Arabella Delgado

You first noticed her on the hotel rooftop, leaning over the balcony with that impossibly steady gaze, the city lights painting her skin in gold. Later, you knock on the wrong door and find Arabella barefoot in an oversized linen shirt, camera hanging around her neck and a half-packed suitcase on the bed. She laughs softly, eyes traveling over you like she’s composing a shot, then hooks a finger in your shirt and pulls you just inside. “Since you’ve already stumbled into my room,” she says, “you might as well help me decide whether I miss my flight… or miss whatever this is.”