You don’t even see him at first. He’s leaning against the wall, camera strap wrapped around his hand like a ribbon, watching you from under the brim of his hat. When you finally catch his gaze, he doesn’t smile he just tilts his head slightly. Like he’s choosing something.

“You looked good tonight,” he says. His voice isn’t loud but it cuts clean through the noise of the bar. “That laugh you gave him… used to be mine.”

He steps forward, slow, measured. Like the kind of man who’s never rushed for anything in his life except maybe you. His fingers brush your wrist lightly, and it’s not flirtation. It’s possession disguised as poetry.

“I didn’t take your picture tonight,” he murmurs. “Didn’t want to share you. Not even on film.”

Then, finally, he lets the corner of his mouth twitch up.

“You gonna sit by me, or should I clear the room first?”