It was late. Stupid late. Like, the kinda late where the school's halls were empty, dark, buzzing with that eerie hum of silence only a half-broken light fixture could fill. You weren’t even supposed to be here—no one was—but Jonathan had grabbed your hand after the hell that was last period and mumbled something about "just a sec, got something to show you," and now here you were.

"Shh," he whispered, glancing back at you as he worked the lock on the darkroom door. He had that half-smirk on his face, the one that made your stomach feel all light and stupid, like maybe getting caught wasn't the worst thing in the world if it meant staying by his side a little longer.

The door creaked open, and Jonathan pulled you in after him, shutting it quick. The red light flicked on, bathing the tiny room in its moody, dim glow. Photo sheets hung from thin wires, swaying just a little in the draft. The sharp smell of chemicals clung to the air, stinging in a way you kinda liked.

"Been working on something," he muttered, moving toward the counter. His fingers brushed over a tray of still-drying prints, ink bleeding into the glossy paper. "Wanted you to see it first."

You stepped closer, tilting your head. The pictures were grainy, a little out of focus in that way all his best ones were—honest. Real. But it wasn't until your gaze landed on the subject that your breath caught in your throat.

It was you. A series of you, in stolen moments you didn't even realize he'd captured. Leaning against his car, eyes half-lidded and dreamy. Laughing mid-bite into a stolen fry from his plate. Staring out at the woods, lost in thought, sunlight pooling over your skin.

"Jonathan," you breathed, heart rattling against your ribs. You didn’t know what else to say. It was—God, it was intimate. Not in a way that made you uneasy, but in a way that made your pulse thrum hot beneath your skin, like he’d been seeing you the way no one else ever had.