After the Calculus lecture, Bharath and Marisol lingered on the brick steps outside Howey Hall, schedules in hand.

  Marisol squinted at hers. “Next up... Industrial Engineering 1101. The intro elective.”

  Bharath blinked. “You’re in that too?”

  “Yeah,” she said, grinning. “Don’t tell me… ”

  “I’ve got it too. Same room?”

  She nodded, checking her sheet. “Room 228, Van Leer Building.”

  “Looks like I’m following you all day.”

  She ughed. “More like I’m being guided through the academic wilderness by the campus Yoda.”

  Bharath snorted. “You’re going to keep saying things like that, huh?”

  “As long as you keep understanding everything and making me feel dumb in comparison, absolutely.”

  The Industrial Engineering css was smaller, held in a less intimidating space - whiteboards instead of projectors, a round, chalk-dusted table in front instead of a lectern.

  The professor was a young, balding guy with fast hands and faster speech. He unched into an intro of systems design, human factors, and logistics in everyday life.

  As usual, Bharath sat still, silent, and absorbing everything like a sponge. His notes were precise, but he never looked down for long. He seemed to grasp the concepts intuitively, seeing the logic of process flows and constraints before the diagrams were even fully drawn.

  Marisol watched him from the corner of her eye.

  He didn’t raise his hand. Didn’t interrupt. Just... got it.

  And she liked that.

  It wasn’t showy. It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t the desperate look-at-me hunger that came with guys trying too hard to prove they were smart.

  It was quiet brilliance.

  Effortless.

  And suddenly she realized something: She liked being around it.

  After the css, as they made their way to their next one, Discrete Math in the Kus Computing building, Marisol said, “Okay. I’m calling it. You’re a wizard.”

  Bharath ughed. “It’s just logic. This stuff’s... fun.”

  “Fun?” she repeated, mock-horrified. “You think this matrix-binary-graph-mumbo-jumbo is fun?”

  He shrugged. “It’s like solving puzzles. I’ve always liked puzzles.”

  “Do your puzzle-solving talents extend to lunch decisions?” she asked.

  “Only if it involves choosing the least inedible thing on campus.”

  “Perfect. That’s where I need a leader.”

  They grabbed lunch at the Student Center café, settling at a sunlit corner table near the windows. Marisol had grilled cheese and a berry smoothie. Bharath stuck to a spinach wrap and an unsweetened iced tea. He was already trying to eat “healthy” because Jorge had decred war on carbs.

  As they unwrapped their food, Bharath said, “Hey. Thanks for hanging out.”

  Marisol gave him a look. “Why are you thanking me?”

  “You know,” he said, shrugging. “Most people would’ve just peeled off after css. You stuck around. That too with someone who’s not exactly... the poster boy of cool.”

  She tilted her head. “You think that’s why I’m here?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “Let’s just say, I’ve noticed the looks I get when people see me walking with you. I think my social stock has tripled.”

  That made her ugh — loud and unexpected. “You’re so honest. It’s ridiculous.”

  “But seriously,” he said, voice a little softer. “Thanks.”

  She stirred her smoothie. “You’re easy to be around. I don’t have to perform.”

  Bharath blinked. “Perform?”

  “You’d be surprised how much of my day goes into managing perception,” she said. “Especially from guys. Either they flirt too hard, or they assume I’m dumb because I’m ‘hot,’ or they act like talking to me earns them some prize.”

  Bharath nodded slowly. “Yeah. That sucks.”

  “But you? You look at me like I’m just... a person.”

  He smiled. “You are. A very pretty person. But still.”

  She blushed faintly and shook her head. “See? That. You get it.”

  He took a sip of tea. “I mean, it helps that I keep forgetting I’m allowed to talk to girls like you.”

  She ughed again, not out of politeness. Because she liked how unfiltered he was.

  There was a pause.

  And then she said, more thoughtfully, “My mom would like you.”

  Bharath looked up. “Yeah?”

  “She doesn’t like many people. But you... you’re good.”

  He tilted his head. “Tell me about her?”

  Marisol leaned back in her seat, eyes drifting out the window.

  “My mom’s a powerhouse. Single mother. Two daughters. She worked three jobs at one point. Grocery store in the mornings, cleaning houses on the weekends, te night shift at a supply warehouse.”

  Bharath sat still, listening intently.

  “She never compined,” Marisol continued. “Not once. She kept our hair neat, made sure we were fed, helped with homework, and showed up for every PTA meeting. No matter how tired she was.”

  “She sounds incredible.”

  “She is. She didn’t go to college. Barely finished high school. But she always told me: ‘Your future isn’t something you’re handed. It’s something you earn.’”

  Bharath was quiet for a moment. “And you did.”

  Marisol gnced at him. “Still earning.”

  He smiled gently. “But you got here.”

  “Yeah.” She smiled. “Georgia Tech, baby. The big leagues.”

  There was a pause.

  Then she said, “What about you? What’s your story?”

  Bharath scratched the back of his neck. “My story’s a lot... softer.”

  “Soft can be good.”

  “I’m an only child. My mom is like this hyper-competent, temple-going, masa-mixing goddess who thinks I’m still ten. My dad’s just a businessman who pys chess and reads newspapers out loud like he’s broadcasting to the neighborhood.”

  She smiled. “That’s cute.”

  “I had cousins around. A lot of family. I was... spoiled. I didn’t even know how spoiled until I heard stories like yours.”

  Marisol frowned. “Don’t say that like it’s a bad thing.”

  “I just mean,” he said, choosing his words, “I didn’t have to fight for anything the way you did. Sometimes I wonder if that made me soft.”

  She leaned forward. “No. It made you kind.”

  He looked surprised.

  “Don’t confuse softness with weakness,” she said. “Kindness is rare. Especially for men.”

  Bharath flushed slightly and looked down at his pte.

  “Feminist!”, he decred as she punched him pyfully.

  They ate in companionable silence for a few minutes.

  Then she asked, “What about your mom? Would she like me?”

  He looked up. “She’d love you. Aiyo Kanna! She is so beautiful. Like Saraswati herself! And then she would immediately say, get married. Have three kids. Quit school. Come back home live with us and start giving me grandchildren!”

  Marisol ughed so hard she almost snorted.

  “Noted,” she said. “Avoid mother-in-w until finals.”

  Bharath couldn’t stop smiling. “Done.”

  They finished their lunch, neither in a rush to move. The sun filtered through the gss in golden sheets, casting soft shadows on their trays.

  Outside, the day buzzed on - freshmen scurrying between csses, birds chirping from mpposts, and the occasional squirrel darting across the path like a caffeine-addled courier.

  Inside, at that corner table, something was shifting.

  Not fast.

  Not dramatic.

  But quietly.

  Marisol felt it in the way she leaned slightly toward him without meaning to, in the way she kept smiling after every sentence. In the way she felt less... tired, just being around him.

  They lingered a moment longer than necessary, trays pushed aside, the cafe noise fading into background static. Marisol gnced at Bharath across the table: his quiet smile, the way his fingers traced absent patterns on his cup, and felt something settle deeper in her chest. Not fireworks. Not drama. Just... a steady warmth, like sunlight after too long in the shade.

  She stood first, slinging her bag. “Come on, Yoda. We’ve got a study group to crash ter. Don’t want to leave the squad hanging.”

  Bharath rose too, matching her easy stride. “Lead the way.”

  As they stepped back into the buzzing campus afternoon, Marisol stole one st look at him. He didn’t notice. He was too busy dodging a rogue squirrel... but she did. And for the first time that day, she let herself wonder:

  What if this quiet thing between them wasn’t just convenience?

  What if it was the start of something real?