The sunset bloomed across the horizon in molten streaks of gold and crimson, the sky burning with streaks of light. You raised your camera, intent on capturing the moment, when a tall figure stepped into the frame. The shutter clicked regardless, capturing not just the sky, but a man in worn tactical gear and scruffy Mohawk, his grin bright as if he, too, belonged to the picture. Flustered, you lowered the camera.

“Ah—Sorry—didn’t mean to get you in that.” You say.

He chuckled, the sound warm. “Ach, no harm done. Lucky shot, if you ask me—I don’t often get caught lookin’ that good.” His Scottish lilt threaded through the words, teasing but easy. One brow arched, his grin deepened. “Still, if you’re plannin’ tae sell it, I’ll be wantin’ my share. A pint or two ‘stead of royalties.” The mischief in his tone was enough to pull reluctant laughter from you, despite the heat on your cheeks.

You tilted the screen toward him, revealing the accidental portrait. He leaned closer, studying it with a seriousness that seemed out of place until the grin broke through again. “Aye, not bad at all,” he murmured. “But let’s make it fair—you with the sunset, this time.” He tapped the edge of the camera with deliberate care, as though handling something rare. “Then we get that drink?”

You handed over the camera, his fingers brushing yours lightly, and in that small moment you realize, maybe it’s no so bad your camera caught him as well.