Bharath stood in front of the mirror, fidgeting with the colr of his only clean button-down shirt. His hair was neatly combed, his shoes were shined, and there was a new, visible bandage peeking out under his sleeve - a reminder of both his recent heroics and his complete ck of sense.

  Behind him, the room buzzed with chaotic support.

  “You sure you don’t want to wear cologne?” Jorge asked, spraying something citrusy in the air. “Nothing strong. Just... enough to say ‘I won’t knock up your daughter in the kitchen.’”

  “I have Wild Stone, macha.”

  “That ain’t cologne,” Ravi muttered.

  “Better than showing up smelling like panic sweat.”

  “I don’t smell like - ” Bharath started.

  “You smell fine, man,” Tyrel cut in, tossing a baseball cap aside. “But that” - he pointed dramatically at Bharath’s anxious pacing - “that’s what’s gonna get you eaten alive.”

  Bharath turned to them, arms stiff at his sides. “She’s Cuban. She’s Catholic. She works three jobs. And Marisol disappeared for two days and came back saying I’m ‘the one.’ She’s going to hate me. I really hope my Wild Stone works for me.”

  “So what you’re saying is,” Jorge deadpanned, “you’re deeply screwed.”

  “Ayyo swamy, (Oh God!)” Bharath muttered under his breath.

  Ravi stood and cpped a hand on his shoulder. “Listen. This isn’t about impressing her mom. This is about showing her you’re the same Bharath that Marisol fell for. Which is to say: kind, respectful, brave, and apparently capable of satisfying a Latina woman who once said she’d rather die than date an engineering major.”

  “Wait, what? When did she say that?”

  “Long story. You broke her streak,” Jorge said. “We’re all proud.”

  Tyrel stepped forward, jingling something in his hand.

  “Here,” he said, dropping a pair of jangling keys into Bharath’s palm.

  Bharath blinked. “What’s this?”

  “My truck. Marisol can drive. If things go south, you two can bounce faster than her mama can light a votive candle.”

  Jorge raised a brow. “You’re lending him the pickup?”

  Tyrel nodded solemnly. “If he survives jefa, he’s earned it.”

  Bharath stared at the keys like they might self-destruct. “I don’t even know how to unlock your truck.”

  “She does,” Tyrel grinned. “And it’s full of gas. Just don’t scratch her. That’s my main girl.”

  “Thanks,” Bharath said faintly.

  “You got this, man,” Ravi added. “Just remember: eye contact. Firm handshake. No nervous jokes about mango juice or Star Trek.”

  Bharath groaned. “Why would you say that out loud?”

  “Because I know you,” Ravi grinned. “And I’ve seen the way you look when you panic. It’s the same face you made when the cafeteria ran out of your favorite cereal.”

  “Not helping.”

  Jorge crossed his arms. “Final checklist. Shirt ironed?”

  “Yep.”

  “Teeth brushed?”

  “Obviously.”

  “Condoms not in your wallet?”

  “What?!”

  “Just checking.”

  Tyrel ughed, spping Bharath on the back. “Go getter, tiger. And if it goes bad - don’t come back. We can’t take your shame.”

  Bharath gave them a withering look. Then inhaled deep.

  He gnced at his reflection again, then at the keys in his hand. The girl he loved was waiting downstairs. Her mother was waiting on the other side of town.

  He was going in.

  “Wish me luck,” he muttered.

  “Don’t need it,” Ravi said, smiling. “You’re Bharath. You’ve already won.”

  The engine of Tyrel’s pickup growled low as they turned off the expressway onto the familiar neighborhood streets of Marisol’s part of town - the old brick ranch homes, the cracked sidewalks, the occasional whirr of a child’s bicycle wheel spinning out of sight.

  Marisol gripped the wheel like it was trying to escape her.

  Her hair was up in a high ponytail now, earrings swaying with every sharp turn, her tank top hidden under a light jacket - one she hadn't stopped adjusting since they got in the truck.

  “Okay,” she said, voice fast and tight. “First of all, don’t call her se?ora. That makes her feel old. Just call her ‘ma’am’ or maybe ‘Mrs. Rivera’ ... but not if she corrects you.”

  Bharath opened his mouth.

  “And don’t talk too much about India at first. She’ll ask, but don’t lead with it. She gets weird about cultural stuff - not racist, just… cautious.”

  “Okay...”

  “And sit up straight. But not like… robot straight. Like confident straight. But still humble. Like you’ve done nothing wrong.”

  “I did nothing wrong.”

  “But she doesn’t know that!” Marisol snapped, eyes darting from the road to him and back again. “She thinks I’ve been holed up with a boy who could be a drug dealer or a pyramid scheme recruiter, and you’re just - so nice that it’s going to look fake.”

  Bharath blinked. “A pyramid scheme...?”

  “Also, if she offers cafecito, say yes. But don’t actually drink more than a sip unless you want to ascend to the astral pne. That shit is nuclear.”

  “Should I bring up that I got stabbed...?”

  “No! Absolutely not. Are you insane?! That makes you look reckless. Romantic, but reckless.”

  “Right. Okay.”

  “And she might talk to you in Spanish. Just nod if you don’t understand. Don’t try to speak back unless it’s an emergency or she starts praying out loud.”

  There was a pause. Then:

  “Do I nod like… respectfully?”

  “Oh my God, yes, but not like a bobblehead. Just...”

  She smmed the brakes a little too hard at a red light. Bharath lurched forward and caught himself on the dashboard. He looked at her - really looked.

  Her cheeks were flushed, eyes wide, breathing too fast.

  This wasn’t just nerves.

  This was full-blown panic.

  He reached over and gently took one of her hands off the steering wheel, cing his fingers through hers. She resisted for a second, then let her hand rest in his.

  “Marisol,” he said quietly.

  She didn’t look at him.

  He leaned closer.

  “Chelm,” he whispered. “Look at me.”

  Her eyes finally met his, uncertain and shimmering.

  “You’re the bravest woman I’ve ever met,” he said. “You fight for what you want. You protect who you love. You see people. And tonight, I get to show your family how much I love you. That’s all that matters.”

  Her lips parted in a tremble.

  Before she could overthink again, he leaned in and kissed her.

  Not hungrily. Not teasingly.

  Just soft. Present. Real.

  A kiss meant to slow the world.

  She melted into it like she was made for that moment - like her panic had been waiting for permission to dissolve.

  When he pulled back, she was smiling.

  “Goddamn,” she breathed. “You really do have a gift for shutting me up.”

  He kissed her forehead. “I’m going to be fine. We are going to be fine.”

  She nodded, still dazed. “Yeah. Yeah, we are.”

  Then she blinked. “Wait... did you just call me chelm again?”

  Bharath smirked, brushing a thumb along her jaw. “You remembered.”

  Her voice dropped, flustered again. “I don’t know what it means, but it makes my knees weak.”

  He grinned wider. “Good. It means darling or sweetheart.”

  “Oh! I like that!”

  As the light turned green, she squeezed his hand once more before letting go and returning both to the wheel - her breathing now steadier, her shoulders finally dropping.

  “Okay,” she said, voice lighter. “But if she breaks out the rosary, we’re out. Deal?”

  “Deal.”

  They drove on, toward a meeting neither of them were quite ready for, but both were willing to face, for each other.

  However, Marisol felt a rising dread as they neared her house. She wasn’t just worried about whether her mother would approve. She was terrified of what it would mean if she didn’t - not just for Bharath, but for everything they were building together. And for once, she didn’t feel like rebelling. She just wanted them to meet, to see what she saw.