The movie ended with a chorus of gasps and muttered “No way” reactions echoing through the dimmed Peachtree Cinema hall. As the credits rolled and the lights slowly came up, the group sat stunned for a beat.

  “Carajo!,” Jorge whispered. “He was dead the whole time?”

  “Dude!” Ravi groaned. “You weren’t supposed to say it!”

  “I just got it,” Jorge replied, eyes wide. “Like... just now.”

  Tyrel stretched with a yawn, then shook his head. “Y’all need Bck Jesus. I figured it out halfway through.”

  “You thought the therapist was the ghost of his father,” Marisol pointed out.

  “Details,” Tyrel replied, already on his feet.

  They filed out onto the quiet Atnta sidewalk, the MARTA ride back sleepy and full of half-finished theories. By the time they reached the all-night Denny’s across from campus - buzzing faintly under tired fluorescent lights - the group had recovered enough energy to regroup around a booth near the back.

  Except Bharath and Marisol.

  They slid into their own booth across the aisle, opposite the others - not quite hiding, but definitely in their own world. Marisol leaned against him, one leg casually crossed over his, whispering something that made him flush and gnce away with a grin.

  “Alright,” Tyrel called out, drumming a spoon against his water gss. “Pop quiz time.”

  “Uh-oh,” Jorge said. “What now?”

  Tyrel leaned forward, pointing his spoon dramatically. “Bharath. Expin the plot of The Sixth Sense.”

  Bharath looked up, blinking.

  Ravi chimed in. “Yeah, Professor. What was the movie about?”

  Bharath opened his mouth.

  Paused.

  Looked sheepish.

  Then said, “I saw... exactly six minutes of that movie. It was called the Sixth Sense after all.”

  Marisol giggled into his shoulder.

  “He was otherwise... preoccupied. He was getting rewarded for good behavior. Repeatedly,” she said, voice innocent, eyes wicked.

  A fry whizzed through the air and bounced off Bharath’s jacket.

  “Hey!” he ughed.

  Tyrel threw another one. “You’re supposed to be the designated smart guy! You’re letting us down!”

  Another piece of popcorn - stale and rubbery - sailed past Marisol’s head. She caught it midair.

  “You throw one more carb at this man,” she said with mock severity, “and I’m releasing the study group solutions online.”

  Ravi gasped. “You wouldn’t.”

  “She would,” Jorge whispered. “She’s scary when she’s protective.”

  “She’s always scary,” Cami said with a slight smirk, to which no one responded.

  Bharath, still grinning, leaned into Marisol. “You do realize they’re not going to stop, right?”

  “I don’t care,” she said, resting her head on his shoulder. “I got what I wanted tonight.”

  “Revenge for the bush ambush?” he whispered back.

  “That... and your fries,” she murmured, reaching across him to steal another fry from his basket.

  “You didn’t even watch the movie!” Ravi protested from the next booth.

  “Neither did he!” Marisol replied, mouth full.

  The waitress came by, smiling politely at the chaos. Refills were ordered. Ptes of pancakes, fries, omelettes, and milkshakes started appearing like clockwork.

  The mood stayed light - ughter, banter, pyful elbow jabs and conspiratorial grins.

  But through it all, Bharath and Marisol remained cocooned in their own bubble. Their fingers always brushing, gnces always loaded, the magnetic pull between them clear for anyone watching.

  Ravi muttered, “They’re disgusting.”

  Tyrel smirked. “They’re in lust, bro. Let ‘em have their rom-com montage. And don’t think we ain’t seeing what you’re doing with Cami here senor Jorge.”

  “Still disgusting,” Jorge said, but he was smiling as he kissed a giggling Cami.

  The sidewalks were quiet now, save for the occasional rumble of a passing car and the distant drone of te-night trains. The streets glowed amber under the flickering street mps, shadows stretching long behind every step.

  Bharath and Marisol walked close, arms looped, voices low. They were still wrapped in the cocoon of the weekend they had built, heartbeat by heartbeat, touch by touch.

  She leaned into him with a content sigh. “I don’t want this day to end.”

  “It doesn’t have to,” Bharath murmured. “We'll just pause it until tomorrow.”

  Her smile was soft, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “You promise?”

  “I promise.”

  They were nearing the intersection, just a few blocks from the MARTA station, when the stillness shattered.

  “Get off me!” a woman’s voice screamed, sharp and panicked, echoing from the mouth of a narrow alley across the street.

  Both of them froze.

  Marisol’s breath caught. “Was that...”

  Another shout. This time garbled. Fear-strangled. A man’s voice barked something - cruel, angry. A loud thud followed.

  Without thinking, Marisol ran to a nearby phone and punched 911. “We need to go,” she said, already breaking into a run.

  But Bharath was faster.

  “Bharath!” she called after him.

  He didn’t stop.

  He turned the corner first.

  Two men, shadows against the alley wall, were shoving a young blonde woman to the ground. One was gripping her jacket; the other had something in his hand - metallic, glinting.

  “Hey!” Bharath’s voice cracked like a gunshot.

  Both men turned.

  They weren’t much older than him. One had a scar over his eye. The other grinned like this was just another Sunday routine.

  “The hell you want?” Scarface snapped.

  “Let her go,” Bharath said, stepping closer.

  “Or what?” the grinning one jeered.

  Behind them, the blonde woman whimpered, curled protectively over her knees, face streaked with mascara and dirt.

  Bharath didn’t answer.

  He lunged.

  It was messy. Untrained. Pure instinct.

  He smmed into the guy with the grin, tackling him into a stack of crates. They crashed to the ground, limbs filing. Bharath punched hard - once, twice - before a sharp pain tore through his side. He didn’t even register it.

  The second man came at him. Bharath scrambled, ducked just in time, grabbed a loose metal pole from the ground and swung.

  It connected with a crunch.

  The man screamed and stumbled back, clutching his arm. The first man was already staggering upright, lip split.

  “Come on, let’s go!” he barked.

  The two muggers ran, disappearing down the alley like rats into the dark.

  Bharath stood frozen for a moment, panting, heart hammering. The pole slipped from his hand with a metallic ctter.

  Behind him, he heard the woman sobbing.

  And then...

  “Bharath!”

  Marisol’s voice - wild with panic.

  He turned just in time to see her skid to a stop beside him.

  “Are you okay baby?” she gasped, grabbing his face, searching his eyes, his body. “Are you... wait... oh my god.”

  He looked down. His shirt was wet. Dark. and it was spreading.

  It took a beat before the sting hit him - a slow burn spreading from his right side.

  “I...” he swayed slightly. “I think I ...”

  “Jesus,” she whispered, dropping her phone, catching him just as his knees gave out a little. “You’re bleeding.”

  “I didn’t... even feel it,” he muttered, dazed.

  “You got stabbed, Bharath. Sit. Now.”

  The blonde woman was now standing unsteadily, tears streaming down her face. She whispered a trembling, “Thank you,” before slumping against the alley wall.

  The wail of sirens split the air in the distance.

  Marisol pulled Bharath down to the pavement, holding him close, pressing her palm to his wound. “You absolute idiot,” she whispered, tears slipping down her cheeks. “You could’ve died.”

  “I’m fine,” he tried to say, but it came out weak.

  She shook her head, kissed his forehead. “Don’t you ever do something that stupid again. You hear me?”

  He smiled faintly. “Only if you promise to keep yelling at me like that.”

  “You’re not allowed to joke right now.”

  “I’m serious. You look... beautiful when you’re mad.”

  She ughed in a half-sob, half-kiss and held him tighter.

  The sirens grew louder.

  Help was coming.