54. Dean
Dean
Dean adjusted the camera strap around his neck, the lens still warm from use.
The morning sun hit the elementary school's courtyard at the perfect angle—clean light, honest light. He’d already captured half a dozen candid shots of teachers leading activities, students drawing with sidewalk chalk, a few frames of a third-grade reading circle. Real moments. Real people.
He crouched near the edge of the garden beds, framing up a photo of two students inspecting a tomato plant.
“Mr. Photographer,” someone joked behind him. “You ever do weddings?”
Dean chuckled without looking up. “Only if the flower girl promises not to cry.”
He snapped two more shots. Adjusted aperture. Reframed.
The district PR coordinator had practically begged him to help. “Just one morning,” she’d said. “Everything we have looks like a brochure from 1998.”
He’d agreed, easily. It felt good to be useful.
He straightened up and turned toward the staff entrance—and stopped.
Fiona.
She was halfway down the path, tote bag over one shoulder, hair pulled up in a quick bun. She was clearly mid-conversation with another teacher but stopped short when she saw him. Her whole body froze, eyes wide.
Dean's breath caught in his throat. He hadn’t expected her here—not at this school. Not today. Not now.
But God, she looked beautiful. Serious and sunlit, her brow furrowed in confusion. And then—something else. The realization. That he wasn’t just loitering. That he was working. Helping. Giving back to her world.
He lifted the camera slowly, giving her a moment to object. She didn’t.
Click.
Fiona blinked.
Click .
He couldn’t stop himself. He took photos of the other teachers too, sure—one of the music instructor laughing with a student, another of the janitor high-fiving a kid who’d just tied their shoes on their own.
But Fiona?
He took dozens.
Hundreds.
Just a month ago, he’d stood beside Fiona at a gallery opening, handing her a drink and smugly whispering about some poor guy taking endless photos of his girlfriend.
Now? He’d give anything— anything —to be the one Fiona trusted to hold the lens. To follow her through her life like a shadow with reverence in his shutter finger. To be allowed to document her small, glorious dailiness.
She looked over her shoulder at something, and he caught the curve of her neck in profile. She knelt to adjust a kid’s backpack strap—click. She tilted her head at a question, brows knitting in thought—click. She laughed when one of her students made a joke—click, click, click.
Every expression. Every shift in light. Every time she forgot he was watching her and just... existed.
She finally walked over when the students were dismissed to class. “You’re doing photography now?”
“Not professionally,” he said, lowering the camera, trying not to sound breathless. “Just… helping the district.”
Her expression didn’t change, but something in her shoulders softened.
“You took a lot of photos of me.”
“I take a lot of photos of things I don’t want to forget.”
She looked down, then back up. “This isn’t enough.”
“I know,” he said softly.
She nodded once and turned to go.
Dean watched her walk back into the building, already missing her.
He raised the camera again. Click .
Dean sat at his laptop in Russell and June's kitchen, the memory card reader blinking softly as hundreds of photos loaded onto his screen. The district coordinator had asked for thirty, maybe forty usable shots for their website and promotional materials.
He had over three hundred.
Most of them were of Fiona.
He scrolled through them slowly, his chest tight with something between longing and shame. Fiona laughing with a student. Fiona kneeling to tie someone's shoe. Fiona in profile, sunlight catching the escaped strands of hair around her face.
She was radiant in every single frame. Completely herself, unguarded, beautiful in the way that came from caring deeply about something that mattered.
Two years ago, he would have posted these without asking. Would have chosen the angles, written clever captions, turned her genuine moments into content for strangers to consume. He'd thought he had the right to share her with the world because she was his wife, his muse, his entertainment.
The memory made him physically sick.
He opened a new email, attached a folder of the general school shots—teachers, students, facilities. Clean, professional images that told the district's story without exploiting anyone's privacy.
Then he created a separate folder. Just the photos of Fiona. He hesitated for a long moment before typing:
Fi,
I took promotional photos for the district today. I have several shots that include you that would be perfect for their marketing materials—you look incredible, and they really capture what great teaching looks like.
But I will not use a single image of you without your explicit permission. I'm attaching the photos I'd like to include in the district portfolio. Please let me know which ones, if any, you're comfortable with me submitting.
You have complete right of refusal. If you don't want any photos of yourself used, I'll submit only the general shots. If you want to see the full district portfolio before I send it, I'm happy to share that too.
I never want to make decisions about your image again without your consent.
-Dean
He attached the folder and hit send.