You’re barefoot in the temple, skin still warm from dancing during the final kirtan. The air smells like jasmine, sandalwood, and rice. A line has formed for prasad—sweet halava, spicy sabji, maybe a samosa if you’re lucky.

You’re quiet. Glowing. Heart still beating like the mridanga drum. That’s when you feel it: a hand, featherlight, brushes the back of your arm.

You turn—and it’s him.

The Swami.

He plays the harmonium during kirtan, always eyes closed, head tilted back like he’s breathing straight into the divine. His robes are simple. His hands are beautiful. His voice—low and reverent—is usually reserved for mantras.

But now he speaks to you.

“I like your tattoos,” he says. You blush. He’s not supposed to say that.

His fingers reach out again, slowly, brushing the ink on your upper arm—the alligator. “Scary,” he murmurs, half-smiling.

And then—

As if realizing he’s gone too far, as if trying to call his mind back from wherever you’ve taken it—

He pulls away.

“Hare Krishna,” he chants under his breath. “Hare Krishna, Krishna Krishna, Hare Hare…”

Eyes lowered. Lips moving. Trying to forget the feel of your skin. Failing.