March 10 – Profile Pictures

By the third morning, the routine felt almost natural. Wake. Stretch.

Grumble about the heater.

Coffee.

Check batteries.

Sean checked Michael’s face the way other people checked the weather—gauging mood, energy, the amount of shadows under his eyes.

“You good?” he asked as they walked down the hallway toward the elevator, camera bags over their shoulders.

“As good as a man who discovered new knee noises yesterday can be,” Michael said.

“Perfect,” Sean replied. “Today is your close‑up.”

Michael eyed him.

“You say that like it’s a good thing,” he said.

“It is,” Sean said. “Trust me. You’re going to want these later.”

They hit the road with the ease of practice.

The drive up to Skyline was less shocking now, but still beautiful—trees bare, ridges stacked like folded paper, sky a high washed‑out blue.

Sean had a plan.

“Morning light at the first spot,” he said, pointing as they drove. “Then we move to the one with the longer wall for the portraits. Less people there on weekdays.”

“You sound very confident about stranger traffic patterns,” Michael said.

“I’ve been stalking park blogs for months,” Sean replied. “I know things.”

The first overlook was mostly for warm‑up.

They took a few landscapes, compared settings, laughed when Michael accidentally left the camera in the wrong mode and got a series of overexposed clouds.

“Don’t delete them,” Sean said. “You’ll want to see how far you came when you stop doing that.”

“I don’t see why my shame has to be archived,” Michael said.

“It’s not shame,” Sean said. “It’s proof.”

Later, they drove on to the second spot—the one Sean had really picked for this.

It had a long, curved stone wall with space to walk, and the view opened wide—ridges rolling away in layers, the sky starting to warm with late‑morning light.

A light breeze tugged at Michael’s jacket.

“All right,” Sean said, clapping his hands together once. “Landscape class is now portrait class.”

Michael glanced around.

“There’s no one else here,” he said.

“Exactly,” Sean replied. “You can’t escape.”

He dropped his backpack, pulled out his main camera, and checked the settings, fingers moving with practiced ease.

“Okay, first set is simple,” he said. “You stand there, lean on the wall, look like you’re existing.”

“I can do ‘existing,’” Michael said. “I’ve been practicing for years.”

“Good,” Sean said. “Lose the backpack, keep the camera. Sunglasses on.”

Michael slid the straps off his shoulders, letting the backpack rest at his feet.

He kept the camera around his neck, the blue sunglasses already on his face.

“What do I do with my hands?” he asked, suddenly more awkward than he’d been all trip.

“Put one in your pocket,” Sean said. “Let the other fall wherever it wants. Don’t overthink it.”

“Everything with you is ‘don’t overthink it,’” Michael muttered.

“That’s because you overthink everything,” Sean said.

He stepped back, lifted the camera, and peered through the viewfinder.

For a moment, he just looked.

There was his father.

Gray hair.

Beard with full silver at the edges.

Dad belly pushing gently against the layers of shirt and jacket.

Blue Ray‑Bans catching a glint of light.

Camera hanging from his neck like it belonged there.

Sean adjusted his position, moving to get the stone wall leading into the frame.

“All right,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Michael turned his head.

The breeze pushed a strand of hair back.

Sean clicked the shutter.

And again.

And again.

“Try looking out at the view,” Sean said. “Not at me. Think about… whatever you were thinking when you signed the lease for the office.”

“That I was insane,” Michael said.

“Perfect,” Sean replied. “Hold that.”

He took more shots: Michael half‑smiling, jaw set, shoulders dropping slowly as he stopped performing and just stood.

At one point, Sean lowered the camera.

“Okay,” he said. “Now, hand on the wall.”

Michael rested his palm on the cold stone.

“Now look down, like you’re listening to something,” Sean said.

“I am listening to something,” Michael muttered. “My knees complaining.”

“Dad,” Sean said, warning in his tone and warmth underneath it.

Michael exhaled, let his head dip slightly.

The pose wasn’t dramatic.

It was simple.

A man, at a wall, at the edge of something, listening.

Sean took the shot and knew—knew—it would be one of the ones.

“Okay,” he said after a while. “You can relax. For now.”

Michael dropped his hand, rolled his shoulders.

“How bad was I?” he asked.

Sean checked the back of the camera, flicking through the images.

He shook his head.

“You weren’t,” he said. “You look like… you. Just… here. That’s the point.”

Michael stepped closer, peering at the tiny screen.

He saw himself framed by his son’s eye—softer, older, more open than the versions of him that lived in his own head.

“Wow,” he said quietly.

“Yeah,” Sean said. “Told you you’d want these. One of these is going to be your profile picture whether you like it or not.”

“Do I get a vote?” Michael asked.

“A small one,” Sean said.

He turned the camera off and stepped back.

“Okay,” he said. “Your turn.”

Michael blinked.

“To what?” he asked.

“To shoot me,” Sean said. “We’re not leaving Shenandoah without a decent photo of you as the second shooter.”

He handed the camera over.

Sean moved to the wall, mirroring the spot Michael had just occupied.

The wind ruffled his hair.

His green flannel matched the tones of the trees below in a way that made Michael’s brain do the tiniest satisfied click.

“How do you want me?” Sean asked.

Michael pretended to think.

“Annoyed,” he said. “Confused. Mildly judgmental.”

“So… me,” Sean said dryly.

“Exactly,” Michael replied.

He lifted the camera, trying to remember the things he’d been taught.

Don’t center.

Use the wall.

Watch the light.

“Look at me,” Michael said.

Sean did.

For a second, all the joking dropped.

His eyes met his father’s over the top of the lens—steady, vulnerable, twenty‑one and also somehow all the ages he’d ever been.

Michael pressed the shutter.

The sound felt heavier this time.

He changed angle, moving a little to catch the curve of the wall and the slope of the mountains behind Sean.

“Now look out,” he said. “Like you’re planning something.”

“I’m always planning something,” Sean replied.

“Good,” Michael said. “Let it show.”

He took more frames.

Sean with his hand lightly resting on the wall.

Sean with his camera held loosely at his side.

Sean laughing at something Michael said that didn’t matter.

Later, that shot—Sean mid‑laugh, head tilted, light catching the edge of his profile—would become one of Michael’s favorites.

It looked like a future he hadn’t let himself picture before.

After a while, Michael lowered the camera.

“How was I?” he asked.

Sean came over, taking the camera back to look.

He scrolled in silence, mouth twitching.

“These are… really good,” he said. “Like, annoyingly good. You got the focus right, background separated, I don’t look like a serial killer. Ten out of ten.”

“High praise,” Michael said.

“You’re getting an eye,” Sean replied. “I’m proud of you.”

He said it lightly, but the words landed with weight.

Michael felt his chest loosen.

“Thanks, teacher,” he said.

Sean swallowed, eyes still on the photos.

“Okay,” he said after a moment. “One more set.”

He set the camera to timer mode and walked back to the wall.

“You stand here,” he said, pointing to a spot a few feet from the corner. “I’ll stand next to you.”

Michael took the position.

Sean joined him, close enough that their shoulders brushed.

He held the camera out, set it on the stone wall, and angled it just so.

“You sure that’s balanced?” Michael asked.

“No,” Sean said. “But we’re going to hope for the best.”

He pressed the shutter, then quickly moved back to his spot.

A tiny blinking light signaled the countdown.

“Look at the view,” Sean said, voice softer now. “Not the camera.”

Michael turned his head toward the mountains.

Sean let his body lean into his father’s side.

At the last second before the shutter clicked, he rested his hand on Michael’s chest—over the dad belly, over the heartbeat, over all the years that had led them here.

Click.

The camera captured them framed by sky and stone and distance—two figures, angled slightly together, the rings on their fingers catching light, Sean’s head just beginning to tilt toward Michael’s shoulder.

They checked it on the back screen.

Sean’s breath caught.

“That’s it,” he said. “That’s the one.”

Michael stared at it.

He felt something in his throat he didn’t have words for.

He cleared it.

“Yeah,” he said. “That… might be it.”

“Okay, okay, one more,” Sean said quickly, afraid of lingering too long on the emotion in his father’s eyes. “Different angle.”

He adjusted the camera, set it again.

This time, when he came back to Michael’s side, he didn’t just lean.

He wrapped one arm around his father’s middle, hand splayed over the soft curve of his stomach, and let his head rest more fully against his shoulder.

Michael’s arm went automatically around him, hand landing on Sean’s upper back, pulling him in.

“No faces,” Sean murmured. “Just us.”

“Got it,” Michael said.

The shutter clicked.

The frame ended up being from the neck down—two torsos pressed together, jackets wrinkled from the closeness, hands layered over each other, matching rings glinting, mountains blurred behind them.

If the first image was their “we made it” picture, this was their “we’re staying” picture.

When they were done, the wind had picked up, making their noses red and fingers stiff.

“We should head back,” Sean said, tucking the camera safely against his chest. “I don’t want to drop this if my hands go numb.”

“My hands went numb an hour ago,” Michael said. “I was just afraid to complain.”

“You can complain,” Sean said. “That’s what dads do.”

He bumped his shoulder lightly against Michael’s as they walked back to the car.

“Just know,” he added, “I’m going to use these pictures for everything. Profile pics. Website. Maybe your tombstone.”

“Morbid,” Michael said.

“On‑brand,” Sean replied.

Back at the hotel, they spread out on the bed again, side by side, scrolling through the day’s haul.

Sean starred a few as favorites.

“This one,” he said, pointing at Michael leaning on the wall, “is your public ‘Dark Evil, founder and old man’ shot.”

“Rude,” Michael said.

“This,” Sean went on, flipping to the torso‑only photo, “is ours.”

He tapped it gently.

“This doesn’t go anywhere without your say,” he added. “It’s… more than a picture.”

Michael looked at it.

At the way their hands fit.

At the way his body, the one he’d once punished, was now literally supporting his son.

“It’s… us,” he said quietly. “The truth version.”

Sean nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “Exactly.”

He saved it to a separate folder.

“Grayson’s going to lose his mind when he sees these,” Sean said, letting a smile creep back in. “He’s going to be so jealous.”

“He can take his own,” Michael replied. “When he shows up.”

Sean blinked.

“When he what?” he asked.

Michael feigned innocence.

“Oh, did I not mention?” he said. “Your brother has been suspiciously enthusiastic about this trip. I’d bet money he’s planning something.”

Sean’s eyes widened.

“You think he’s going to come up here?” he asked, a mix of excitement and mock annoyance in his tone.

“I’d be more surprised if he didn’t,” Michael said.

Sean considered this, then grinned.

“Good,” he said. “Then we’ll make him stand in the middle for the next round.”

He set the camera down gently.

“Today was good,” he said after a moment, voice softer. “Like… really good.”

“Yeah,” Michael said. “It was.”

He meant more than the photos.

He meant the ease, the laughter, the way his son had seen him and let himself be seen.

Outside, the mountains held the last light of the day.

Inside, in a small hotel room with two beds and one shared screen, a father and son had captured more than landscapes.

They’d caught evidence that they existed together in this chapter—solid, present, close enough to lean.

And tomorrow, whether they knew it yet or not, the picture would get bigger.

Next, we can either: