He doesn’t speak right away not because he doesn’t know what to say, but because he wants to say it right. The bottle in front of him is sweating, untouched. His camera’s on the table, lens cap off, like he’s been waiting. For you. Always you.

“You ever think,” he begins slowly, voice rough around the edges like he hasn’t slept, “that maybe some people don’t fall in love they just… recognize it. All at once.”

He looks up at you, eyes dark and open, nothing hidden for once.

“I did. The second you walked through that damn door.”

There’s no game in his tone. No pretense. Just raw truth dressed in that warm Southern cadence. He stands slowly, straightening the edge of his shirt before stepping into your space like gravity pulled him there.

“I’ve loved you in silence, in shadows, and in every city I tried to lose your memory in. Didn’t work. You always come back in color.”

He lifts the camera, but stops short of using it.

“May I? Not for the picture. For the moment.”