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His hand was flat against the small of my back, right where the sacrum meets the spine, and he wasn't just checking his alignment.
His hand was a heavy weight on my lower back, a physical lien on my composure that I had no intention of discharging.
The way she looked at me through the viewfinder wasn't just about focal length; it felt like she was cataloging my nervous system.
She stood in the center of my studio, a spill of silver light against the rough cedar walls, looking like something I’d have to shoot my way out of.
He leaned over my desk, the smell of cedar and stage-whiskey hitting me like a sudden drop in barometric pressure.