Seen through his eyes

She needed  some photos for a modelling job she was thinking of applying for as a  way to earn a little more while studying. But underneath that simple intention, there was something else… a quiet curiosity to see herself and to be seen, truly seen, through someone else’s eyes.

He offered to help.

Things between them were undefined. They were taking some distance, feeling their way through a pause that didn’t yet have a name. Still, they kept in touch, messages here and there. Familiar, warm and neutral. When she mentioned the pictures, he told her about the studio at his office—a space usually used for product photography, but quiet and available on Sundays. It felt like the right place.  And it felt like something intimate and gentle might unfold there.

She planned carefully: her clothes, her hair, the mood she wanted to create. There was a flutter of nerves—not just because it was her first time in front of a camera like that, but also because she would be stepping back into his presence. After weeks apart, the anticipation had a sweetness to it, a quiet ache that sat low in her belly.

When she arrived, the studio was ready. He had arranged everything—lights set up, soft music playing, even a few snacks laid out on the side. It felt thoughtful, like he had been waiting for her. Their eyes met.... neither of them said much at first, but the air was thick with tension—gentle, electric, full of things that hadn’t yet been spoken. They stood at the edge of something that was about to unfold.

She changed into her first outfit: a soft, cream-coloured jumpsuit that hugged the lines of her body with quiet confidence. She brought a scarf too—his scarf, actually—the one he had wrapped around her shoulders months ago. Now she wrapped it around her neck again and she let it trail through her fingers, used it to trace the edges of her curves, to guide her into movement.

The music played softly in the background. Her hips began to sway, slowly, guided more by sensation than choreography. There was something ceremonial about it—the light, the space, the camera between them. He stood behind the lens, focused, but every so often their eyes would meet, and in those glances, something unspoken passed between them, a spark… a  knowing. Like time had paused for just a moment, and they could hear each other's breath again.

She felt herself come alive. Each movement pulled her deeper into her body, each look exchanged added another layer to the sweet charge. There was something strangely innocent about it all, curious, tender. Like they were rediscovering each other through this silent conversation of images and energy.

When they stopped to review the pictures, they leaned in close. Her hand brushed his as she reached for the screen to go back to a frame. The contact was brief, but something in both of them shifted. A breath caught, a moment held. They pulled away, politely, but they both felt the pull getting stronger.

And then, there it was. That one photo.

She looked at it and saw something she hadn’t seen in a long time. A glimmer in her eyes. The tilt of her hips. The soft parting of her lips, as if words were hovering there, wanting to be spoken but choosing instead to stay in the silence. The image said everything- it was radiant, alive, filled with a quiet hunger and an unspoken invitation.

Her next look was bolder. A pair of low-cut jeans, golden heels that wrapped around her ankles, and a white corset with subtle pink flowers that cinched at the waist and made her body feel like a secret being revealed layer by layer. As she laced it, her hands trembling slightly, something shifted inside her. She looked in the mirror and didn’t just feel beautiful—she felt powerful, deliciously so.

When he saw her, he stopped for a moment and smiled. That slow, knowing smile that used to undo her.

He picked up the camera again, his long hair pulled back into a low pony tail, sleeves rolled up. For a moment, it didn’t feel like a photo session—it felt like a scene from a story she’d once dreamed. Like Rose and Jack. Only now, she wasn’t lying on a chaise longue wearing a necklace and nothing else. She was standing in golden heels and tight denim, but she still felt naked—completely. Because what he saw wasn’t the outfit. He saw her.

He adjusted her hair gently, brushed a strand behind her ear with careful fingers. His touch wasn’t lingering, but it landed. She could feel the trace of it long after.

The photos continued, frame after frame. He captured her lips, the curves of her neck, the light on her skin. She posed, moved, offered herself to the lens—and in turn, he offered his full attention. They were co-creating something raw and intimate, it was seductive, it was passionate, sensual, and completely theirs.

The photo session lasted most of the day. And as the light outside began to fade, the charge between them only grew stronger. A hand resting on a hip lingered just a second too long. A look held a beat too many. They reviewed the final shots together, side by side, their knees almost touching, the space between them impossibly small.

In the images, she could see more than her body.  She could see her embodied passion, her softness and her desire to be met. She could see the pure love between them, the kind of love that simply sees and allows to be seen. That night, the clothes fell away slowly. There, in a quiet graphic design studio, under soft lights and forgotten time, they came home to something still alive between them.

A few days later later, she texted him in the early morning.

“Pack something light. I’ll meet you at the train station at 3pm.”

Love,

Rosie x