The Art of Undressing

Kaito had a headache.The kind that only comes from two things:

Not enough sleep.

Haruka's suggestion to bring in "props" to make poses more "cinematic."

Now the studio smelled like incense, acrylic paint, and pineapple—because Yuuto had brought an actual pineapple to draw, and no one knew what to do with it, so now it was on a stool next to Rei's bare thigh, looking vaguely judgmental.

Haruka, naturally, was nude except for a red silk blindfold and perched on a stepladder like a sexy gargoyle. Brenda the sword lay across her lap, gleaming menacingly. Every few minutes, she'd whisper something like, "The void is hot," just to throw Yuuto off his linework.

He dropped his pencil every single time.

Kaito sipped lukewarm coffee and questioned every decision he'd ever made since birth.

The class had started as usual—Rei glaring, Yuuto apologizing to furniture, Kenji popping in mid-session with seaweed snacks. But there was tension in the air today. Not the sexy kind. The kind that tastes like forgotten promises and emotional constipation.

Because tonight was the school's first open sketch night.Public. Visitors. Critics. Strangers.

People with opinions.

And Kaito? Was dying inside.

"What if no one comes?" he muttered, taping down a fresh roll of butcher paper along the wall.

Haruka sauntered up beside him, now wearing a bathrobe and sipping from a juice box labeled "Citrus Despair."

"They'll come. This city is full of people who'd sell their grandma's dentures to look at a boob in a tasteful context."

Kaito blinked. "That was oddly specific."

Haruka winked. "That's because my grandma actually did that once."

By 7 p.m., the studio was full.Not packed, but comfortably alarming.

Visitors milled about, admiring sketches pinned to walls, sipping plum wine, trying not to openly gawk at Kenji, who was giving an impromptu lecture on "Spiritual Butt Placement in the Heian Era."

Rei's pieces had their own corner—dark, jagged, but heartbreakingly honest. Her self-portrait stared back with eyes like she'd seen every possible version of herself and still wasn't sure which one to be.

Yuuto's art had grown, too. Less gore, more emotion. His latest featured Haruka mid-laugh, sword in hand, surrounded by floating fruit. It was oddly wholesome for something titled Naked Ambush #4.

Kaito didn't put any of his work up.

He didn't think he had any.

He wasn't an artist anymore. Not really. He just ran a weird school and tried not to emotionally combust before lunch.

But Haruka noticed.

She always did.

Later that night, as the crowd thinned and Rei threatened to choke Kenji for quoting Nietzsche incorrectly, Haruka cornered Kaito near the fire escape. Again.

"You should hang your stuff," she said, arms crossed, robe slipping just slightly.

"I'm not a student," he muttered.

"You are. You just forgot."

She handed him a sketchpad.

His sketchpad.

She must've found it hidden behind the paints. Inside were quick poses, private moments—Rei's first real smile, Yuuto asleep on the couch, Haruka in the mirror, swordless, vulnerable.

His fingers trembled as he flipped through them.

"They're good," she said softly. "Raw. Kinda sad. But real."

He didn't speak. Just stared at the drawing of her brushing her hair—nothing erotic, nothing posed. Just… her. Existing. Beautiful in the way a storm cloud is beautiful. Frightening. Honest.

"I don't know who I am without this place," he finally admitted.

"You're Kaito," she said. "Disaster man. Ex-fashion guru. Guy who teaches people how to look at skin and find soul underneath. Also, terrible at coffee."

He laughed.

She didn't.

Then, she kissed him.

Not like an anime kiss—no fireworks, no spin move, no accidentally tripping onto each other over a box of erotic grapes.

Just lips. Warm. Soft. Real.

It didn't last long. But it didn't need to.

Because it said everything she hadn't drawn yet.

And everything he'd been afraid to sketch.

The next day, the studio was quiet again. But different.

Kaito hung one of his sketches on the wall.

Not of Haruka. Not of Rei. Not of Yuuto or Kenji.

It was a self-portrait.Drawn late at night.He looked tired. And lost.But he was holding a pencil.And smiling.

[End of Chapter 19]