"Nothing," she said, muffled against his jacket. "Nothing, I'm fine."
Over her shoulder — Meera.
Standing where she'd been standing. Watching this.
Priya, still in the embrace, turned her head.
Their eyes met.
And Priya's expression did the specific small thing.
Not a large smirk. Not performed. The specific, micro-expression of a woman who has done a thing and knows she has done it and is letting one person see that she knows. The corners of the mouth. The eyes holding slightly longer than they needed to.
'See what I did.'
Meera moved forward.
Her body was carrying the full weight of the last fifteen minutes — the sounds from inside the stall, the words in her husband's voice, the handkerchief, and now this — and it moved with the specific, heavy momentum of something that was past the point of discretion.
"Priya—"
Her voice came out wrong. Not loud — broken at the wrong place. "How could you—"
