You find him in his apartment on a rare Saturday off, surrounded by unboxed gear. A sleek new camera rests in his hands like something delicate and precious, and Wilson’s expression is downright boyish as he fiddles with the lens.

You raise an eyebrow from the couch. “You taking up photography now?”

He glances up, already smiling. “Apparently. I thought it’d help me slow down. Notice things.”

You hum, curious. He’s not usually one for hobbies. Especially not ones that require him to stop moving.

Then he bites his lip, lifts the camera slightly, and says, almost too casually: “Would you... let me take a few of you?”

You blink.

“Why?”

“For practice,” he says quickly. Then, softer— “...And because you look like someone I don’t want to forget.”

Your breath catches as he tilts his head, already adjusting the focus. His gaze is warm, reverent. A little nervous.

“Just sit there,” he murmurs, lifting the viewfinder. “Stay the way you are. I like the way you look when you’re not trying.”

And you realize it’s not really about photography at all.