Club Zero was packed - sweaty bodies, colored lights, and bass that rattled the ribs. Music pulsed in waves, making the air feel thick with static.

  The group entered in pairs, naturally splitting off: Jorge and Cami drifted toward the bar. Ravi and Nandita found a quieter booth off the side, where she asked if he wanted to try dancing “even if you’re bad.” Tyrel and LaTasha were already dancing - or rather, grinding - within seconds, her body moving in ways Tyrel could barely comprehend but was clearly trying to keep up with.

  And Bharath?

  He found his girls in the middle of the floor, gyrating with each other, already commanding attention.

  Marisol’s hands were in the air, her body rolling with the beat, hips hypnotic. Sarah had her arms around Marisol from behind, swaying with her, every movement deliberate - sensual, slow, intentional. They didn’t just dance. They decred territory.

  And when they saw him watching, they smiled like wolves spotting a fawn.

  He moved toward them.

  Marisol reached out and grabbed his colr, yanking him into their orbit.

  “I hope you stretched,” she said over the music, mouth grazing his ear.

  “Because you’re about to burn,” Sarah whispered, grinding against him from behind.

  They surrounded him on the floor, one in front, one behind, their bodies flush with his as the music climbed. His hands moved instinctively - along Marisol’s waist, gripping the swell of her hips - while Sarah pulled his arms back to wrap around herself, trapping them both in a slow, dirty sway.

  “You like our costumes baby?” Marisol asked, her lips brushing his.

  “I’m barely functioning,” Bharath admitted, gasping.

  Sarah turned and kissed him - deep, hungry. Then Marisol took over - teasing, tasting.

  No one else touched them.

  No one could.

  They danced like that for what felt like hours - one song, then two, then three - until Bharath wasn’t sure where he ended and they began. Heat soaked through their clothes. Marisol slid his hands under her corset ces; Sarah guided his grip just right beneath her sheer bodice.

  “You’re ours,” Sarah whispered.

  “All night,” Marisol finished.

  And he was.

  The bass at Club Zero wasn’t just loud - it pulsed, like a heartbeat dialed up to dangerous. Red lights strobed across the crowd, cutting through the fog machine haze and glitter dust with ser precision. Bodies moved in a writhing blur. Costumes ranged from scandalous to supernatural, and the dance floor throbbed with heat and heat-induced sin.

  Tyrel was sweating - and not from the heat. His shirt was already unbuttoned halfway, gold chain catching every fsh of red and blue, but his pulse was doing double time for a very different reason.

  LaTasha.

  She was the reason.

  She moved like fire set to music, and she knew it.

  In a cropped yellow Braves jersey knotted under her bust, high-waisted jean shorts that clung to her like a dare, and hoop earrings big enough to be used as bangles, she didn’t just dance - she owned the floor.

  Tyrel had always thought of himself as confident - cocky, even. But standing behind her now, trying to match her rhythm without stepping on her Air Maxes, he felt like a rookie trying to guard Jordan in his prime.

  “LaTasha, girl,” he muttered under his breath. “You’re gonna be the death of me.”

  She gnced over her shoulder and gave him a smirk, one brow arched. “You better not be talkin’ to yourself already. We only two songs in.”

  “I’m just sayin’, you look like trouble.”

  “I am trouble,” she replied, stepping back so her hips brushed against his. “You still here.”

  Tyrel swallowed. Loudly.

  The track switched - a remix of Monica and Brandy’s The Boy is Mine - and LaTasha dropped with it. Smooth. Controlled. Like gravity answered to her and not the other way around.

  Tyrel froze. Literally forgot how to move. He wasn’t used to being on the back foot with women - any women - but LaTasha? She wasn’t pying the same game.

  She didn’t flirt to tease. She flirted to see if you could keep up. And he was barely hanging on.

  “Loosen up, Vanil Ice,” she teased in his ear, voice low and electric.

  Tyrel ughed - short, nervous - but then caught the look in her eye. Not mockery. Challenge.

  Alright, then.

  He rolled his shoulders, adjusted his grip on her hips - firm now, grounded - and let himself move with her. Not copying. Not chasing. Just being there.

  “That’s better,” she murmured, throwing one arm around his neck and pulling herself closer. Her perfume hit him like a memory - warm amber, citrus, and something sweet like honey and heat.

  He leaned in, his lips brushing the shell of her ear. “You tryna start somethin’, girl?”

  “I already started it,” she said, grinding back against him with slow, deliberate pressure. “Question is, can you finish?”

  Tyrel’s breath caught. His hands gripped her tighter, sliding down her waist, fingers brushing just under the hem of her jersey where warm skin met the waistband of her shorts.

  And then she turned, fast and smooth, one hand still around his neck, the other spyed on his chest. She looked up at him - shes thick, lips glossy, eyes glowing like she knew every thought in his head and had already decided which ones she’d let him act on.

  “I don’t dance with just anybody,” she said softly.

  “I know,” he said, his voice rough. “You think I ain’t noticed the vultures watchin’ you all night?”

  “They can look,” she said. “But they don’t get to touch.”

  “Why me?” he asked, voice low, honest. “You could have anybody in here beggin’.”

  She studied him - really looked. Her smile softened. “Because you ain’t beggin’. You just here. You ain’t tryna own me. You just vibin’. That’s rare.”

  The music shifted again - slower now. Slinky, sticky beat. Something that demanded closeness.

  LaTasha didn’t ask. She just stepped into his space, pressed against his chest, and let the music pull them both under.

  Tyrel wrapped his arms around her waist and swayed with her, forehead resting briefly against hers.

  “You pass the vibe check, sugar,” she said, her voice dipped in honey.

  He nearly fainted.

  Instead, he kissed her.

  It wasn’t wild or rushed - it was soft. Careful. A test.

  But when her lips parted and her fingers tangled in his chain, he deepened it. His hand slid up her back, under the jersey, feeling bare skin and the curve of her spine.

  Her lips tasted like cherry lip gloss and wicked promises.

  They pulled apart slowly, both of them breathless.

  “That’s… wow,” Tyrel said, blinking like a man who’d just seen the burning bush and then tried to dance with it.

  “You’re cute when you’re speechless,” LaTasha teased.

  “I ain’t speechless. I’m… processin’.”

  She ughed - real and warm. “Well, keep processin’. ‘Cause I ain’t done with you yet.”

  He pulled her close again, lips brushing her ear. “Good. ‘Cause I’ve been waitin’ all semester to do that.”

  She smirked. “Guess we both slow burn types.”

  “Guess so.”

  Another song started. Slower. Dirtier. The kind meant for shadows and intentions.

  LaTasha leaned in close, her voice just for him. “This ain’t no one-night vibe, Tyrel.”

  “I know,” he said. “I ain’t tryna rush nothin’. I just… want you.”

  She looked up, eyes soft now. “You already got me, baby. I just wanna see if you can keep me.”

  He kissed her again.

  And this time?

  There was no hesitation.

  Just fire and music and two hearts in sync for the first time - finding rhythm, finding each other, under flickering lights and October heat.