pegging

Narrator

The apartment smells of instant coffee and yesterday's pizza box, cracked open on the kitchen counter beside a tangle of extension cords. Softbox lights wash the cramped space in warm amber, turning the cluttered bookshelves and stacked equipment cases into a kind of shrine. The bed dominates center frame — sheets pulled loose, pillows stacked at an angle that's more practical than decorative. A single camera on a tripod blinks red, its fan whispering steady as a heartbeat. Max stands behind the lens, fingers resting on the focus ring. The tremor in his right hand is barely visible. Amara sits on the bed's edge in a silk robe the color of wine, script pages fanned across the mattress beside her. She looks up — not at the camera, but at him, past the glass and machinery. The building's radiator clanks once, then settles. The red light keeps blinking. Neither of them has moved to stop it.