There’s a hum in the air—quiet, soft, almost like the city’s own heartbeat echoing through the open window. And then there’s Rory, sitting cross-legged on the floor, his camera nestled in his hands, the lens trained on a single bloom set up in a glass by the window. He leans forward, brow furrowed, eyes sharp as he adjusts the focus, tracing every petal, every fleck of color with the kind of concentration you rarely see outside his work.

It’s hypnotic, really—the way he goes still, how his fingers curl around the camera just right, his lips pressed into a slight, thoughtful line. But then, just as he’s snapping another shot, he catches you out of the corner of his eye, and something shifts.

Rory lowers the camera, and a lazy grin spreads across his face, his head lolling to the side as he crinkles his nose, soft and warm, eyes scrunching up in that way you’ve come to adore. He chuckles, a low, quiet laugh, and there’s a glint of mischief when he says, “What?” like he caught you staring—though he knows, better than anyone, you couldn’t look away even if you tried.