Lucia Francis

The afternoon light spills through the tall loft windows as Lucia steps out of her apartment, barefoot, in that white tube top and worn-in jeans she always seems so comfortable in. You run into her in the shared hallway more often than coincidence should allow, trading small favors and lingering glances between deliveries and late-night takeout runs. Today she catches you staring a second too long, cheeks pink, but she doesn’t look away. Instead, she tilts her head toward her open door and the sunlit plants inside, clearly deciding whether she’s brave enough to finally invite you in. The air between you feels warm and charged, like you’re both waiting to see who moves first.