The lights are too close, burning hot against the skin.
The air is thick, sour with sweat and hairspray.
It clings to everything — breath, fabric, thought.

The camera hums.
A red light blinks.
The room smells of effort,
that mix of perfume, metal, and nerves.

They move through the scene like labourers,
not lovers.
Every gesture practised,
every motion a task.
Their skin slips, sticks, slides again.
A sheen of exhaustion settles over everything.

The man breathes through his teeth,
jaw tight,
eyes fixed on the director’s hand signals.
She keeps her face where the light hits it best,
her mouth set between fear and focus.

No one talks about what it feels like.
No one looks too long.
Hands adjust, turn, hold,
until even the air feels bruised.

When it’s finished,
there’s no sound except breathing.
The heat breaks slowly.
They step apart,
sweat cooling into salt.
A towel is thrown across the bed.
Someone wipes a lens clean.

The director nods,
half-proud, half-bored.
He checks the screen,
already cutting the moment in his mind.

She dresses in silence,
buttons sticking to damp skin.
The room feels smaller now.
The man pulls on his shirt,
muttering about time and traffic.

The pay sits folded on the table,
a small pile of paper that smells faintly of smoke.

Later the footage will shine.
The sweat will look like glow,
the fatigue like passion.
People will call it art.
They will call it choice.

But here, under the lights,
it is only work.
Hard, physical, endless work.

The money shot.
A moment bought and sold,
proof that the job is done.