The door burst open like it had been kicked in, and in strolled Jorge and Tyrel, loud and still half-hyped from campus buzz.

  “Yo! Smith 202 lives!” Tyrel decred, tossing his bag onto the chair. “Look who finally made it back.”

  Jorge leaned against the dresser, arching a brow. “You skipped all your csses, bro. You sick or just in post-coital recovery?”

  Bharath, still lounging on his bed in fresh sweats and a bandaged side, raised his hands in mock surrender.

  “I got stabbed.”

  Both of them stared.

  “Wait… what?” Tyrel said, grinning like he misheard.

  Bharath shrugged. “There was a mugging st night. I stepped in. Got stabbed by some muggers.”

  Jorge blinked. “Are you serious?”

  Bharath pulled up his shirt just enough to show the fresh white gauze peeking out from beneath the wrap.

  “Holy shit,” Jorge said, crossing the room in three steps. “You’re serious!”

  “Wait, wait, wait... back it up,” Tyrel said, dropping onto the couch like it was popcorn time. “You got stabbed? Where? When? How many people? Did you kill someone?”

  “No one died,” Bharath said ftly. “Two guys jumped a girl near the MARTA station. I yelled, they got in my face, it got messy.”

  Tyrel was still staring at the bandage like it was a battle medal. “You don’t even look like a guy who’d throw down.”

  “I don’t know what that means.”

  “Damn,” Tyrel said, eyes wide. “You living that thug life now dawg.”

  Bharath blinked. “I’m what?”

  “Thug. Life.” Tyrel repeated, gesturing like it expined everything. “You out here dodging bdes, saving damsels, probably wearing a durag next week.”

  “I don’t know what a ‘thug life’ is,” Bharath said, deadpan.

  Jorge ughed. “It’s not you, man. Trust me.”

  Tyrel leaned back, arms behind his head. “Nah, this man’s a gangsta now. Getting stabbed and still making out with his girl an hour ter? Respect.”

  Bharath rubbed his forehead. “Please stop.”

  Marisol, who had been curled against Bharath’s side under the bnket, finally lifted her head and fixed Tyrel with a look.

  “First of all,” she said sweetly, “he wasn’t ‘making out’ with me an hour ter. He was resting. Second, if you call him a gangsta one more time I’m going to make you eat that couch cushion.”

  Tyrel threw up his hands. “I’m just saying! Man’s got stitches and still got you glued to him like Velcro. Y’all are stuck together 24/7.”

  Jorge snorted. “Seriously. I’ve seen less PDA from newlyweds. You two ever come up for air?”

  Marisol smiled, slow and dangerous. “Jealous, Jorge?”

  “Extremely,” he shot back without missing a beat. “I want someone to look at me the way Bharath looks at you. Like you hung the moon and the stars and also invented pizza.”

  Bharath’s face went brick red. He buried it in Marisol’s hair.

  Marisol ughed, delighted. “See? That’s how you get a man to blush. Keep going.”

  Tyrel grinned. “Nah, for real though. How’d it even happen? You just… jumped in?”

  Bharath exhaled, shifting carefully so the stitches didn’t pull. “Yeah. Two guys, one with a knife. They had her cornered. I couldn’t just walk by.”

  Jorge whistled low. “Unarmed?”

  Bharath nodded. “I saw a metal pole on the ground. It was some kind of construction scrap. I grabbed it, yelled and charged. They turned on me. Knife guy got a swipe in when I was swinging the pole and caught him in the arm. The other one bolted. I chased them off, made sure the girl was okay. Cops showed up pretty quick after that.”

  Tyrel sat forward. “You chased them? With a pole? Like some kinda action movie shit?”

  “It wasn’t like that,” Bharath said quickly. “I was scared out of my mind. I just… reacted.”

  Marisol cut in, voice firm. “Don’t downpy it, mi amor. He jumped in unarmed against two grown ass men. One was armed. While everyone else walked past, Bharath charged in. He took a knife to the side and still chased them away so the girl could get to safety. That’s not ‘reacting.’ That’s heroic.”

  Bharath ducked his head. “Mari...”

  “No,” she said, turning to him. “You don’t get to be modest about this. You almost died saving someone. Own it.”

  Jorge looked between them, impressed. “Que carajo! So what happened to the girl?”

  Marisol and Bharath exchanged a quick gnce.

  “The cops took her statement,” Bharath said evenly. “She was shaken up. That’s all I know.”

  Jorge nodded slowly. “Respect, man. That’s real.”

  Tyrel raised his Coke can. “To Bharath. For not dying and still pulling the hottest girl on campus.”

  Marisol rolled her eyes but clinked her water bottle against his can anyway.

  The mood lightened after that. They made jokes about Bharath’s new “street cred,” Tyrel trying (and failing) to teach him what “thug life” really meant, Jorge offering to draw a comic of “Pole-Wielding Bharath vs. Knife Guy.” Bharath ughed along, mostly to keep them from asking more questions.

  Eventually Marisol gnced at her watch and sighed.

  “I should go,” she said quietly. “My mom’s going to kill me. I haven’t been home since Saturday. I called her when you got stabbed, but I haven’t talked to her since.”

  Bharath’s face softened. “You sure you’re okay to go by yourself?”

  “I’ll be fine.” She leaned down and kissed him... slow, lingering, right in front of the guys. The guys made fake kissing noises till Bharath and Marisol broke apart ughing.

  "Stop it you losers," said Marisol, throwing a pillow at Jorge.

  "Don't mind them. They're just jealous, chelm. Come here," said Bharath. He turned Marisol's face and kissed her deeply.

  Tyrel whistled low. Jorge pretended to fan himself.

  Marisol pulled back, smirking at them. “Keep it in your pants, boys. He’s taken.”

  She stood, smoothing her hoodie, then turned back to Bharath. The teasing fell away.

  “Call me when you wake up tomorrow,” she said softly. “Promise?”

  “Promise.”

  She kissed him one more time. This time it was gentler. Then she headed for the door.

  “Love you,” she said over her shoulder.

  “Love you too.”

  The door clicked shut behind her.

  Silence settled for a beat.

  Then Tyrel spoke.

  “Bro. You’re so whipped. You said you love her? Already?”

  Jorge snorted. “Understatement of the century.”

  Bharath just smiled contently and leaned back against the pillows.

  “Yeah,” he said quietly. “I know.”

  Tyrel grabbed the controller. “Alright, enough romance. Time for some shooting games son. Now. You’re on my team so you can’t suck. To your computers boys. We gotta take advantage of all this bandwidth we have in the dorms. T1 baby!”

  Jorge helped Bharath down from the bed. “You good to py with stitches?”

  “I’ll manage.”

  They booted up their computers. The trash talk started almost immediately. Tyrel yelling about headshots, Jorge compining about g, Ravi showing up te and immediately getting roasted.

  Bharath pyed quietly, smiling every time he got a kill, ughing when Tyrel screamed after dying to a grenade.

  It was normal.

  It was good.

  And underneath it all, he carried two secrets close:

  The girl he’d saved.

  And the girl who’d saved him right back.

  He didn’t talk about either one.

  Not tonight.

  Tonight was just friends, games, and the quiet certainty that tomorrow he’d wake up and call Marisol.

  And that was enough.