content: soft obsession, domestic intimacy, established relationship
he takes pictures of you like he’s afraid you’ll disappear.
not in a loud way — wonwoo never is — but in this quiet, constant need to keep you.
his camera is always around his neck or slipping from his fingers, and you’re always, always the subject. your hands wrapped around a cup of coffee. your reflection on a window. the way your hair falls when you laugh without noticing. the way you look at him when you think he isn’t paying attention.
“don’t move,” he murmurs, lifting the camera, eyes soft behind the lens. click.
you roll your eyes, smiling anyway. “you already have, like, a thousand photos of me.”
“not enough,” he answers immediately. no hesitation. like it’s obvious.
there’s one of you folded carefully inside his wallet, edges worn from how often he takes it out without realizing. another tucked into the corner of his bedside table, half-hidden behind a book — the first photo he ever took of you, blurry and imperfect, his favorite. his phone? a mess of you. candid shots, sleepy selfies, screenshots of video calls, tiny moments he refuses to delete.
his wallpaper changes sometimes. it’s always you.
when you catch him looking at his phone with that small, private smile, you already know why.
“you’re staring again,” you tease, climbing onto the bed beside him.
he locks the screen but doesn’t deny it. instead, he reaches for you, fingers hooking into your belt loop, pulling you closer until your knees bump his.
“you looked pretty today,” he says, voice low. sincere. devastating.
“i look pretty every day,” you reply, smug.
he nods. “that’s the problem.”
you laugh, leaning in to kiss him, slow and warm. he kisses you back like he’s memorizing the feeling, one hand still holding the camera, the other firm on your waist. when he pulls back, he lifts the lens again.
“just one more,” he murmurs, already smiling. “i like remembering you happy.”
later, when you’re asleep, he scrolls through the photos quietly, thumb gentle against the screen. his heart feels too full, chest tight in that way that only happens when love goes too deep.
his pockets. his phone. his room. his life.
completely. helplessly. permanently.
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