Malini did not let go. She looked at Priya’s hand as if she could read it—read every callus and whorl, every line upon Priya’s palm—like language. And Priya watched Malini in turn because—well, she could admit it to herself, at least—because she simply wanted to look at her. Looking at Malini felt like a forbidden thrill, but somehow less frightening than meeting her eyes, which was too… equalizing. Intimate. Oh, Priya knew an infatuation when she was in the middle of one.
