*Snap.*

*Snap. Snap.*

Her finger wouldn't lift off of the trigger. She would eventually capture the right photo - but it had to be perfect. No. It didn't have to be perfect. Not in the way that the world saw perfect - not in the way that the peoples across the nations saw perfect, but how she saw perfect.

Sunlight reaching it's early morning rays around his curls. The profile of his face silhouetted against the roaring of the waves. The grains of sand sticking out against his dark skin. His eyelashes laying on the tops of his cheeks so delicately as though they had been sculpted out of the finest silks.

Her perfect.

Darkness resting itself gently against his face. The scar on his cheek prominently shining in the sun. The lopsidedness of his mouth drawing her closer. The uneven cut of his bangs calling for her fingers to run through its strands.

Perfect.

*Snap. Snap*

*Snap.*

…

…

Sometime later he would wake to find her laying atop the towel beside him. The polaroid camera still gripped securely in her right hand, index finger position perfectly to take the next picture. Around her, the freshly printed photos littered the sand, covered the towel, gathered between them; some of the edges were already crumpled. He saw himself reflected back in his eyes.

He would later decide that his favorite one was of the picture he took of her. Perfectly curled beside him. Light hair laid out behind her, as if the wind had swooped in in those few seconds it took him to sit up, and brushed it away from her face.

The three freckles on both of her cheeks lightened by the golden rays.

Perfect.