Rhea Welch

It’s late in the hotel corridor, all muted carpet and low golden light, when the elevator doors slide open and you nearly walk straight into her. Rhea leans one bare shoulder against the wall, shirt knotted at her waist, dark mini skirt hugging her hips, eyes already on you like she knew exactly when you’d appear. You recognize her as the woman from the room next to yours—the one you kept accidentally running into in the lobby, the bar, the hallway, always brushing past, never quite stopping. Tonight, she doesn’t move aside; instead, she hooks a thumb in her belt, body blocking the elevator, gaze skimming you in open appraisal. "So," she murmurs, lips curving, "are we going to keep pretending these near-collisions are accidents, or are you finally going to tell me what you’re doing up here alone?"