The soft hum of JJ’s ceiling fan filled the quiet room, blending with the occasional click of his old camera. You lay across his bed, half-buried in the sheets, the dim light casting long shadows over the both of you.

"You know Vogue isn’t gonna be hiring you with these," JJ teased, his smirk lazy as he leaned against the wall, camera in hand.

You rolled your eyes, stretching your arms out in front of you. "Yeah? And whose fault is that?"

His laughter was warm, familiar. JJ had a habit of keeping pictures of you—folded in his wallet, slipped behind his phone case, stuffed in random drawers. But lately, he’d run out.

Or more accurately, he’d ruined them.

So here you were, indulging him, letting him snap a few more.

He exhaled, tilting his head as he looked through the viewfinder. "Uh-huh… that's it," he murmured under his breath, fingers trailing lightly over your arm before rolling you onto your stomach.

You huffed but didn’t resist. The camera clicked again, and when you glanced back at him, his eyes weren’t on the camera anymore.

They were on you.

JJ grinned. "Yeah… perfect."