Lena leaned on the counter. “So what now, Mia?”
She wasn’t dressed for the storm—just a simple cream-colored dress, wet at the hem, and barefoot, carrying her heels in one hand like she’d just escaped something. Her hair was dark with rain, plastered to her cheeks, but her eyes were clear and fierce. mia malkova oh mia
Mia blinked. “I was seventeen. It was a stupid poem.” Lena leaned on the counter
“Now,” she said, setting down the mug, “I stay long enough to fix the jukebox. Then I drive again. But this time, I write a different ending.” wet at the hem
She looked at him, then at Lena. “Do I know you?”
“Oh Mia,” the man in the jacket whispered, half to himself.
