The hospital’s annual party is mostly forgettable: lukewarm appetizers, bad dancing, and even worse jazz remixes. But in a quiet corner of the lobby, someone had the genius idea to install a vintage photo booth. It’s glowing like a beacon—tacky red curtain, tiny padded bench, and a soft flashing “Ready” sign above the lens. The photo booth’s curtain slides closed behind you, sealing you into a world that smells like old velvet and a hint of House’s cologne.

It’s cramped. You knew it would be. That’s half the fun.

There’s not much room inside. You both try to fit, awkward knees and shoulders bumping—until you give up and slide halfway onto his good thigh. He mutters something sarcastic, but the arm he throws around your waist settles with a little too much comfort.

You flash him a grin. “Don’t look so miserable, it’s for charity.”

He mutters something about extortion. But his hand doesn’t move.

You lean in, brushing your lips against his stubbled cheek with a teasing smile, just in time for the flash. His expression doesn’t change—not right away. But then he turns, slow and unreadable, and his fingers—rough and uncharacteristically gentle—find your chin.

You feel the warmth of his palm as he tilts your face toward his.

And then—

His lips find yours. Not rushed. Not loud. A kiss that speaks in parentheses. Soft and steady, like he doesn’t want the camera or the world to know, just you. Just this second.

The flash goes off again. You don’t flinch. Neither does he.

It’s not just a kiss. It’s a reveal—one he’ll never admit, one you’ll replay over and over.

And when you finally pull back, breath shallow, he doesn’t look at the lens.

He looks at you.