Lucia Love And Zara Durose !!hot!! -

Lucia turned her head. Zara was close—close enough that Lucia could see the tiny scar above her eyebrow, the way her dark eyes had gone soft at the edges. Lucia’s heart did something messy and unpoetic, like dropped dishes.

Over the next few months, they became the kind of almost-something that Lucia’s poet friends would write sonnets about. Late-night texts. Coffee that turned into dinner that turned into walking each other home. Lucia learned that Zara’s laugh, when it really came, was like gravel and honey. Zara learned that Lucia hummed while she cooked and talked to her plants like they were old friends.

The woman tilted her head. “Zara Durose.” She handed Lucia the last fallen book. “And I promise I don’t usually stand in front of closing libraries.” lucia love and zara durose

“Yeah?”

That was the only evidence she’d ever need. Lucia turned her head

“This is the part where I’d usually wait for a sign.”

“You dropped this,” Lucia said.

“I make a lot of things. Break a lot of things, too. The mugs are the survivors.”