Bharath didn’t know how he was standing.

  His legs felt like linguine left too long in boiling water. His back ached, his abs stung from the repeated clenching, and his arms had the grip strength of a pool noodle. And yet-he felt… radiant. Used. Loved. Worshipped. Empowered.

  Two hours of slow, sacred chaos in the bedroom that morning with Sarah and Marisol had left him physically enervated and emotionally supercharged.

  And somehow, with divine willpower and an indecent amount of electrolytes, here he was: stumbling into the Georgia Tech Student Athletic Center, glowing faintly like a holy saint.

  Jorge looked up from his warm-up stretches, one leg hooked on the bench like a fmingo doing ballet.

  Tyrel was sprawled on a yoga mat in full faux-Nike gear, clutching a foam roller like it owed him child support.

  Ravi sat slumped on the rowing machine with a Gatorade in hand and the dead eyes of a man still waiting for someone to ugh at his best jokes.

  “You look like a man who got exorcised,” Jorge said, squinting like Bharath was vibrating.

  “I feel like one,” Bharath muttered, rubbing his shoulder. “But like… in a good way.”

  Tyrel raised an eyebrow. “Did the girls summon a demon and make you fight it shirtless?”

  He paused.

  “…Actually, don’t answer that. I don’t need the visual of you chanting in tongues while Marisol rides you like a Valkyrie.”

  “TYREL,” Ravi snapped, holding up a hand. “I am a virgin in three time zones. Let me have something.”

  Bharath chuckled and dropped his duffel bag. “I’m just here to sweat out the vender oil and not die.”

  “‘Not die,’ he says,” Jorge muttered. “Meanwhile, the hallway gossip makes it sound like you walk on water every day.”

  Ravi perked up. “Didn’t Cami say the girls generally glow during their breakfast like actual saints?”

  Tyrel nodded solemnly. “She said Marisol looked like she’d been on a pilgrimage to a tantric monastery. And Sarah generally speaks in… fragments after your morning sessions.”

  “She said that?” Bharath blinked.

  Jorge smirked. “Cami says a lot. Most of it while biting. But yeah. Apparently your dies show up looking like they just got baptized in pheromones.”

  Ravi sighed dramatically. “Meanwhile, I’m over here trying to build up the courage to put my arm around Nandita’s shoulders.”

  Tyrel looked up from the mat. “Bro, I nearly fainted when LaTasha kissed me yesterday.”

  Bharath took a seat on the bench. “You guys are exaggerating.”

  “No we’re not,” Tyrel said, deadly serious. “There’s a whiteboard in the dorm with a running list of your rumored skills. Someone added ‘telepathy’ and ‘knows the secret G-spot code.’”

  “There’s a whiteboard?” Bharath blinked.

  Ravi leaned in, reverent. “They call you the ‘Indian Prince of Pleasure’ now.”

  Tyrel added, “With abs of devotion.”

  Jorge nodded. “And thighs like twin fax machines.”

  “…Fax machines?” Bharath frowned.

  “It’s 1998,” Jorge said with a shrug. “We work with what we know.”

  They migrated toward the weights. Bharath picked up two 25s. His arms quivered like a bad lie. Ravi grabbed a 15 and almost tore a ligament trying to curl while watching a girl tie her ponytail.

  “Okay,” Jorge said, adjusting his headband. “We need intel. How the hell are you alive? Shouldn’t you be, like, spiritually desiccated by now?”

  “Yeah,” Ravi added. “What are they feeding you? Ambrosia? Tandoori-fvored moonlight?”

  Before Bharath could answer, a freshman boy in a Pokémon: The Movie T-shirt popped out from behind a squat rack like a gremlin.

  “Are you… the Prince of Pleasure… the King of the College of Computing?” he asked breathlessly.

  “What?!” Bharath blinked.

  “That’s what they call you on the dorm whiteboard,” the kid said reverently. “That you smell like Wild Stone and justice. My girlfriend had a dream where you were shampooing her cat and then it levitated.”

  “…WHAT?!”

  The kid bowed, and then vanished into the cardio section like a ninja.

  “You need security,” Jorge muttered.

  “I’m not magic,” Bharath sighed. “I just listen. And love. And use conditioner.”

  Tyrel leaned in. “No. This is a public service. Tell us what they talk about when we’re not around. We need recon.”

  Tyrel rolled over dramatically. “Okay, real talk. Are you on drugs? Supplements? Viagra? Vedic prayers? You looked calm. Like post-orgasmic Bck Jesus.”

  Another student wandered over, a girl in basketball shorts and a Georgia Tech hoodie. “Excuse me. Do you actually meditate between orgasms?”

  Ravi shrieked.

  Bharath blinked.

  The girl nodded solemnly. “I just want you to know that that’s incredible. My roommate said she saw you hovering.”

  Tyrel colpsed onto a yoga mat.

  Jorge pulled out a resistance band like it was holy scripture. “Okay, I’m done pretending. Teach us, Master. Teach us the Way.”

  “I’m just… loved,” Bharath offered.

  “Oh my god,” Ravi muttered. “He’s going full monk again.”

  “I told you,” Tyrel snapped. “He’s like if Gandhi and a Pygirl model had a baby and sent him to Georgia Tech.”

  Bharath grinned, toweling his face. “Look, there’s no secret technique. No Kama Sutra fshcards. No tantric cheat codes.”

  Jorge crossed his arms. “You expect us to believe you’re casually pleasing two beautiful women on the regur and not even breaking a sweat?”

  “I am breaking a sweat!” Bharath protested. “Do you see this shirt? It smells like sweat and despair.”

  Tyrel leaned in. “Okay, but how? Seriously. What do the girls talk about after all this?”

  Ravi nodded eagerly. “Yeah! What do they say when you're not around?”

  Bharath blinked. “Honestly? Not what you think. They talk about lotion. And astrology. And… mortgages.”

  Jorge snorted. “Mortgages?”

  “Yeah,” Bharath nodded. “Sarah read one article about property taxes and now she's decided we need to own a duplex in five years.”

  Tyrel looked offended. “So while I’m over here trying to figure out how to ask LaTasha to make out without passing out, your girls are pillow-talking about home equity loans?”

  Bharath shrugged. “Sometimes it’s about what songs they’d strip to. Sometimes it’s Marisol expining recursion in Java while biting my shoulder. It’s a range.”

  Ravi dropped his water bottle. “You mean they’re smart and freaky?”

  “They’re apsaras,” Bharath said, without irony.

  There was a moment of stunned silence.

  Then Jorge whispered, “You lucky son of a-”

  Tyrel cut in, waving a hand like an NFL coach drawing up a py. “Okay. We need the actual strategy. Are we talking massage oil? Pre-wash rituals? Incense?”

  Bharath leaned on a medicine ball. “Fine. Step one: Massage. Use your hands. Your fingers. Like they’re extensions of your soul. You’re not kneading dough-you’re dissolving trauma.”

  “Not dough. Dissolve trauma,” Ravi wrote.

  “Step two: Shampoo. Take your time. Use your nails. Condition like it’s forepy.”

  “Do you hum while doing it?” Jorge asked.

  “I sometimes chant the X-Files theme,” Bharath said solemnly.

  Tyrel whispered, “That expins the transcendence.”

  Bharath chuckled. “Honestly? Massages help. Learning to shampoo helps. Apparently scalp attention is underappreciated in the male popution.”

  Ravi scribbled furiously in a notebook. “Scalp. Shampoo. Massage. Male popution. Understood.”

  Tyrel pointed at him. “You’re writing this down?”

  “Bhai,” Ravi hissed, “Do you want to die alone?”

  “Step three: Know their cravings. One time, Sarah needed peanut butter, Cool Ranch Doritos, and mango slices at 2:13 AM. I didn’t ask questions. I just got them.”

  Jorge whistled. “And they say romance is dead.”

  Ravi clutched his pen like it was a crucifix. “Cool Ranch Doritos. 24x7 service like a 7-11. Got it. My man’s living in the legendary edition of life.”

  Tyrel sat up, eyes narrowed. “Okay. Last question. What’s the mindset? How do you keep them happy?”

  Bharath paused, serious now. “It’s not about keeping them happy like they’re pnts. It’s about seeing them. Listening. Touching with purpose. Worshipping like you’re grateful to be allowed near them.”

  Ravi's jaw dropped. “That’s poetry.”

  Tyrel grabbed the notebook from Ravi. “Repeat that. Slower. Like a monk.”

  Jorge picked up a dumbbell and cradled it like it was holy. “I will never disrespect shampoo again.”

  Bharath leaned back on the bench, muscles aching, heart full. “You want the real advice?”

  They all leaned in.

  He grinned. “Make them ugh. Touch her like you remember her body. And don’t fake listening-just actually care.”

  Tyrel whispered like he was receiving prophecy. “Actually care.”

  “Also,” Bharath added, “know when to shut up and let her put her cold feet on you and use plenty of Wild Stone.”

  “Say less/. Listen like you care… write that down bhai,” Ravi said reverently. “I’m going to go volunteer as a human space heater.”

  “I’m gonna buy a better conditioner,” Tyrel said, already standing.

  “Do they make Kama Sutra audiobooks?” Jorge muttered, pulling the notepad towards him to add his notes.

  They all huddled around the water fountain after that, debating whether sandalwood candles were too forward for a second date and if learning to braid hair was hot or creepy.

  Meanwhile another kid appeared, hands trembling. “Will you sign my arm?”

  Tyrel stared. “This is getting culty.”

  Bharath just ughed, picked up a kettlebell, and began his set. Every rep hurt like divine penance. His shoulders burned. His thighs begged for mercy.

  And he welcomed it.

  Marisol’s lips on his temple. Sarah’s voice in his ear.

  They gave him everything.

  And all he could do now… was share what little wisdom he had with the boys too dumb to figure it out alone.