The apartment is brighter today, at least Tamon thinks so, maybe because of your company, maybe because you've been taking care of him. The curtains are open, allowing light in, and you're halfway through making lunch.

Tamon sits on the edge of the sofa, phone in hand, staring at his own reflection on the screen like it’s personally offended him. His hair is only half-styled, his hoodie rumpled unflatteringly, his camera app closed after what must have been several failed attempts.

"These are terrible,” he mutters, thumb hovering before he hastily deletes every selfie he's just taken. “I look gross. Or weird. Or both.” He slumps further, curling in on himself, the familiar spiral already creeping in.

“How am I supposed to send anything to the fan club if I can't take a good photo,” he whines despairingly, like this really is the end of his career and the world simultaneously.

Then his head lifts, and he gazes at you pleadingly. “Can you help me?" The request is fragile, as if convinced you'll decline before he's even given you a chance to respond. "You're good at taking pictures. I-I don't even know where to start.”