The gym smelled like iron, sweat, and early morning regret.

  Bharath pushed open the door to the Georgia Tech Athletic Center, towel around his neck, shirt still clinging from the Atnta humidity. The weight of his morning-of lips, of breasts, of belonging-lingered in his bones. But this? This was a different ritual.

  Inside, Jorge was already there. Alone, for once. No Discman. No chaos. Just him and the soft clink of metal as he racked a pair of dumbbells back into pce.

  “Early bird,” Bharath called out.

  Jorge turned with a grin. “Look who survived the lionesses. I thought they were gonna eat you alive this morning.”

  “They did,” Bharath said, chuckling as he dropped his gym bag. “But I’m here. Just barely.”

  “Man,” Jorge said, stretching his arms behind his head, “you know people are gonna talk, right?”

  “They already are.”

  Jorge nodded. “Yeah, well, let ’em. You looked happy. That’s rare around here.”

  There was a pause as Bharath grabbed a set of weights and joined him at the benches. The clinking of metal echoed between sets, their movements syncing in quiet rhythm-inhale, lift, lower, exhale.

  “Thanks for being cool about all this,” Bharath said, wiping sweat from his brow.

  “You kidding?” Jorge scoffed. “I think it’s beautiful, bro. Real talk? You didn’t just get lucky. You earned that love. They see something in you. We all do.”

  Bharath smiled, humbled. “You ever think it’s too much? Like… all of this?”

  Jorge considered it, then shrugged. “Sure. But love’s not supposed to be measured. It’s supposed to be felt. And from where I’m standing? You’re feeling it. Hard.”

  Another few reps passed in silence before Bharath gnced sideways.

  “What about you?” he asked. “You and Cami seem tight.”

  Jorge paused mid-curl.

  “Oh.”

  “Oh?” Bharath grinned. “That’s the sound people make when they’re in deep.”

  “Shut up pendejo,” Jorge muttered, his cheeks coloring. “It’s not like that.”

  “It totally is.”

  Jorge sat back, letting the weights rest on his thighs. His voice was quieter now.

  “She’s… everything, man. Funny, sharp, wild. She dances like the floor’s afraid of her.”

  Bharath nodded. “You smile more when she’s around.”

  Jorge exhaled, ughing nervously. “Yeah. I’m thinking of asking her to be my girl. Like… officially. At Club Zero.”

  “On Halloween night?”

  Jorge nodded, eyes drifting.

  “She loves that pce. The energy, the lights, the music. I thought… maybe I’ll ask her during the st set. Something chill. Just us, you know?”

  Bharath’s smile widened. “She’ll say yes.”

  “You think so?” Jorge’s voice cracked slightly.

  “I do. She looks at you like you invented ughter.”

  Jorge ughed out loud at that. “Que saico. Are you trying to ghostwrite my vows?”

  “No,” Bharath said, pressing into his final reps. “Just saying. If I didn’t already have two girls licking bite marks onto me every morning, I’d be jealous.”

  Jorge cpped his back. “Proud of you, hermano.”

  They finished in silence, the sweat drying over pride and something deeper-brotherhood. Not the performative kind. The real kind. The kind forged not just in reps or teasing, but trust.

  As they walked out of the gym together into the morning sunlight, Jorge nudged him.

  “So… your girls. Are they cool with body glitter and fog machines?”

  “Why?”

  “Because Cami said if you three show up as anything less than a synchronized costume trio, she’ll revoke your club privileges.”

  Bharath ughed.

  “Then we better bring the thunder.”

  The front door creaked open.

  The house smelled faintly of coffee and something sweet-maybe vanil body mist or whatever Sarah had in that lotion she used. The air was warm, still, too quiet. A soft hum of conversation had gone silent the moment he turned the key.

  Bharath stepped inside, damp towel slung around his neck, shirt clinging to his chest with the ghost of sweat. His legs were sore, but that warm ache only made him feel more alive.

  And then he saw them.

  In the kitchen. Barefoot. Standing at the counter like it was some kind of cursed tableau designed to destroy him.

  Marisol was leaning forward slightly, sipping from a mug, wearing nothing but a clingy white tee that barely reached her belly button and a bck thong riding high over her hips. Her curls were tied up messily, exposing her bare shoulders and the hickey he’d left on her colrbone.

  Sarah, beside her, was wearing a pale blue tee stretched tight across her breasts-no bra-her nipples tenting the fabric like headlights. Just a delicate, teasing jiggle every time she shifted her weight. A soft grey thong and her long, toned legs completed the ensemble. She’d twisted her hair into a clip, but a few wet strands curled at her temple.

  They both turned when they heard him.

  Marisol smiled first-slow, knowing, like she’d been counting the minutes.

  Sarah tilted her head. “He’s baaack,” she murmured.

  “Finally,” Marisol said, setting her mug down. “We were going to start without you.”

  Bharath dropped his gym bag with a thud.

  “Are you trying to kill me?”

  “No,” Marisol said sweetly. “Just punish you for leaving us hot and bothered.”

  Sarah crossed the kitchen, hips swaying deliberately, and reached for his towel. “You’re all sweaty.”

  “Yeah. It was a good session.”

  “Mm.” She lifted the towel and dabbed at his chest. “That’s our line.”

  Bharath inhaled sharply.

  “We didn’t even get to say goodbye,” Marisol said, coming up behind him. “Just groped us a little, got us all warm and needy, then slipped off to do bicep curls.”

  Her hand slid around his waist. Then lower.

  “You know what that does to a girl’s ego?” she whispered in his ear.

  Sarah kissed his colrbone. “Or her patience?”

  Bharath’s breath hitched. “We have css in an hour.”

  “Then you’d better make it count,” Marisol said, grabbing his hand and pulling him toward the bathroom as Sarah pulled his shorts down.