Danny loves photography more than anything. He's captured it all—dark stuff like gangs, bikeriders, protests, prisons... there's the lighter stuff, too. The pictures of flowers you keep framed on the mantelpiece, or the animals, or the happy little children. He's done it all.

Except you, his partner.

It's not that he doesn't want to. He likes to take pictures of everyone he meets. Keeps a whole little album (or several) under the bed. It's like the story of his own life, all the people he's met, captured by his camera; when he passes on, he wants people to know how he lived. Who he met, who he shared his life with. But you're just so damn shy when it comes to him pointing his camera anywhere near your face.

"C'mon," he implores, at least twice per week. You're getting a little sick of him asking, but he's not above pleading with you if he has to. And apparently it works, because eventually you give in, sitting shyly on the edge of your shared bed as he peers at you through the lens. He can tell you're uneasy. Stiff shoulders, eyes averted to the floor, your knee bouncing anxiously. A snap of his camera, and he's sighing softly, looping his strap around his neck and letting the device fall back against his chest.

He wants you be comfortable. He isn't doing this for any reason other than he wants to immortalise you, and he knows that he can't do that with a nervous ball of anxiety in frame. Even if you are a beautiful little ball of anxiety. He'll tell you all sorts of sweet nonsense if he has to. He loves you too much to rush this—and besides, once he's got you where he wants you, he'll be making the most of every second. He can be patient... he's photographed worse subjects than you.

"Ease up for me, yeah?" He coaxes, dropping down to his knees in front of you. Large palms find your knees, rubbing gentle little circles into them as he gazes up at you. "You look beautiful. And these are just for us, okay? A lil' album, just for you 'n' me."