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 bred - everything from rap to rock to EDM. Students were already spilling out onto wns with red Solo cups in hand, sitting on porches, standing on roofs, even pying 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 Poroids next to a pstic fmingo 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, fshing him a pyful 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 colr.

  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 pce 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 assimition!”

  Bharath gnced around, mildly overwhelmed. The sheer number of bodies - dancing, shouting, ughing - felt like sensory overload.

  “I’ll be designated driver,” he offered to no one in particur. “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 bck halter top and a devilish smile.

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

  “Jorge. Bolivia. Sort of.”

  They ughed, 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 schorship depends on it!”

  Ravi went up next, filing 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 ughing 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 Cami, grinning like he’d just won the lottery.

  “Best. Night. Ever.”

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

  “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 gncing 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 ptform set up in the living room. The walls pulsed with light. Everything smelled like cheap beer, body spray, and too much cologne.

  Jorge and Cami were already dancing by the time the others stepped in. She was ughing 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 decred, 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 fg in the wind.

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

  He ughed. “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. It was sultry and pulsing.

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

  “Wait… what?”

  “To the dance floor! Andele!”

  “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 ughed, absolutely delighted.

  “You dance like a confused penguin.”

  “I told you…!”

  “Doesn’t matter,” she said, grabbing both of his hands and pcing 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 gnced 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 ughed 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 gssy. 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 ughing, 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, pcing her hands on his shoulders.

  “I’m here,” she said simply.

  And then she kissed his cheek slowly and deliberately. She let 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 was alive, electric, and radiant. She was the most beautiful girl in the world!

  And just like that, Ayesha faded into the background.