The streets were quiet as the group made their way down 10th Street, bundled in jackets and backpacks, the warm autumn night hugging them like a breath between storms.

  Marisol had her arm looped through Bharath’s.

  Sarah was skipping ahead with Cami and LaTasha, singing bits of Bollywood songs none of them remembered the lyrics to.

  Jorge, Ravi, and Tyrel gged behind with faces that looked like they were heading to a pop quiz on interpretive dance theory.

  Nandita marched confidently near the front, scribbling choreo ideas in a spiral notebook with the fervor of someone organizing a small but fabulous rebellion.

  “Wait,” Ravi said, breathless, “did Nandita just say how many people come to this thing?”

  “Around a thousand,” she replied without missing a beat. “Maybe more. Depends on the sponsors.”

  Jorge physically stumbled. “A thousand?”

  “A thousand people,” Ravi echoed. “Watching us.”

  “More importantly,” Tyrel muttered, “watching me. In pants that are basically curtains.”

  “You said you wanted to wear them,” LaTasha called over her shoulder.

  “I thought I did!”

  They turned the corner onto Sarah’s street. Porch lights blinked on like blessings.

  Sarah grinned and kicked open her gate. “Come on, you dramatic boys. Time for dinner and dance therapy.”

  Ptes clinked, ughter bounced off the walls, and the smells of leftover enchidas, reheated mac and cheese, and Nandita’s emergency packet of lemon rasam mix filled the room with chaotic joy.

  Everyone had spread out across the living room floor and couch. Jorge was two bites away from a food coma, Ravi was stirring rice and muttering about stage fright, and Cami had commandeered the stereo to py soft tab beats she found on a CD from Sarah’s shelf beled “Fusion: Karan’s Mix.”

  “I still can’t believe we said yes to this,” Bharath said, resting his head against the back of the couch as Sarah and Marisol curled on either side of him.

  “Correction,” Marisol said. “You didn’t say yes. We did. You pouted.”

  “I didn’t pout.”

  Sarah snorted. “You absolutely pouted. Like a Bollywood hero when he thinks the heroine’s going to marry someone else.”

  LaTasha pointed her fork at him. “You’ll be fine. I’ve seen you move. You’ve got rhythm. Jorge’s the one we need to worry about.”

  “I heard that,” Jorge said from the floor.

  Sarah ughed. “This reminds me of that night at Peachtree Cinemas… Remember? Kuch Kuch Hota Hai?”

  Cami cpped her hands. “Oh my god, yes! We were dancing in the aisles during Ladki Badi Anjaani Hai.”

  “I got kicked in the ankle by a six-year-old doing hand gestures,” LaTasha added proudly.

  “We were so loud,” Cami said. “But the whole theater was into it.”

  Sarah turned to Bharath, her face softening. “That was the first time I really felt it. The color, the music, the way people cried like it was a religious experience.”

  Cami nodded. “It wasn’t just watching a movie. It was belonging to a mood. A moment. Even if we didn’t speak the nguage.”

  Bharath blinked, caught between affection and awe.

  “You guys really liked it?”

  Sarah took his hand. “Loved it.”

  Marisol leaned into his shoulder. “And now we get to be part of that. With you.”

  He felt something tighten in his chest - in a good way. Something grounding. Humbling. A circle closing.

  “I never thought I’d see the day,” Nandita said, bancing her pte on her knees. “A group Diwali fusion dance. Involving Tyrel.”

  “Hey,” Tyrel said. “I bring the funk. I’m just… confused by the script.”

  “There’s no script,” she replied. “Just energy, symmetry, and sass.”

  Cami raised a hand. “Do we get costumes?”

  “Of course,” Nandita said. “We’re going full Bollywood. Half the set in bright kurtas and lehengas, the other half in hip hop fusion gear.”

  Sarah beamed. “We’re doing both sides of him. Bharath the Georgia Tech coding nerd… and Bharath the Tamil dancing god.”

  Jorge groaned. “So I’m doing the footwork of Hrithik Roshan and the logic of An Turing.”

  “Exactly,” Marisol said sweetly. “With eyeliner.”

  Bharath opened his mouth to protest - and closed it.

  Because even though he was exhausted, and overwhelmed, and terrified of slipping in front of a thousand people…

  He also felt seen.

  Bharath rinsed dishes at the sink, sleeves rolled up, fingers moving on autopilot as steam rose around his wrists. The clink of ptes, the damp squish of sponge on ceramic - these little domestic sounds usually soothed him.

  But tonight, his thoughts were too loud.

  Across the kitchen, Sarah wiped down the counters in slow, zy swipes, humming under her breath. Marisol stood by the fridge, meticulously stacking Tupperware like she was preparing for battle.

  It should’ve felt mundane.

  It didn’t.

  It felt like a dream he hadn’t dared imagine.

  “I’ve never danced for a crowd,” he said softly, breaking the quiet.

  Sarah gnced up, eyes catching his reflection in the window above the sink. “Then it’s about time.”

  He smiled faintly. “What if I mess it up?”

  “You will,” she said without missing a beat. “And it’ll be perfect.”

  Before he could reply, Marisol moved behind him - arms sliding around his waist, her cheek pressing ft between his shoulder bdes. Her hold was warm. Anchoring.

  “Then you mess it up,” she whispered. “And we ugh, and keep dancing. Because it’s not about the crowd.”

  “It’s about showing up,” Sarah added, walking over to his other side and leaning in. “Together.”

  He turned toward them, eyes moving from one radiant face to the other.

  Two women. One Cuban, the other Jewish-American. Neither of them were born into the world of sarees, Diwali mps, or Bollywood musicals. Yet here they were - learning his rhythms, holding his culture with reverence, calling it ours like it had always been part of them.

  He didn’t deserve them.

  And yet, they chose him - not just in bed, not just in public - but here, now, elbow-deep in dishwater and dreams.

  Emotion swelled in his chest, thick and sharp.

  He kissed them both.

  Not with heat this time - not yet - but with the kind of quiet gratitude that echoed deeper than desire. One kiss to Sarah’s temple. One to Marisol’s cheek.

  “Thank you,” he whispered.

  Marisol tilted her head. “For what?”

  “For this. For… wanting to be part of where I come from.”

  Sarah smiled. “It’s easy. You make it feel beautiful.”

  He swallowed the lump in his throat.

  “I don’t know if I can ever make you understand what it means to me,” he said, voice low. “How hard it is sometimes… to feel like you have to split yourself in two. Code-switch. Compromise.”

  Marisol’s fingers curled into his shirt. “You never have to split with us.”

  “Yeah,” Sarah said, stepping closer. “We’re here to learn. Dance steps, food, phrases… history. All of it.”

  “But it’s not just fun and pretty lights,” he said. “It’s also being the guy who gets asked where he’s really from. The guy who hears slurs when people think he’s not listening. The guy who’s never quite American enough and too Indian for the Americans. Too American for the Indians.”

  Neither girl spoke right away.

  Then Marisol leaned in and kissed his chest over his shirt.

  “Then let them be confused,” she murmured. “We’re not.”

  Sarah touched his jaw. “And we’ll never make you choose. Not ever.”

  He closed his eyes.

  María.

  The thought surfaced like a shadow.

  He could still see her guarded eyes during dinner. The way she looked at him like she was waiting for him to fail her daughter. Not cruel - but skeptical. Wary. A woman who had been through too much to trust easily.

  He would win her over. Somehow.

  He would make María see him - not as the brown boy dating her daughter, but as the man who loved her.

  And Sarah… God. Sarah had no parents left to disappoint. No protective mother to call. No one to cry with if this fell apart.

  That meant her heart was entirely in his hands.

  He wouldn’t let her down. He would give her a life that was full of joy. Of belonging. Of bliss.

  Starting with tonight.

  A smile crept onto his face as the mood shifted.

  “Speaking of dancing…” he murmured, stepping back from the sink and flicking water pyfully toward Sarah.

  She squealed. “Don’t you start.”

  Marisol smirked. “He started. Now he has to finish.”

  Bharath arched an eyebrow. “Finish what?”

  The two women shared a look. Dangerous. Gleaming.

  Sarah stepped in close and pressed her palm to his chest.

  “You know the rule,” she said softly.

  Marisol’s breath grazed his neck. “You pleasure us…”

  Sarah’s lips brushed his ear. “Until we pass out.”

  He inhaled sharply.

  Sarah giggled. “Now wash your hands, dancer boy. You’re going to need them.”

  Marisol took his arm and started leading him toward the hallway. “Shower first. You’ve been carrying the group all day.”

  Sarah followed, already peeling her sweatshirt off. “Time to let us carry you.”

  He didn’t resist.

  Because he knew - the real performance was about to begin.

  And tonight, he was going to make sure that both the women who had danced into his world would remember why he was theirs.