Later, when the house had quieted again, the three of them found their way back to Sarah’s room. No urgency now. No desperation. Just intention.

  Sarah sat between them on the bed, knees drawn up, as they surrounded her - Marisol behind her, fingers gently combing through her hair, and Bharath in front, kneeling between her legs, his hands resting lightly on her thighs.

  “We want to give you something,” Marisol murmured, brushing her lips to Sarah’s neck.

  “Not a performance,” Bharath added. “Not a distraction. Just… our love. All of it. In the ways you can feel.”

  Sarah’s breath caught. “You already have. I-”

  “Shh,” Marisol whispered. “Let us remind you.”

  Bharath leaned forward and kissed the inside of her wrist. “This,” he said, pressing his lips there again, “is where your pulse reminds me you’re alive.”

  Then he kissed the soft skin of her inner elbow. “This is where I honor the girl who holds her pain close.”

  A kiss on her shoulder. “This is where I carry you.”

  Marisol’s hands slid under the hem of the shirt Sarah still wore - his shirt - and slowly peeled it upward, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

  “You don’t have to hide,” she whispered. “Not with us. Not anymore.”

  Sarah lifted her arms and let the shirt slip away.

  Bharath exhaled like it was the first breath he’d taken in hours. Marisol trailed kisses down Sarah’s spine as she whispered soft encouragements in Spanish - sweet and slow.

  “Hermosa… valiente… nuestra.”

  Sarah didn’t understand every word, but the tone was enough. The reverence. The love.

  Bharath’s hands were steady as they traced her thighs, her hips, the soft curve of her waist. Marisol pressed forward, molding her body against Sarah’s back, her lips brushing her ear.

  “Let go, baby,” she whispered. “Let us love you until the fear’s too far to reach.”

  Sarah’s body trembled, not from fear now - but from the overwhelming realization that she was safe. Loved. Held on every side.

  Bharath’s mouth found the base of her throat, worshipping her slowly as Marisol cradled her face, kissing away every leftover tear.

  It wasn’t sex.

  It was healing.

  It was togetherness.

  Bharath’s voice was soft, almost reverent. “Your body and soul are important to me. Not just because it’s perfect. Because it’s yours. Because it survived. And because it chose us.”

  Sarah closed her eyes, leaning back into Marisol’s arms.

  “Say it again,” she whispered.

  Bharath kissed the swell of her breast, hand resting above her heart. “You’re sacred. You’re loved. You’re ours.”

  Marisol’s lips brushed her ear again. “You’ll never be abandoned again, Sarah. Not while we breathe.”

  Tears slid silently down her cheeks.

  This time, they were tears of release.

  Of gratitude.

  Of joy.

  When they finally y down - all three wrapped together, skin to skin, heartbeats synchronized - no one spoke.

  Sarah tucked herself into Bharath’s chest, Marisol’s arms curled around her from behind, her breath warm against the back of her neck.

  “I think I believe it now,” Sarah whispered.

  Bharath kissed her forehead. “Then we’ll keep showing you. Every day. In every way.”

  “You’ll get tired,” she murmured sleepily.

  Marisol chuckled. “Baby, have you met us?”

  Sarah smiled. Her st waking thought was simple. Grounding.

  I’m not waiting to be loved anymore. I already am.

  The scent of coffee, warmed bread, and something vaguely citrusy drifted through Sarah’s house by te morning, mingling with the soft hum of chatter and the occasional clink of ptes. After the morning’s emotional intensity, everything had shifted back into a rhythm - casual, affectionate, unhurried.

  Sarah padded into the living room wrapped in a bnket, her curls damp from a quick shower, cheeks still flushed but smiling now. Marisol gave her a quiet thumbs-up from the kitchen, and Bharath winked at her from where he was fiddling with the 2 slice toaster. She blushed. It felt like the ground had steadied again beneath her feet.

  Tyrel and LaTasha were seated on the floor pying Jenga with the focus of Olympic athletes. Jorge and Cami were wrapped around each other on the couch, trading kisses and teasing commentary about which couple was the "grossest." Ravi and Nandita had taken up the armchairs and were deep in a debate about whether orange juice before coffee was a crime or a cleansing ritual.

  “Alright, people,” Nandita announced as she cpped her hands. “Serious question. Pns for tonight?”

  “Don’t say game night,” Tyrel said without looking up. “We haven’t recovered from the st one. Ravi’s competitive spirit nearly caused an actual brawl.”

  “That was not a brawl,” Ravi protested. “It was a passionate disagreement over Scrabble rules.”

  “It was a meltdown,” Cami said, deadpan. “You tried to challenge ‘empathize’ as a made-up word.”

  “It sounded British,” Ravi muttered, and Nandita elbowed him.

  “Okay,” she said, more brightly now. “New idea. There’s a Hindi movie pying at Peachtree Cinemas tonight - an early premiere! It's from my favorite actor and actress-Shah Rukh Khan and Kajol. It's called Kuch Kuch Hota Hai. It’s romantic, dramatic, funny... all the good stuff.”

  Ravi coughed into his mug. “Yeah. Super excited. Huge fan! Total cinema buff.”

  Marisol narrowed her eyes. “Are you lying to us, Ravi?”

  He grinned tightly. “What? Me? No! I love dramatic love triangles where people cry in the rain and run through mustard fields.”

  Bharath barked a ugh. “You poor, poor man. You’re about to be emotionally bckmailed by a song montage.”

  “I am a huge Bollywood fan,” Nandita said proudly. “He’s going to love it.”

  “I’m just saying,” Bharath chimed in, raising his hands innocently, “some of us are lucky enough to not attend a three-hour emotional rollercoaster tonight.”

  Marisol raised an eyebrow. “Because you’re escorting me to a different three-hour emotional rollercoaster?”

  “Yes,” he said without hesitation. “Your mother’s house. High-stakes diplomacy. Possibly involving religious tension, maternal guilt, and verbal ndmines.”

  “I’ll bring popcorn,” Sarah murmured under her breath, earning a snort from Tyrel.

  “So what’s it about?” Cami asked, intrigued. “This Bollywood thing?”

  Nandita beamed. “Okay! So Shah Rukh pys this college guy who’s best friends with this tomboy-Kajol-and then years ter they reconnect and there’s this kid and-okay, it’s hard to expin, but it’s like if Dawson’s Creek and My Best Friend’s Wedding and Mean Girls had a love child with a ten-song soundtrack.”

  Everyone blinked.

  “I’m in,” Tyrel said immediately.

  “Same,” Jorge nodded. “Sounds weird and dramatic. I love weird and dramatic.”

  LaTasha tilted her head. “Do I need to understand Hindi?”

  “Nope,” Ravi said. “There are subtitles. And expressions. Trust me, you’ll know exactly what they’re feeling.”

  “I can’t believe you’re pretending to enjoy this,” Bharath said, shaking his head.

  “I am not pretending,” Ravi deadpanned. “I am a man of culture.”

  “A man whipped,” Bharath corrected.

  Nandita grinned and leaned over to kiss Ravi’s cheek. “I like him whipped.”

  “Thank God he looks good doing it,” Sarah added.

  The room filled with ughter, warm and spontaneous. There was a kind of joy that came from not needing to be anything but exactly what you were - even if what you were was a bunch of sleep-deprived, mismatched college students figuring out life through pancakes and Bollywood.

  As the group continued to talk logistics - carpool pns, showtime, whether they could sneak snacks into the theater - Bharath slipped his arm around both Marisol and Sarah’s waists as Sarah beamed at him and gave him a quick peck.

  And even as he prepared to face one of the more terrifying tasks of his life - meeting Maria Rivera again - Bharath felt calm.