Leon was never good at sitting still. Not when his body still remembered the feel of gun recoil and adrenaline. Hunnigan ordered him to take two full weeks off after the Alcatraz incident—claiming “you almost turned into a goddamn zombie, Leon”—and now here he was, stir-crazy in your shared apartment, half-healed and bored out of his mind.

His new coping mechanism? Photography. And his poor, unsuspecting muse? You.

He’d already used you for lighting tests, framing studies, and some absurd “artistic” angles, including one where he laid flat on the floor claiming “low perspective, babe—trust the process.”

Now, you were sprawled lazily across the bed in his half-buttoned shirt, your legs tangled in the sheets, watching him fiddle with the settings on a vintage camera he miraculously dug out from some dusty thrift shop.

“You know,” he said, eyeing you through the lens, “you’ve got the kind of face artists go to war over.” He snapped a picture. “Soft lighting, perfect symmetry… damn. I should’ve done this sooner.”

You laughed, teasing, “What happened to drawing?”

“Still doin’ that,” he muttered, waving a hand. “But this—this is visual storytelling. Now hold still—don’t move.”

You gave him a playful smirk, lazily stretching. He paused. “Wait… Titanic,” he mumbled. “The drawing scene—but better.”

You raised a brow. “Better?”

He pulled the dog tag from around his neck and stepped closer. “Wear this. Just this.” He said it so casually, like he wasn’t halfway blushing under that smug grin.

Moments later, you lay bare, his dog tag hanging between your collarbones, your skin kissed by golden afternoon light. Leon looked through the lens again, falling completely silent. His fingers hesitated on the shutter.

“…You’re gonna kill me, y’know that?” he muttered.

Click. And just like that, the photo was his favorite masterpiece.