The only way it doesn't hurt

Part Two

I shrug off my coat, toss it over a stool, and walk across the floor to flick on the main lights. My boots echo across the concrete for a beat before other sounds start trickling in—the front door creaking open, a familiar pair of heels clicking against the wood.

“Morning, Ewan,” comes a voice from the entryway. Lauren, my primary assistant. Efficient to a fault, always caffeinated, probably already three emails deep into her day.

“Morning,” I reply without looking up. I’m already scanning the board for today’s setup.

She’s followed by a stylist whose name I can’t remember and a junior tech I vaguely recall hiring last fall. They’re chatting softly, voices carefully measured, like they know not to break whatever fragile focus I’ve wrapped around the room.

Everyone knows how to move around me now—like I’m part of the set rather than the director. I don’t demand it. I never raised my voice once in this place. But there’s something about silence that teaches people how to treat it.

A new collection’s being shot today—clean silhouettes, soft textures, winter to spring transition. The designer wants “introspective warmth.” Whatever that means.

I glance at the prep table: fabrics in warm neutrals, gold jewelry laid out on a velvet tray, hair and makeup sketches pinned next to lighting maps. I give it all a quiet once-over, nod, then step toward the lighting rig.

“Diffuse this side more,” I tell the lighting tech. “It’s too clinical right now. I want late-afternoon warmth, not an interrogation room.”

He nods and adjusts accordingly. No questions. They’ve learned not to interrupt when I’m building the shot in my head.

It’s not about control, really.

It’s about precision.

I don't talk much on shoot days unless I need to. The team speaks in glances and shorthand, a language of familiarity layered under unspoken tension. No one wants to be the one to make me reframe a shot. They think I’m exacting, maybe difficult. But they respect it. Respect me.

They don’t know me. Not really.

But they like the image of me—the man behind the lens, the artist with the cold eye and sure hands.

And that’s fine.

I don’t need to be known.

Not here.

I check the camera rig one more time, then step back and glance across the space. There’s a large framed print on the far wall—one of my earlier works. A candid of a child chasing pigeons in a sunlit alley. Everyone always says that photo feels “hopeful.” I’ve never told them it was accidental. I clicked the shutter out of instinct.

Funny how the ones that haunt you are always the ones you didn’t mean to take.

Lauren hands me a call sheet. “They confirmed the location shoot in Rosebury. Meeting this afternoon at the agency.”

I nod, eyes still on the photo. “Yeah. I remember.”

She waits a beat, maybe expecting more, but I don’t offer it. She disappears again, heels retreating toward the office.

Rosebury.

That word sits oddly in the back of my mind. Not sharp, not heavy—just… familiar.

I push the thought down and lift the camera.

“Let’s shoot,” I say.

-------

The lights are warm now, soft like a late afternoon sun. The model stands near the canvas backdrop—tall, elegant, dressed in pale linen that moves with the fan’s breeze. Everything looks right. But something feels off.