The Art of Undressing

There were many things Kaito expected to deal with when he opened a nude figure drawing school:

Awkward eye contact with strangers' genitals.

Long debates about heater placement during winter poses.

Accidentally inventing a yoga move called "Sensual Crane."

He did not expect a reporter from Tokyo Pulse Weekly to show up wearing Louboutins, a notepad, and a look like she'd just walked into an avant-garde cult orgy.

"So," said the reporter, scribbling. "You teach people how to get emotionally naked by making them physically naked?"

Kaito blinked. "That's… one way to put it."

Haruka—model, ex-idol, sword-wielder, and chaos-bringer—stood off to the side in a robe, sipping tea and watching the exchange like it was prime-time television.

Rei, of course, was sulking in the corner, armed with charcoal sticks and contempt. Yuuto was nervously trying to fluff up the bean bags.

Kenji was preparing for a nude haiku performance. In the background, he could be heard mumbling:"Cherry blossoms bloom / My left buttock faces East / Spring is awakening."

The interview was supposed to be a simple promotional piece."Art in Unlikely Places," the reporter had said.But now she was asking questions like:

"Do you think nudity is a form of protest in late-stage capitalism?"

"Is your school art therapy or just well-lit softcore?"

"Would you consider franchising?"

Kaito responded with a confident "Um," followed by an internal scream.

Haruka, of course, leaned in with a grin."We don't do softcore," she purred. "We do soulcore."

Kaito spit out his tea.

The reporter wrote that down with far too much interest.

After the interview, Kaito retreated to the supply closet—his unofficial panic room. It smelled like turpentine and regret. Rei followed, holding a sketchpad.

"I drew her," she said, flatly.

"Who?"

"The reporter. While she was judging us. I think it's one of my better insults."

She handed over the page.It was a surprisingly graceful sketch of the reporter, except her eyes were replaced with calculators and her mouth was a barcode.

"Yup," Kaito said. "That's art."

Rei nodded. Then added, "Also, she asked Yuuto if he modeled too. He fainted."

Meanwhile, in the main studio, Haruka was cleaning up and humming something vaguely romantic. She was distracted—and Haruka was never distracted.

She kept glancing at the window.

Not out of it.

At it.

More specifically, at the reflection of Kaito—who had emerged from the closet of stress and was now pretending to rearrange stools for no reason.

"Hey, Sensei," she said casually. "You wanna go on a date?"

Kaito froze.

"Like… with another person? Or—?"

She raised an eyebrow. "With me, idiot."

"Oh. Right. Yes. I mean. Maybe. If that's okay. I'm not great at—"

She walked over, flicked his forehead lightly.

"Pick me up tomorrow. Don't wear anything beige. That color hates you."

Then she walked out, humming again.

Kaito stood in silence.

Rei popped her head in."You just got asked out by a naked swordswoman."Then, dryly: "Do not blow it."

The Next Evening

Kaito stood outside a ramen bar in Nakameguro, holding a bouquet of slightly wilted wildflowers and wearing a black shirt that he was 72% sure Haruka wouldn't roast him for.

She arrived ten minutes late. In a vintage jacket, black boots, and a short skirt that said "I used to be an idol but now I say f**k it with style."

"You clean up okay," she said.

"You look like the end of a music video where the main character drives away on a motorcycle."

She smirked. "And you look like the guy who makes coffee for the crew."

They sat, ate, talked. And for the first time in months—no swords, no sketchpads, no nudity—just two people figuring out if they liked the same kind of miso.

Spoiler: they did.

Kaito told her about the turtleneck disaster. Haruka told him about the time a fan tattooed her face on their calf and cried when she quit.

By dessert (matcha ice cream, one spoon, shared without comment), the air was warm.

Real.

Alive.

Afterward, they walked to the river. Fireflies blinked like shy paparazzi.

Haruka leaned over the railing.

"You know," she said, "for a long time, I thought intimacy was a performance. Something I did for others. Fans. Cameras. Lovers. It's weird learning to just… be."

Kaito nodded slowly.

"I built an entire fashion brand around the idea of not being seen. Transparent fabrics. Hidden seams. Invisible Stitch."

Haruka looked at him. "You wanted to disappear?"

"I wanted someone to look past the clothes and see… me."

She reached out, took his hand. Warm. Firm.

"Well," she said, "I see you now."

And in the glow of the river, fireflies, and emotional exposure, Kaito Fujiwara didn't disappear.

He stood still.

Held.

Seen.

[End of Chapter 20]