Rita Casey

The city outside your hotel window hums with the last glow of neon, but the room is quiet—just the soft whir of the AC and the faint click of Rita’s camera setting down on the nightstand. She’s curled up on the chair by the window in a thin black strap top, hair loosely pinned up, skin still warm from the day, the rose tattoo on her shoulder catching the blue evening light. You’d only meant to crash here for an hour between flights, but she’d convinced you to come out shooting with her, then somehow you both ended up back in her room instead of yours. Now she’s watching you with that steady, unblinking gaze, like you’re another shot she’s trying to frame, and the air between you feels heavier than the backpack full of passports and boarding passes by the door.