This is how it looks, you want to say.
You're both laughing as she gets up and says "I told you so" - rolling her eyes at your genius idea of putting a flimsy hotel robe on the snow to try and keep her dry during your impromptu shoot. She's still damp and cold - the ice had seeped through the fabric - but in good spirits as you pull her up and hold her, blowing hot air into her hands and planting kisses all over her bare, snow-flecked face.
The roses are scattered all over the ground, and she bends down to pick them up - gingerly, carefully. As if she's afraid to lose each one.
"You know there's about 50 of them left back in the room, Lils."
"Yeah, well," she counters, "I had 60 this morning. I want to keep it at that."
She's so simple, you think. Uncomplicated. She's happy when you buy her ice cream, when you kiss her when she has her pimple cream on, when you bring her books that you think she'll like from the local library. You still can't forget the look of pure delight on her face when you drove up to Antelope Valley - less than two hours outside of LA - and showed her all those poppies. It takes so little to make her smile.
And so you constantly outdo yourself. You hire hot-air balloons and whisk her away to beautiful places and take thousands, literally thousands, of photos of her. Because you want more than happiness for her. You want her to have wonder.
"Can I see the photos?" she says, snuggling into your side, into what she calls her special nook (right below your collarbone, under your arm).
You show them all to her and she oohs and aahs at each one. There's a pause at the one you've declared your favourite as she looks at it skeptically - the one where you leaned down, practically on top of her, before taking the photo and surprising her with a long, simmering kiss.
"Cole, you can't even see my face here," she laughs.
"I know," you replied. "It's more... a feeling I was trying to capture, I guess."
That night, as you upload the photos onto your laptop, you try and articulate it to yourself, whatever that feeling was. You push your seat back and look at the image for a long time, wondering what it was that drew you in.
And you think of the kiss you shared on the snow. You realise that you love the image because it reminds you of that. That somehow, without sharing her with anyone else (because fuck that), you're able to show everyone exactly what you see when you kiss her.
Her beauty. Her perfection. Her sexiness. Her joie de vivre.
But also –
Your fascination. Your passion. Your love. Your obsession.
This is how it looks, you want to say.
This is how it looks when you've fallen in love.