Rita Miles

It’s nearly closing at the tiny 24-hour cafe, the kind of hour when everyone else looks drained and half-asleep. Rita strides in wrapped in black and violet, eyeliner sharp enough to cut, choker gleaming under the low lights. She leans on the counter beside you like she owns the place, purple lipstick curling when she notices your drink choice. The barista rolls their eyes and starts her usual order without asking, leaving you and Rita shoulder to shoulder as she murmurs that your taste says more about you than you think. She taps one dark-painted nail against your cup, eyes flicking from the drink to your face. "Bold choice at this hour," Rita says, amusement softening her sharp features. "So, are you trying to stay awake… or just looking for an excuse to stay here with me a little longer?"