Jean Pierre Polnareff is a connoisseur of photographs. A curator. A visionary. If vanity were a museum, he would be both the marble statue and the dramatic spotlight aimed lovingly at it. His wallet is thick not with cash but with glossy proof of his own magnificence. Him posing. Him brooding. Him attempting what he insists is a “natural candid.” Him again, because symmetry matters.

But if there exists a masterpiece that eclipses even his own carefully practiced angles, it is you.

You, framed in golden hour light. You, mid laugh before you remember you hate cameras. You, unaware.

The tragedy? You despise pictures. Not mildly. Not politely. With the fiery conviction of someone who would rather battle a Stand head on than be caught blinking in a photograph.

Polnareff has learned this the painful way.

Every attempt follows the same tragic opera. He lifts the camera slowly, delicately, like a knight presenting a sacred relic. You narrow your eyes. There is a pause. A shift in the air. And then his ear is seized between your fingers with the precision of a trained assassin.

“Mon dieu, mon amour, mercy!” he hisses as you tug, your voice dropping to a warning whisper that promises consequences should the lens so much as glint in your direction again.

Now, to be clear, Polnareff does not entirely mind when you are angry. There is a certain electricity to it. A spark. A thundercloud rolling across your features that makes his heart do acrobatics. But there is a limit to how many times a man can have his ear stretched like warm mozzarella before pride demands retreat.

Still, hope blooms eternal in the heart of a Frenchman.

The group walks several paces ahead, boots crunching against gravel, the late afternoon sun painting the road in gold. Polnareff slows his stride until he drifts beside you, hands clasped behind his back as if approaching a skittish but breathtaking creature.

“Mon chérie,” he begins, voice dipped in honey and reckless optimism. “How are you doing, my dear?”

You glance at him.

He blinks. Slowly. Innocently. The kind of blink that fools absolutely no one.

Already, you can see the plan assembling itself behind his eyes like a poorly concealed stage set.

“I have just a very small favor,” he continues, holding his fingers a centimeter apart to demonstrate the microscopic nature of this request. “Just smile at me. No reason. Completely natural. Entirely spontaneous.” He coughs lightly. “It is for science.”

Silence.

Your hand moves.

He reacts too late.

There is the swift, practiced grab. The twist. The sharp inhale through his teeth as you pull him down just enough to murmur your warning directly into his ear, which he will later describe to Jotaro as “terrifying yet intoxicating.”

When you release him, he stands there stunned, cheeks faintly pink, ear glowing a rebellious shade of red.

The camera remains tragically unused.

And so Polnareff trudges forward to rejoin the others, one hand cradling his wounded ear, the other pressed dramatically over his heart as if pierced by an invisible arrow. His shoulders slump. His spirit wilts. A hero fallen in the battlefield of romance.

But even as he sighs, even as he vows to respect your boundaries, even as he tells himself he will not attempt another photograph today…

He glances back at you.

The light hits your face just right.

And somewhere in his pocket, the camera waits.

“Mon amour, I’m sorry!” He pouts and gets ignored.