolish boy — and kissed his hand again.

“He’ll know,” she whispered. “Even if I have to tell him every day.”

The ambulance sped through the night, a quiet hush settling between them — broken only by the gentle beep of the monitor and the soft hum of wheels against asphalt.

The hospital room was quiet, save for the soft beep of the vitals monitor and the occasional rustle of nurses passing by the door.

Bharath lay propped against a pair of starched pillows, one arm wrapped in gauze and the other hooked to a saline drip. His skin was pale but the worst of the adrenaline crash had passed. A neat row of stitches marked his left side just above the waist — six of them, precise and ugly but safe.

It could’ve been worse. Much worse.

“You’re lucky,” the attending nurse had said. “Half an inch deeper and we’d be talking internal bleeding.”

Now he just had to stay in observation for a couple of hours.

Marisol hadn’t let go of his hand since.

She sat on the small visitor couch, legs tucked beneath her, watching him with that same fierce tenderness she’d shown when he first collapsed. Her hoodie was rumpled, eyes smudged with worry and fatigue, but to Bharath she had never looked more beautiful.

Sarah sat in the corner chair — shoulders hunched, fingers picking at a paper cup of lukewarm coffee. Her mascara was a faded shadow now. Her sweatshirt was oversized and torn at one sleeve. The earlier gratitude had given way to something more fragile. More broken.

“You want water?” Marisol offered gently.

Sarah shook her head. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not,” Marisol said — kindly, but firm. “You don’t have to pretend here.”

Sarah let out a breath that was half a laugh and half a sob.

“I didn’t mean to end up in the middle of the street crying for help tonight,” she said. “I swear I didn’t wake up thinking today’s the day I get mugged and saved by a guy with zero self-preservation instincts.”

Bharath chuckled weakly. “Glad to be of service.”

Marisol gave his fingers a squeeze.

Sarah looked down at the crumpled cup in her hands.

“I was walking home,” she said. “From ... somewhere I shouldn’t have been.”

Neither Bharath nor Marisol said anything. They waited.

She swallowed. “I broke up with my boyfriend two nights ago. Derek. He ... he wasn’t a good guy.”

That much had been obvious from the moment she said they were going to hurt me.

But there was more. You could hear it in her voice.

Marisol’s gaze softened. “What happened?”

Sarah blinked rapidly, her voice trembling. “He cheated. A lot. Lied. Manipulated. Always made me feel like it was my fault for being ‘too much’ or ‘too clingy’. And I knew — I knew — it was wrong. I wasn’t happy. But I stayed.”

“Why?” Bharath asked quietly.

Sarah gave a small, sad smile. “Because sometimes ... being treated badly feels better than being alone.”

Marisol reached for her other hand, covering it gently. “You’re not alone anymore.”

Sarah nodded quickly, tears slipping down her cheeks.

“I was supposed to go home. He offered to drive me — said he wanted to talk. And stupid me, I believed him. Thought maybe we could end things like adults. Then we fought in the car. He started screaming, calling me names ... and then he just pulled over, in the middle of God knows where, and told me to get out.”

“Oh my God,” Marisol whispered.

“I didn’t even have money on me,” Sarah said, wiping her face. “No purse. I just started walking toward the MARTA, hoping I’d find a cab or something. And then those guys came out of the alley and—” She shivered. “If he hadn’t shown up...”

Her voice broke completely.

“I’m pathetic,” she whispered. “Who stays with someone like that for years?”

“No,” Marisol said firmly, gripping her hand tighter. “You’re not pathetic. You’re human. You loved someone who didn’t deserve it. That doesn’t make you weak — that makes you strong for finally walking away.”

Sarah sobbed once, nodding.

“And for the record?” Marisol added, glancing at Bharath, then back at her. “Who the hell cheats on a woman who looks like you?”

Sarah gave a choked laugh. “Please.”

“I’m serious,” Marisol said, wiping her cheek. “You’re gorgeous. Like, stupidly gorgeous. I looked at you and said damn, and I don’t say that lightly.”

Bharath, still recovering from the chaos, tried not to say anything — but failed.

“She’s right,” he murmured.

Marisol glanced sideways at him, a smirk playing on her lips. “Behave.”

“I was just agreeing with you,” he said weakly.

Sarah laughed through her tears. “You guys are ... unreal.”

Bharath smiled at her — soft, sincere. “You didn’t deserve what happened to you. Not Derek. Not tonight. I’m sorry.”

Sarah met his eyes, then Marisol’s.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “Both of you.”

Marisol looked back at her man — her boyfriend, if she dared to call him that now — and realized something powerful.

He didn’t just make her feel safe.

He made others feel safe, too.

Even now — pale, bruised, stitched — he was still thinking about someone else.

She leaned down and kissed his forehead.

“We’re gonna take care of you now,” she whispered. “And you’re not allowed to play hero again without backup.”

Bharath closed his eyes and exhaled.

“Deal.”

By the time the cab dropped them off at Sarah’s apartment just off 10th Street, the sky had begun to tint blue with the slow arrival of dawn.

It was a modest place — a narrow two-bedroom in a quiet older building tucked behind a row of sycamore trees. A dim porch light buzzed over the entryway. The moment the door opened, the smell of lavender fabric softener and forgotten textbooks greeted them. A stack of worn psych journals lined the kitchen counter, beside a half-eaten bag of pita chips and a lonely mug that read Caffeine & Consent.

Bharath eased himself into the comfortable couch while Marisol helped Sarah flick on a few lights. She moved like someone still getting used to the fact she was alive — slow, hesitant, every breath deeper than the last.

“You okay?” Marisol asked gently.

Sarah gave a tired nod, though her eyes were rimmed with exhaustion. “Yeah. Just ... give me five minutes to shower and feel human again.”

“Take ten,” Bharath offered, slouched but alert, his side starting to ache now that the adrenaline was gone. “We’re not going anywhere.”

Sarah disappeared down the short hallway.

Marisol moved around the tiny kitchen like she’d done it a hundred times — found a kettle, rinsed mugs, opened cabinets.

“You’re making tea?” Bharath asked, smiling faintly.

“You got stabbed,” she replied without turning. “You get tea. That’s the rule.”

He sank further into the cushions, letting the scent of mint and lemongrass steep into the quiet.

When Sarah returned twenty minutes later — hair damp, face scrubbed clean, draped in an oversized t-shirt and shorts — she looked like someone who had washed away more than just sweat and blood.

She smiled, small and shaky. “Thanks for staying.”

Marisol handed her a steaming cup. “Thanks for not kicking us out.”

Sarah chuckled, curled up in the armchair with her knees drawn to her chest, fingers wrapped tightly around the mug like it was her lifeline.

“You know,” she said after a beat, “I wasn’t sure I was going to come back here at all.”

Marisol looked up. “What do you mean?”

Sarah’s eyes shone under the soft lamp light.

“I mean ... if I’d made it out of that alley by myself. If I’d gotten here and walked in alone — to this empty, quiet place? I don’t know what I would’ve done.”

Her voice cracked. “Probably something ... really stupid.”

Bharath sat up straighter, ignoring the twinge in his side. “Hey. You didn’t. You came back. That’s what matters.”

Sarah nodded, then looked between them — the couple who’d saved her, held her, sat with her at the hospital like she wasn’t a burden.

“You two are something else.”

Marisol tilted her head. “You’ve had a rough time, huh?”

Sarah let out a soft laugh. “That’s the nice way of putting it.”

She set her mug down and began, slowly at first. But once the words came, they didn’t stop.

Her parents had died in a car crash when she was nine. She went to live with an uncle who saw her more as a housekeeper than a child. The abuse started when she was eleven. She didn’t talk about the worst parts. She didn’t have to. The silence between words filled in the rest.

She ran away at thirteen. Got lucky. Ended up in a foster system that, for once, worked. A woman named Patrice took her in, taught her how to balance a checkbook, read a lease, say no. She still called sometimes. But by then, Sarah had learned how to smile through pain. How to fake it. How to dress the part, act the part, become the beautiful, brilliant blonde that everyone assumed had it easy.

“And yet,” she said, her voice cracking again, “I still picked a guy like him. Like Derek. The kind of man who starts sweet and ends up punching walls. I can’t tell you what he did to me. It’s too horrific for me to recall.”

Marisol scooted closer, wrapping an arm around her.

“You survived all of that,” she said softly. “You’re still here. That’s strength, Sarah. That’s not weakness.”

Bharath sat silent, eyes wide, heart breaking in quiet waves.

“I look in the mirror sometimes,” Sarah whispered, “and I see someone who should’ve figured it out by now. But I keep falling for the same story from him. Same charm. Same damage. I don’t know how to stop.”

“You just did,” Marisol said. “You walked away.”

Sarah looked down. “Not before it got really bad.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Marisol said. “You walked away. That’s your line in the sand.”

They sat in silence for a few long seconds, the only sound the distant hum of early traffic and the soft clink of Bharath shifting his tea mug on the coaster.

Then Marisol, half-laughing, glanced toward him. “You ever think about how insane it is that people like her — who look like that — are the ones who get treated like crap?”

Bharath nodded slowly. “Yeah. I mean ... she looks like she could be on the cover of Maxim.”

Sarah rolled her eyes, but her cheeks flushed. “You guys are ridiculous.”

“No,” Marisol said. “We’re real. And you’re stunning. And you still ended up with someone who made you feel small.”

Sarah blinked rapidly. “I didn’t think people like you two existed.”

“We barely believe it ourselves,” Marisol admitted with a glance at Bharath.

Bharath gave a small smile. “But maybe this is how it starts. Three survivors. Tea. A living room.”

Sarah chuckled. “A girl could get used to this.”

The apartment dimmed again after the tea was finished. The lights stayed off except for a single lamp in the corner, casting a golden spill over the small living room. They didn’t speak much after that — not because there was nothing to say, but because everything important had already been said.

Sarah curled up on the couch between them, wrapped in the fuzzy throw blanket that smelled faintly of vanilla and Tide. She was barefoot now, her long legs folded beneath her, one arm tucked around Marisol’s waist, her head resting against her shoulder.

Bharath sat on the floor at their feet, his back against the couch, his stitches starting to ache again but not enough to matter. His hand reached up and lightly rested on Marisol’s shin — just that small point of contact grounding him.

Sarah’s breathing began to slow. Deeper. Heavier.

She murmured something soft — incoherent — and then fell completely still.

Marisol cradled her without hesitation. One hand stroking Sarah’s blonde hair. The other gently wrapped around her shoulder.

“She’s out,” she whispered.

“Good,” Bharath said. “She needs it.”

The room was still for a long time.

Outside, the city was winding back up — a stray car horn, the faint rumble of buses, the birds that always seemed too energetic for how early it was. But inside, the three of them were wrapped in a pocket of calm.

Marisol looked down at Sarah, her expression softening.

She really was beautiful.

Even in the loose t-shirt and boyshorts she’d changed into — no makeup, eyes puffy from crying, bare legs curled like a child’s — there was something arresting about her.