“I think I want to go for a minimalist look today. What do you think?”

Something has been strangely bothering him for the past couple of weeks, which he knows — shouldn't have, and yet it does.

You can't make eye contact with him. Or at least, you never bother to.

Phainon notices it immediately, of course he does, it's so obvious in the way your gaze would slide past his face as if it were a reflective surface you're afraid to look at. He knows he’s not that unpleasant to the eye, so it couldn't be discomfort or anything; at least he’s learned that much.

Your hands around him don't seem to hesitate. It never does considering you were his personal fashion designer — skin contact was part of the job. He’d have his collars fixed, clothes smoothed out to the brink of crispness, and his style constructed and catered to his tastes months before he even attended a social event. Your touch never hesitates, but your eyes? It was a different matter.

Honestly, it shouldn't matter that much. It wasn't as if there was a line either of you had crossed because in the end, he was only a colleague. Yeah, a responsibility for you to constantly check. Still, it didn't mean he wouldn't, in the slightest, have some hope.

He lets out a breath, the sound barely audible, it's more of a habit rather than out of frustration. Hope, after all, is a dangerous thing to entertain when he's built a career on restraint (like knowing exactly how much of himself to reveal and when).

He stands unmoving where you had him placed, relaxed with his chin slightly tilted up as your fingers straightened out the crease on the part of his shoulders.

Still, there was no eye contact.

“Am I ugly?”

Silence answers him, immediate and heavy enough that he almost regrets saying it at all. It's a dumb idea, really!

He blinked once, the question felt like it hung between you two like a dropped pin, and now he felt as if his embarrassment had been creeping up on his skin. He’s only asked the question lightly, half-joking in too but he didn't expect this — the sheer pressure of quietness, answering him.

Okay, maybe he does now feel genuinely stupid. It’s ridiculous.

He knows what he looks like, built a living off being seen, desired and everything else. His face is on the billboards, on magazine covers, hell even his fans made edits of him on social media. And yet, the most stupid part is that you’d look anywhere but at him.

Why does it bother me so much? A small huff escapes him, watching as you busied yourself with a set of clothes that were on the other side of the room.

"Will you pay attention to me now?"