9: The Sun We Orbit

Sarah stood at the threshold of the living room a moment longer, fingers curling tighter around the edge of the blanket. She knew she should look away.

But she couldn’t.

Bharath looked so at peace like that — nestled into Marisol’s body with a kind of need that wasn’t desperate, but anchoring. Like she was his gravity. One hand was splayed possessively beneath her top, fingertips spread over the full curve of her breast like they belonged there. The other was buried down the front of her shorts — protective, territorial, reverent. And Marisol, curled in around him, didn’t just tolerate it. She leaned into it, smiling in her sleep like his very touch fed her dreams.

Sarah’s breath hitched.

Marisol looked like a goddess. What did Bharath call them yesterday? Apsara ... divine temple dancers that made sages lose their minds. She liked that.

The sweatshirt— probably his — barely concealed anything. Her thick hair spilled in wild waves across the pillow, catching the morning light like strands of silk. One long, honeyed leg had tangled itself over Bharath’s hip, bare skin warm and sun-kissed. Her lips were parted, pink and plush. Her thighs, her waist, her breasts — all impossibly generous and soft and womanly — looked like they had been sculpted with worship in mind. She was a beauty incarnate.

And he had her. He had her.

Sarah’s stomach twisted in a way she hadn’t expected. Not jealousy, exactly. Not resentment. But a quiet ache. A hollow awareness of what wasn’t hers.

Yet.

She wrapped the blanket tighter, trying to suppress the heat pooling low in her abdomen — the throb of some primal longing she hadn’t felt in a long, long time.

The way his fingers cupped Marisol’s breast, the tenderness in that touch, made her thighs press together instinctively.

He hadn’t just saved her that night.

He had changed the way she saw men — again.

She had seen the flash of rage in him when those bastards cornered her, the controlled violence he unleashed to protect someone he didn’t even know. She had seen the way his first instinct, even bleeding, had been to comfort her, to shield her from the chaos. And now this. Now she saw how he held the woman he did know — not like a prize, not like a conquest — but like something sacred.

His hand didn’t grope. It rested. It claimed.

And Marisol — beautiful, maddening Marisol — had given him that right with the ease of someone who trusted him completely.

God, her body was ridiculous.

That round, perfect ass had been impossible to ignore even under shorts — but now, with it pulled low on her hips, it was almost obscene. She had the kind of figure women in magazines paid thousands for and still came up short. Full hips, flat belly, legs that curved like sculpture. And her breasts — Jesus. They were big, impossibly so, pushing up under the sweatshirt with a natural, heavy bounce that made Sarah’s mouth go dry. Bharath’s hand looked like it was molded to fit.

Sarah couldn’t stop staring.

What would it feel like to be held like that?

To be wanted like that?

To wake up with a hand wrapped around her breast like a promise and another buried between her legs, claiming her in the quiet?

Her heart pounded.

She turned away quickly and padded into the kitchen, needing to breathe. To distract herself. To do something.

She opened the fridge mechanically. Eggs. Butter. A half loaf of bread. Jam. Some fruit. Nothing fancy — but it would do.

She set the pan on the stove and lit the burner, the hiss of gas followed by a click of flame grounding her.

But the image wouldn’t leave her.

Marisol’s soft moan. Bharath’s fingers twitching in his sleep. The quiet possessiveness of it all — like they belonged to each other.

She poured the eggs into the pan and exhaled shakily.

She had spent months alone in this apartment. Nursing her wounds. Hiding from memories she wasn’t ready to name. She had built walls so tall that no one had tried to scale them.

Until Bharath.

He hadn’t tried to climb over them. He had simply stood at the base and waited — solid, quiet, offering safety without expectation.

And that? That was dangerous.

Because for the first time in what felt like forever, Sarah didn’t just want someone to protect her.

She wanted to be wanted. Worshipped. Held the way he held her.

She flipped the eggs and took a steadying breath.

This wasn’t about stealing anyone. This wasn’t about jealousy.

It was about gravity.

And Sarah knew — deep in her bones — that she was already being pulled into his orbit.

Whether he knew it yet or not.

She sliced strawberries with slow, careful precision. Her fingers trembled slightly as she laid them on the plate beside the toast, arranging everything like it mattered. Like presentation could hide the storm building inside her.

Because soon, they’d wake up.

And she’d have to smile. And thank him. And act like her heart hadn’t just shifted in her chest.

But for now, she cooked.

For now, she let the sizzle of butter and eggs drown out the sound of her own breath — too shallow, too fast.

Sarah stood at the stove, stirring pancake batter, the smell of browned butter and sizzling eggs weaving through the air like a warm morning lullaby. Her sleeves were rolled up. Her hair was pulled into a messy bun. Her toes curled into the tiled floor. It felt ... normal. Comfortable. Like something out of someone else’s life.

She paused for a moment, letting the whisk rest against the side of the bowl. Her eyes drifted to the faint rays of sunlight spilling through the gauzy curtains.

And then— A sound.

Soft. Involuntary. Intimate.

Sarah blinked.

It wasn’t pain. She knew what pain sounded like. This was something else. A short, breathy gasp, like surprise colliding with pleasure.

Then came a whimper — faint, lilting: “Right there mi amor ... don’t stop...”

Her hand stilled. Batter clung to the whisk like honey.

She took a half step toward the living room, unsure whether to keep listening or force herself to tune it out.

Another sound. A gasp, sharper this time. A quiet moan, quickly muffled. Followed by a low voice murmuring something tender and reverent.

Sarah inched forward — just far enough to peek around the corner.

And stopped.

They were on the floor.

Marisol was curled on her side, sweatshirt bunched up around her ribs, her bare leg thrown high over Bharath’s hip like she was trying to keep him there. Her face was flushed, mouth open, breath trembling. Her body moved in gentle ripples — hips rocking, thighs clenching, a hand digging into Bharath’s bicep like an anchor.

And Bharath ... God.

He looked like worship incarnate.

Fully clothed. Sweatpants. T-shirt. But his whole being was focused on her. One hand disappeared beneath her, moving with maddening precision. His lips moved against her ears— not kissing, just whispering — as though he were praying at an altar.

And in a way, he was.

Sarah didn’t breathe. Couldn’t.

This wasn’t just sex.

This wasn’t some fumbling hookup in a dorm room. This was intimate. Intentional. Something built slowly and tenderly, like a sacred ritual only two people knew how to perform.

She watched Marisol begin to unravel — back arching, jaw clenching, a strangled moan escaping into Bharath’s shoulder as her climax took her.

And he held her through it. Murmuring something in a language she didn’t know. Kissing. Slowing the rhythm of his fingers until her body melted into his.

Sarah backed away, heart thudding. She returned to the stove on autopilot, hands trembling as she flipped a pancake she barely registered. The moment kept replaying in her head, looping with no clear exit.

She’d seen sex before. Hell, she’d had it enough times - mostly forced.

But this? This was new.

She hadn’t just seen Marisol climax — she’d seen her loved through it. Cradled. Revered.

And the man responsible?

Bharath hadn’t looked smug. He hadn’t groped or grabbed or demanded. He had listened — not just to her words, but her breath, her body, her silences. And he’d touched her like he wanted her to bloom in his hands.

God, Sarah thought, palms flat against the countertop. What does that even feel like?

She wasn’t sure she’d ever been touched like that. Not once.

Not by the ex-boyfriend who abused her, sometimes even forcing her to be with strangers she’d tried to forget. Not by anyone.

No wonder Marisol glowed like the moon.

The pancakes sizzled behind her as she braced herself on the counter, biting her lower lip.

She was happy for them. Truly. Marisol deserved love. Bharath earned it. But that didn’t quiet the ache blooming in her chest — or the heat curling low in her belly.

She’d never even seen this kind of intimacy before, let alone been offered it.

No jealousy. Just awe. Wonder. And a hunger she hadn’t realized was still alive inside her.

She blinked rapidly and wiped her palms on a dish towel. No time to process. Not yet.

She called out — voice tighter than she wanted — “Breakfast’s ready!”

From the living room: a scuffle. A muffled thud. A yelp. Giggling.

Then Bharath’s voice — warm, sheepish: “Uh ... coming.”

You already did, Sarah thought before she could stop herself — then immediately flushed with embarrassment.

She kept her back turned as they entered the kitchen, the air shifting with their presence.

She didn’t need to look.

She could feel it.

The radiant warmth pouring off Marisol — skin flushed, hair wild, lips swollen from kissing. The quiet pride in Bharath’s posture — humble but unmistakably masculine, protective, satisfied.

When she finally turned around, they were both seated at the small breakfast nook. Marisol was biting into a pancake with exaggerated joy, groaning theatrically. Bharath sipped tea, wincing slightly as he pressed a palm to his healing side.

Sarah handed out plates, careful to meet no one’s eyes too directly.

“You okay?” Bharath asked, his voice gentle — too gentle.

She nodded a little too quickly. “Just hungry.”

Marisol gave her a knowing smile — not smug, not territorial. Just warm. Inviting. Maybe even ... compassionate.

It made something loosen inside Sarah. Just a bit.

“Hope you like cinnamon,” she offered, sitting down.

Marisol groaned again, muffling it behind her hand. “You should open a restaurant. I’d follow you like a cult member.”

Bharath grinned. “Only if the entrance fee is pancakes.”

They laughed. And for the first time, the sound didn’t feel like something Sarah was outside of.

It felt like something she could join.

Her hand brushed Bharath’s when she passed him the butter.

He didn’t pull away.

Neither did she.

And for a second — just a second — her breath caught.

She glanced at Marisol, who met her gaze across the table. Not challenging her. Not marking territory.

There was a pause.

And then a soft nod.

Not an invitation. Not yet.

But permission.

Sarah exhaled and took a bite of her pancake, savoring the warmth, the sweetness, the closeness around the table.

I want what they have, she thought again. Or maybe ... I want to be part of it.

And this time, she didn’t push the thought away. She just let it bloom.

The rain had turned to a soft drizzle by the time Marisol and Sarah left the apartment.

Marisol had insisted — gently but firmly — that Bharath go back to his dorm and rest. His stitches were pulling, his eyes were barely open, and even he couldn’t protest for long when she looked at him with that particular mix of affection and command.

So he’d left with a lingering kiss, his sweatshirt draped over her shoulders and his hand brushing Sarah’s arm as he said goodbye with a warm hug.

Sarah hadn’t realized how much that touch would linger.

Marisol didn’t let Sarah argue.

“You’re skipping class,” she said simply, tugging Sarah’s wrist as they stood at the MARTA station, the buzz of trains echoing down the tunnel. “You’ve earned a day.”

“What about you?”

“Pshaw. Bharath probably knows what we will miss at class today.”

“But he’s not going either right?”

“That’s ok. One day won’t disrupt anything. We don’t have any tests today.”

Sarah opened her mouth and then closed it. Then she just nodded.

The sunlight over Atlanta was soft and clear — no trace of the night before, as if the city had chosen to forget. But the shadows still lingered inside Sarah. She could feel them coiled under her ribs like tight vines.

They walked a few blocks off-campus, ending up at a sleepy indie café nestled beside a vintage bookstore. Marisol ordered two iced matcha lattes and a lavender scone. Sarah went for black coffee and a muffin she barely touched.

For a long time, they sat on the shaded patio, listening to the clink of spoons and the rustle of breeze through overgrown ivy.

Marisol sipped slowly. Then leaned back with a sigh.

“I needed this,” she murmured.

Sarah nodded. “Me too.”

A beat passed.

Then Sarah asked, softly, “How long have you and Bharath been together?”

Marisol smiled.

The kind of smile that glowed — not for show, but because it couldn’t be helped.

“Almost three weeks,” she said.

Sarah blinked. “What?”

Marisol laughed. “Technically twenty days. But it feels like a lifetime.”

Sarah stared at her like she’d just claimed to be married.

“But the way you two are ... It’s like you’ve known each other forever.”

“I know.” Marisol’s eyes softened, her thumb tracing lazy circles on the rim of her glass. “I don’t understand it either. But it’s like ... the second I met him, the world realigned.”

Sarah said nothing. Just watched her.

Marisol took a breath.

“He’s different,” she began. “Bharath isn’t like anyone I’ve ever met. He’s sweet. So sweet it makes me want to punch something. He still apologizes when he bumps into desks. He’s almost Canadian. He drinks mango juice like it’s fine wine. And don’t get me started on his weird fascination with Star Trek, Cricket and Tamil movie trivia.”

Sarah cracked a smile.

“But then...” Marisol continued, gaze drifting skyward, “he’ll turn around and say something that knocks the breath out of you. He’s brilliant, you know? Like, scary smart. He sees patterns no one else does. He taught me derivatives without even looking at his textbook.”

Sarah blinked. “That’s terrifying.”

“Right?” Marisol laughed, but then her tone softened again. “But more than that ... he’s good. Genuinely good. Like ... if he saw a squirrel limping, he’d build it a wheelchair from leftover robotics parts.”

Sarah let out a sound between a laugh and a sigh.

“And don’t even get me started on the way he listens,” Marisol added, voice lower now. “Not like he’s waiting to talk. Like he’s gathering pieces of you. Memorizing every word so he can hold them later, like they’re sacred.”

Sarah’s eyes filled, unbidden.

Marisol glanced sideways. “You okay?”

She nodded. Then shook her head. “Keep going.”

Marisol hesitated, then leaned in a little. Her voice dropped conspiratorially.

“And then there’s ... the other side of him.”

Sarah tilted her head.

Marisol’s cheeks flushed slightly, but her smile turned wicked. “He’s shy. Still so unsure of himself. But when he touches me? When he stops thinking and just... takes? It’s like he transforms. Like something ancient wakes up in him. Gentle, yes. But confident. Hungry. And the way he learns—God, Sarah—it’s like he was made to worship someone’s body.”

Sarah’s breath caught. Her heart thudded in her chest. She looked away quickly.

“I didn’t think I’d fall for someone like him,” Marisol said, suddenly serious again. “I thought I needed someone flashier. More sure of himself. But Bharath?” She paused. “He makes me feel ... alive. Seen. Like I’m more than just curves or sass or a pretty mouth. He looks at me like I’m whole.”

Sarah’s hand trembled on her cup.

“Twenty days,” she whispered. “You’ve known him for twenty days.”

Marisol nodded. “Crazy, right?”

Sarah exhaled shakily, her throat tightening.

“I don’t think...” she said, voice breaking. “I don’t think I’ve ever had someone see me like that.”

And then, almost immediately, she regretted saying it.

Am I really doing this? Cracking open in front of a stranger? No. Not a stranger. A woman who looks at her boyfriend like he holds the sun in his hands.

Sarah swallowed hard, her voice a whisper even to herself.

Maybe I’m just projecting. Maybe I’m so desperate for someone to see me, I’ll fall for anything that looks like kindness.

But it didn’t feel fake. Or forced. Or pitying.

It felt like a lifeline.

Sarah wiped her eyes quickly, but the tears kept coming.

“I thought I did, once. But it was a lie. A story I told myself to survive. And now I sit here, watching you talk about him like he’s everything, and I just—” She choked back a sob. “I don’t think I’m ever going to find someone like that.”

Marisol’s expression softened immediately. She reached across the table and took Sarah’s hand.

“Hey,” she said gently. “Don’t say that.”

“It’s true,” Sarah whispered. “I’m the kind of girl guys look at. Use. Not the kind they choose. Not for real. Not the way he chose you.”

Marisol shook her head. “That’s not true.”

“You don’t know the things I’ve done,” Sarah said, voice small.

“I don’t care,” Marisol said. “I know what I saw last night. You fought to survive. You still showed up. You’re here. That makes you worthy. Period.”