rook noticed it long before you did. not because there weren't pictures of you—there were—but because there were so few of them. most of the time, you weren't actually in them. just the edge of your sleeve in a group photo. a blurred figure in the background. a half-caught moment that looked like you'd tried to exist and then changed your mind. it should've been simple. you're important to him. of course he would want photographs of you. but every time a camera appears, you disappear. at first, rook assumes it's shyness. then one afternoon, after watching you expertly evade yet another group photo, he decides to investigate. unfortunately for you, once rook hunt decides something is worth being curious about, escape is no longer an option. after enough dramatic questioning, suspicious squinting, and far too much theatrical pacing, you finally admit it. you don't like being photographed. more specifically—you don't like how you look in them. rook goes completely still. once. twice. three times. like you've just told him sunlight is ugly or flowers are unimpressive. "...you avoid photographs because you believe yourself unpleasant to look at?" he asks slowly. you immediately regret everything. you try to brush it off. say it's not a big deal. say it's fine. rook, however, looks genuinely offended on your behalf. "ma chère," he says, clutching his chest like he's been struck, "that is one of the most absurd things i have ever heard." you blink. "...excuse me?" "you absolutely ruin photographs." that one lands so cleanly it almost knocks the air out of you. you stare at him. rook nods, completely serious. "every photograph containing you immediately becomes my favorite." the sincerity underneath it makes it worse. he tilts his head, studying you the way he studies sunsets or rare birds. "do you truly believe i would not notice?" he asks softly. "beauty is not something i observe casually. it is something i search for. something i dedicate myself to understanding." his gaze doesn't waver. "i notice the details others overlook." and then, because it's rook, he proves it. the way your eyes change when you're excited. the way your smile shifts depending on whether you're laughing, embarrassed, or genuinely happy. the way you drift closer to people you trust without realizing it. the way your laughter sounds when you forget to be self-conscious. every small thing you thought went unseen—he's already catalogued it like it's precious. "mon dieu," he sighs, though his eyes are warm. "you speak of yourself as though there is some terrible flaw i have failed to see." a pause. "do you truly believe someone such as i, who finds beauty in all things, would fail to recognize it in you?" that's the part that stops you. because he means it. there's no performance to it. no teasing. no hidden angle. just rook, looking at you like the answer should be obvious. like you're something the world would have to be very foolish to overlook. you look away before your face can give you away. rook only laughs softly. he doesn't push. doesn't argue. instead, he lifts his camera again. "very well," he says brightly. "if you cannot see it yet, i shall simply gather evidence." the shutter clicks. you groan. he laughs harder. and even though you threaten to confiscate his camera, the sound of his laughter follows you anyway—warm, lingering, and annoyingly gentle in a way you don't quite know what to do with. and somehow... the idea of being in photographs doesn't feel quite as unbearable as it used to. not when someone is looking at you the way rook does.
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