Chapter 22: One Year Later

June 20, 2022 – Two Years After Moving Day

The photographer arrived at 4:00 p.m. sharp.

Her name was Lena (thirty-seven, queer, former war photographer who had traded combat zones for love stories after one too many funerals). She had shot poly families before, kink families before, elder love before. She thought she was prepared.

She was not.

Bob opened the door wearing loose linen pants and nothing else, titanium key on a chain around his neck (the one that didn’t open anything anymore, just lived against his skin like a medal).

Behind him stood Susan, Nawana, and Alicia (naked, titanium eternity collars gleaming, bodies softer in places, stronger in others, two years of love written in every curve and line).

Lena’s breath caught.

Bob smiled (small, calm, proud).

“Living room’s ready. We’ll follow your lead.”

The living room had been cleared (furniture pushed back, big cream rug unrolled, afternoon light pouring through the sheer curtains like warm honey).

A single black leather wingback chair sat in the center (Bob’s recliner, moved for the occasion).

Lena set up fast (two cameras, one light stand, no backdrop). She had planned a dozen poses. The moment she looked through the viewfinder, every plan dissolved.

She started simple.

Bob in the chair.

Susan to his left, kneeling, cheek against his thigh, one hand on his knee. Nawana to his right, in the same position, a mirror image. Alicia curled at his feet, head in his lap, arms wrapped around his waist.

The first test shot made Lena’s hands shake.

Titanium caught the light like liquid metal. Skin tones (olive, bronze, porcelain) blended into one living sculpture. Eyes (all four sets) looked straight into the lens with the kind of peace that comes from surviving everything and choosing to stay anyway.