(djo’s version)

"I saw a dog."

"As a defence, that's weak."

"As a defence," you argue, already scratching happily behind the dog's ears, "that dog was wearing a little raincoat."

Joe glances over.

The dog is, unfortunately, wearing a little raincoat.

"...okay, that's fair."

The photos only get worse from there. Or better, depending who you ask.

Every time Joe tries to take an actual portrait, something inevitably happens first. You spot a bird halfway through. You become distracted by a particularly interesting leaf. You start laughing because Joe's taking the whole thing far too seriously and then can't stop long enough for him to actually press the shutter.

At one point he spends nearly three minutes adjusting settings, changing lenses and muttering to himself about lighting, only to finally look up and discover you've somehow made friends with a toddler in a dinosaur t-shirt.

"Where did that kid come from?"

You shrug.

The toddler offers Joe half a biscuit.

Joe takes it.

The photoshoot never really recovers after that.

Eventually he drops onto the grass beside you and accepts defeat while you and your new four-year-old best friend discuss dinosaurs with alarming seriousness.

"You are genuinely impossible."

You grin over the top of your coffee.

"I don't know what you're talking about."

Joe stares.

Because you do know.

You've known for weeks.

The entire thing started because Joe mentioned wanting more photographs of you. Not glamorous ones. Not posed ones. Just photos. Evidence. Proof that you exist in his life in all the tiny ways he loves most.

Unfortunately, every time he points a camera at you, your attention immediately wanders somewhere else.

The problem is that he can't even be annoyed about it anymore.

Because every accidental photograph ends up being better than the one he'd originally wanted.

At first he doesn't realise he's doing it.

The shift happens gradually enough that he barely notices.

One day he's trying to photograph you properly. The next he's crouched halfway across a park zooming in because you've just thrown your head back laughing at something your friend said.

You don't even know he's taking the photo.

The same thing happens three days later when you're reading on the sofa with your feet tucked beneath you. Then again while you're cooking dinner. Then again while you're sitting cross-legged on the floor trying to assemble a bookshelf and slowly losing patience with the instructions.

By the end of the month, Joe's camera roll barely resembles what he'd originally intended.

Somewhere along the way, the posed photographs disappear entirely.

Instead there are hundreds of tiny moments.

You're staring thoughtfully out train windows with your chin tucked into your sleeve. You're dancing badly in the kitchen while waiting for pasta to boil. You're carrying far too many shopping bags because you'd rather dislocate a shoulder than make two trips. You're asleep in the passenger seat, one hand still loosely curled around the coffee you'd insisted you weren't tired enough to need.

There are photographs of you holding flowers. Feeding ducks. Stealing chips off his plate while pretending you aren't. Looking at books in shop windows. Sitting on curbsides. Watching storms through glass.

None of them are technically perfect.

Most of them aren't even framed particularly well.

They're just you.

Which, as far as Joe's concerned, is considerably more important.

One day, you discover the album.

Not intentionally.

Joe leaves his camera on the coffee table one afternoon while he goes to answer the door. You aren't snooping, at least not initially. You're just curious.

Then you notice the folder.

And inside it are hundreds of photographs.

Most of which you've never seen before.

Your stomach does something strange.

Because they're all moments you don't remember.

Or rather, moments you didn't realise anybody else remembered.

You sitting on the kitchen counter eating strawberries straight from the carton. You asleep beneath a blanket with a book still open on your chest. You standing outside a record shop staring at an album cover. You laughing so hard your eyes disappear. You watching something out of frame with that thoughtful expression you never know you're making.

You existing.

That's all.

Just existing.

The photographs aren't glamorous. They aren't curated. They aren't trying to make you look beautiful.

Which somehow makes them feel infinitely more intimate.

Joe finds you twenty minutes later sitting on the couch with the camera still in your lap.

His expression changes immediately.

"Oh."

You glance up.

"Oh?"

A suspicious amount of guilt appears on his face.

"You found the folder."

You hold up the camera.

"The folder."

Joe winces like he's been caught doing something embarrassing.

Which is ridiculous.

Because the embarrassing thing, apparently, is loving you.

Again.

"What?" he asks eventually.

You scroll to another photograph. One you've never seen before.

You're sitting on the floor of his apartment, wrapping birthday presents for a mutual friend. Your hair's a mess. You're wearing one of his old t-shirts. You're concentrating so hard on curling ribbon that your tongue's sticking slightly out the corner of your mouth.

You don't remember the photo.

Joe obviously does.

"You took all these?"

His ears immediately go pink.

Which is answer enough.

The thing is, the photographs aren't really about photography.

You realise that almost immediately.

They're observations. Little collected moments. A catalogue of things Joe loves.

The way your nose wrinkles when you're confused. The way you always sit with one leg folded underneath you. The way you reach for his hand automatically in crowded places without ever looking to check he's there. The way you tell stories with your whole body, incapable of speaking without acting half of it out.

The way you abandon cups of tea in random rooms and then spend twenty minutes looking for them afterwards.

The way you never stay still.

Ever.

Not even for a second.

Every photograph is saying exactly the same thing.

Look.

Look at her.

Isn't she wonderful?

The realisation hits so hard it almost hurts.

"What?" Joe asks again, softer this time.

You stare down at another photograph.

This one is blurry.

Technically terrible.

You're halfway through running across a field because somebody's dog escaped its lead and decided you were the most exciting person available. The horizon's crooked. Half your face isn't even in frame.

It's objectively one of the worst photographs in the folder.

Joe has marked it as a favourite.

You laugh through the sudden sting in your eyes.

"This one's awful."

Joe immediately leans over your shoulder.

Then smiles.

"No."

"It is."

"Nope."

"You can barely see me."

"Yeah, but-"

You look at him.

Joe shrugs before reaching over and tapping the image lightly with his finger.

"That's my favourite one."

"Why?"

His expression softens.

The answer comes so easily it almost feels unfair.

"Because that's you."

Your chest aches.

Joe notices immediately.

Of course he does.

He's spent months paying attention.

A few weeks later, Joe tries another photoshoot.

A real one this time.

You stand where he tells you. You smile when he asks. You make a genuine effort.

For almost thirty seconds.

Then a butterfly lands on your sleeve.

Joe watches your attention disappear instantly.

You forget the camera exists. Forget the photoshoot. Forget everything except the tiny creature sitting delicately on your arm.

The smile that spreads across your face isn't posed or performed.

It's simply there.

Joe raises the camera.

Click.

Then again.

Click.

And again.

Click.

You look up eventually.

"What?"

Joe lowers the camera and smiles.

"Nothing, baby."

Because he's finally learned.

The photographs were never about getting you to hold still.

They were always about catching all the beautiful ways you don't.

Which is why he's standing at the bar with a glass of Coke in one hand when he glances across the room and finds you in animated conversation with a woman at least twenty years older than you, gesturing enthusiastically enough that half your drink is in immediate danger of sloshing onto the floor.

"How bad?" Robin asks, appearing beside him.

Steve watches you pull out your phone.

The woman leans closer.

A second later she starts laughing.

Steve closes his eyes.

"Medium."

Robin follows his gaze. "What is she showing her?"

"I have a horrible feeling I already know."

When you eventually make your way back over, looking deeply pleased with yourself, Steve immediately shifts closer, one hand settling automatically against the small of your back as you slot yourself into the space beside him.

"What were you showing her?"

You blink up at him.

"A picture of you."

Robin nearly inhales her drink.

Steve pinches the bridge of his nose.

"Of course it was."

You look genuinely confused by his reaction.

"What?"

"Why do you have to show strangers pictures of me?"

"Because you looked nice."

"I was sitting on the sofa."

"You looked really nice."

"As opposed to all the times I look terrible?"

You consider this seriously for a moment.

"I don't think that's happened yet."

Robin makes a noise somewhere between a laugh and a wheeze and has to physically turn away from both of you.

Steve, meanwhile, is discovering that there are few things more embarrassing than being adored by someone who has completely lost the ability to keep those thoughts to themselves.

And it doesn't stop there.

If anything, it gets worse.

Steve returns from ordering another round and immediately knows something is wrong when he finds Robin doubled over against the dartboard cabinet, laughing so hard she can barely breathe.

The source of her amusement becomes obvious approximately two seconds later.

You're standing with two girls near the pool table, phone in hand once again.

One of them spots Steve approaching and immediately points.

"Oh my God."

The second one turns.

Her eyes widen.

"That's him."

Steve stops walking.

"No."

The first girl laughs. "That is absolutely him."

"Baby."

You look delighted.

"Steve!"

"What have you done?"

"What?"

The sheer innocence in your voice would almost be convincing if Steve hadn't been dating you long enough to recognise exactly what it sounded like when you were pretending not to know the answer.

"What did you tell them?"

You shrug.

"We were talking."

"About?"

You point at him.

"My boyfriend."

The girls immediately dissolve into laughter.

Steve briefly considers walking directly into traffic.

"Honey."

"What?"

"How many photos did you show them?"

The girls exchange a look.

"Fourteen."

"FOURTEEN?"

"In my defence," you say seriously, "they were all different."

Robin lets out a strangled noise.

"Different?"

"Different situations."

Steve stares at you.

You stare back.

Completely sincere.

"Some of them were from summer."

As though that somehow improves matters.

The worst part is that the girls aren't laughing at him.

They're laughing because it's obvious how much you adore him.

They're laughing because they've clearly spent the last ten minutes listening to you enthusiastically describe your boyfriend like he's simultaneously a movie star, a rescue puppy, and the eighth wonder of the world.

One of them grins.

"Honestly, it's kind of sweet."

"Thank you," you say immediately.

"Stop encouraging her."

"No," says the other girl. "For what it's worth, she's very convincing."

Steve drops his head into his hands.

Robin is crying with laughter.

And somehow the entire situation becomes even more mortifying when he realises that neither of the girls seem remotely surprised by the fact he's standing there. They've clearly heard enough stories over the last ten minutes to feel as though they already know him.

Which is arguably worse.

By the time Steve manages to extract you from introducing him to complete strangers, the pub has grown warmer and louder, the evening crowd settling in around them while conversations overlap into a constant low hum.

You eventually migrate outside, escaping the heat and noise in favour of a small patio strung with fairy lights and crowded with battered wooden tables.

You immediately kick your shoes halfway off and tuck your legs beneath yourself.

Steve sits beside you without thinking.

Within seconds you're leaning against him, naturally, as though gravity has finally remembered where you're supposed to be. The familiar weight of you settles against his side. His arm finds your shoulders. Your fingers drift absent-mindedly towards his hand.

Neither of you acknowledge it. It's simply what happens.

"You having fun?" he asks.

You hum.

"Mhm."

"You've definitely had enough to drink."

"Says who?"

"Says the person who's spent the evening running an unsolicited public relations campaign on my behalf."

Your grin appears immediately.

"There it is."

Steve sighs.

"There what is?"

"The thing."

"What thing?"

You poke his cheek.

The absolute audacity of it.

Steve catches your hand before you can do it again.

"You know exactly what I'm talking about."

"I really don't."

"You do."

"I don't."

"You absolutely do."

The smile pulling at the corner of his mouth gives him away.

You make a triumphant noise.

"There."

"There what?"

"That."

"What?"

"That thing."

Steve turns away.

Which only makes you laugh harder.

For a few moments neither of you say anything.

Music drifts through the open door behind you. Somebody drops a glass inside. A burst of laughter follows.

The night air feels pleasantly cool against his skin after the heat of the pub.

When you speak again, your voice is softer.

Honest in the way drunk people sometimes become when every protective instinct and social filter quietly falls away.

"You don't see what everybody else sees."

Steve glances down.

"What does that mean?"

You trace absent-minded circles across the back of his hand.

"It means you think people love you because you're helpful."

Something shifts in Steve's chest.

Small. Uncomfortable. Familiar.

You continue before he can answer.

"You think people love you because you drive them places."

You squeeze his fingers.

"Or because you fix things."

Another squeeze.

"Or because you look after everyone."

Steve looks away.

The thing about being known is that sometimes people stumble directly into places you've spent years carefully avoiding.

You don't seem to notice.

Or maybe you do.

Maybe that's the problem.

"But that's not why."

Steve swallows.

"No?"

You shake your head.

The answer arrives with complete certainty.

"No."

"Then why?"

You look at him as though he's asked the most ridiculous question imaginable.

"Because you're Steve."

That's it.

No grand speech. No dramatic declaration.

Just four simple words delivered with complete confidence.

As though the answer should have been obvious all along.

As though being Steve is reason enough.

As though it always was.

Robin finds you both twenty minutes later.

One look at the two of you sharing a basket of chips and she immediately narrows her eyes.

"Oh no."

Steve sighs.

"What now?"

"Why do you both look emotional?"

"We don't."

"You do."

"We're eating chips."

"You look like somebody confessed their love before boarding a train in a period drama."

Steve points a chip at her.

"This is why nobody tells you things."

Robin steals it.

"You cried, didn't you?"

"I did not."

"You cried a little bit."

"I didn't."

"You absolutely cried a little bit."

Before Steve can defend himself, you suddenly lift your head from his shoulder.

"Robin."

Robin immediately braces herself.

"What?"

You point at Steve.

"He's really pretty."

Robin folds in half.

Steve groans.

"No, seriously."

"We know."

"You don't."

Robin wipes tears from her eyes.

"I promise you, sweetheart, we do."

You shake your head.

The frustration in your expression suggests neither of them are taking this nearly seriously enough.

"Look at him!"

Robin obediently looks.

Then looks at you.

Then back at Steve.

"Yep."

You throw your hands up.

"His hair!"

"His hair."

"His eyes!"

"His eyes."

"The fact he's nice to old people!"

Steve nearly chokes.

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"It matters."

"It absolutely matters," Robin says.

"Thank you."

"Stop helping."

"No."

Robin's grin is positively evil now.

"You know what the best part is?"

Steve already hates this conversation.

"What?"

Robin points towards you.

"She's not saying any of this because she's drunk."

"Excuse me?"

Robin ignores him.

"She's saying it because she's been thinking it for years and alcohol just removed the quality control department."

The look on your face confirms it instantly.

"Oh."

Steve stares.

"Oh?"

"Yeah."

Robin laughs.

"Oh, buddy."

Steve immediately decides he never wants to speak to either of you again.

By midnight the evening has begun winding down.

The pub is quieter now, conversations fading as people drift home in pairs and groups. Chairs scrape across wooden floors. Glasses clink behind the bar.

The alcohol is wearing off.

Your energy is beginning to fade with it.

Steve notices the change immediately.

The way your words have become slower. The way your eyes linger shut a little longer every time you blink. The way you instinctively seek him out whenever he moves more than a few feet away.

He says his goodbyes. Collects jackets. Finds your missing shoe, somehow.

And eventually guides you towards the car.

Halfway across the car park you mumble something against his shoulder.

"What was that?"

"Hm?"

"What'd you say?"

You squint up at him.

For a moment he thinks you've forgotten.

Then you smile.

Small. Sleepy. Entirely yourself.

"I said thank you."

Steve frowns.

"For what?"

You shrug.

"As a general concept."

A laugh escapes before he can stop it.

"A general concept?"

"Mhm."

"Very specific."

"I know."

When he reaches the car, he opens the passenger door and waits while you climb inside. He makes sure your seatbelt is on, checks you've got your phone, your bag, your jacket.

The routine is so familiar he barely has to think about it anymore.

It's only when he closes the door and walks around to the driver's side that he notices you're watching him through the windscreen.

Still smiling.

The soft kind this time.

Not the reckless grin from earlier.

Something quieter and infinitely more dangerous.

Steve settles into the driver's seat.

"What?"

You continue looking at him.

Nothing but affection in your eyes.

"Nothing."

"Baby."

"I just love you."

The words arrive so casually they almost miss him entirely.

No build-up. No fanfare.

Just a simple statement of fact.

Like commenting on the weather. Like mentioning that it's late. Like saying the sky is blue.

I just love you.

Steve reaches across the centre console and takes your hand.

Your fingers immediately curl around his.

Outside, amber streetlights cast pools of gold across the empty car park. Inside, the heater hums softly to life, filling the silence with something warm and familiar.

You yawn.

Your eyes drift shut.

Your hand remains wrapped around his.

And as Steve starts the engine, he finds himself thinking about every stranger you'd spoken to tonight, every photograph you'd proudly shown off, every conversation he'd been hopelessly embarrassed by.

Because none of them had really been about him being pretty.

Not entirely.

They'd been about something much simpler.

You'd spent the entire evening looking at him the way people look at their favourite place.

Like somewhere safe. Somewhere familiar. Somewhere worth returning to.

And maybe that was what had embarrassed him so much.

Not being admired.

Being seen.

Because loving somebody is easy to understand.

Being known quite that completely is something else entirely.

Steve squeezes your hand once before pulling out of the car park.

You don't even open your eyes.

You just squeeze back.

And somehow, after everything, that feels like the most convincing declaration of love he's heard all night.