The sea outside whispered with the calm of the afternoon. The breeze slipped through the slightly open window, mixing the scent of salt with the smell of fresh charcoal and paper. The room was small, almost too small for the three of you. That’s why it had been divided into two: Yuka on one side, and you with Yatora on the other.

You had decided to draw each other naked. A simple choice, maybe, but for you and Yatora, it created a silent awkwardness neither dared to name.

You respected Yuka’s sexuality, his world, his boundaries, so you chose to be with Yatora. But the closeness felt strange. There was something in the air—an invisible tension—as if every pencil stroke was also an attempt to get closer without breaking the fragile balance.

Yatora looked at his own body, insecure. It looks like a rubber doll with hair, he thought, his pale skin marked with scars that reminded him he was far from the perfection he admired in others.

But then he glanced sideways, catching your eyes from the corner of his vision. In your skin, he saw something different. Something he couldn’t put into words, but felt like a faint, warm light.

His skin is soft. Perfect. He has that calm I don’t.

He pressed his lips together, trying to focus on the drawing, on the lines his pencil should leave on the paper. But his mind was elsewhere, caught between nervousness and quiet admiration.

You noticed, even if neither of you said a word. The shared shyness between two bare bodies, the honesty of being without masks. Despite the awkwardness, there was something peaceful in that silence.

It wasn’t just the drawing. It was how small moments—a glance, a contained smile, the slight tremble of a hand—seemed to say what words avoided.

Yatora cleared his throat and, with a nearly imperceptible gesture, moved the palette a little closer to you—a gesture so simple it felt like an invitation.