Archive of Our Own

— Damn, I forgot my umbrella again and didn’t even check the weather today! – Nicholas was terribly frustrated by the situation. He needed to get home as soon as possible. On top of that, he had his camera with him, which could easily get soaked.

No money for a taxi, and the nearest bus stop was a 20-minute walk away. Wang was fine with walking, but time was ticking. If he tucked the camera under his jacket and used the jacket itself as a makeshift umbrella, everything should be fine.

His first steps quickly turned into a half-jog, launching this race to reach his target – the bus stop. Yixiang tried his best to leap around the puddles so he wouldn’t end up completely drenched. He still had so much work ahead of him. Nobody was going to pay his rent for him.

However, while the blond was staring down at his feet, he failed to notice an obstacle right in front of him: a random passerby. The collision wasn't too heavy. Neither of them fell, but his camera came dangerously close to crashing onto the pavement. The stranger reacted lightning-fast, catching the gear just in time, which made Wang’s soul — having almost jumped out of his boots — snap right back into place.

— I’m so sorry, and thank you so much, – Yixiang prepared to carry on, clutching the camera tightly, planning to walk slower to avoid another crash. But the guy who had just saved him from tragedy decided to disrupt the blond's plans.

— It’s completely fine. Let me help you walk to where you need to go under my umbrella, – as the guy walked beside him, Nicholas didn't feel a single drop hit his jacket, — I’m not in a rush, so I can easily help you out.

The offer was definitely useful. Straightening his back and looking up, Wang finally caught a glimpse of this guardian angel of his livelihood. 

Standing before him was a tall guy with dark hair, sharp cheekbones, and a prominent jawline. His eyes were slightly crinkled from a warm, caring smile. But to Nicholas, only one thing mattered: he would make an absolute dream of a model for a photoshoot.

— If you don't mind, I’ll take you up on that offer, – keeping pace with the stranger, Yixiang smiled, — I need to get to the nearest bus stop. It’s not far from here, I’ll lead the way.

— Glad to help. I can tell something important came up and you need to get there fast, – walking calmly without rushing, the passerby followed right behind the blond.

Walking alongside someone else made the trip feel much shorter and considerably less wet. That was a huge plus. But all good things come to an end — especially when the exact bus you need pulls away right under your nose.

— Ugh, what kind of day is this! – Nicholas was ready to pull his hair out over how unlucky he was being today. The next bus wouldn't arrive for another 30 minutes, since it was the only direct route without transfers. Given the current weather, he really just wanted a smooth ride, but now he’d have to transfer midway.

— Thanks again for the company and the help, um... Mr...?

— Just Maki. And yeah, I can see you're in a bit of a tough spot, haha, – lowering his umbrella after folding it neatly, the dark-haired guy pulled out his phone, — How about this: I’ll order you a taxi, and you give me your number. Not as a pickup line, no-no. I just think we’d get along really well as friends.

— Uh... Maki, got it. I'm Nicholas, – raising an eyebrow at such a generous gesture from a guy he barely knew, he initially wanted to decline, but after a moment's thought, he accepted the phone held out to him, — Fair enough... There, added my number.

With the smartphone back in its owner's hands, Wang waited for the taxi to be ordered. It wasn't every day you got a free ride from someone else. Yet now he felt like he'd have to pay it all back with interest down the road. The vibe off Maki was almost like that of a debt collector.

— Thanks, Nico. Can I call you that? And what’s the address you need to get to? – the guy was still tapping away on his phone, likely already in the ride-hailing app.

— Sure, everyone calls me that. And I need to get to Dotonbori, – Yixiang needed to get to a new shoot location as fast as possible to set up. A huge payday could easily vanish into thin air if he was late.

Maki nodded and confirmed the ride. An awkward silence settled between the two guys, each minding his own business. The blond opened a messaging app to coordinate with his client, while the dark-haired guy casually watched the cars driving past. The good news for both was that no passing car managed to splash them.

Truth be told, both young men were dressed quite well. Nicholas was definitely a stylish guy — you could hardly tell he shopped at thrift stores. It wasn't for nothing that a creative mind could turn cheap finds into gold. Maki, on the other hand, looked somewhat serious, dressed in a relaxed-formal style. Not a full business suit, but trousers with a button-up shirt, topped off with a cool, wet-asphalt gray coat — definitely looking high-end.

Wang’s first impression of the guy was that he was a spoiled kid born with a silver spoon in his mouth. Who in their right mind orders a taxi for a total stranger? Nicholas certainly wouldn't have done that. Though who knows what would go through his mind if he had extra cash lying around.

— Your ride is here, – Maki gestured toward the arrived car before giving a slight polite bow in farewell.

Yixiang returned the gesture as he slid into the back seat. Surprisingly, the car wasn't cheap — likely something on the level of a business class ride.

The trip was short, comfortable, and quiet. A perfect atmosphere to prep for work. The client promised to be interesting, especially considering the rumors management had shared about her. What nervous Wang was that the photoshoot had to be nude art, a genre the blond rarely worked in.

Stepping out of the car and thanking the driver, Yixiang walked straight onto a vibrant, neon-drenched street. Thick crowds of tourists packed the sidewalks, though the real crush would only start later in the evening. It was currently just past 5:00 PM. The appointment was in an hour, and the walk to the venue took about twenty minutes.

Squeezing through the crowd, the blond kept a firm grip on his camera bag. Even with the camera safely in its case hanging across his shoulder, the lingering paranoia of dropping it was real after what happened earlier.

Nicholas finally pushed through the last wave of tourists. Dotonbori was buzzing, glowing with neon lights, but he had no time to admire the view. He needed to find the entrance — a discreet door squeezed between two small eateries. The client had sent a landmark: "A sign with a dragon," but it was barely visible.

Yixiang located it by the smell of fried noodles. The door creaked open to reveal a narrow staircase leading down, the steps sticky from spilled sodas. The blond descended carefully to avoid slipping. The air hit his nose with the smell of dampness and old wood.

The basement turned out to be roomier than expected. Rough brick walls were partially draped in black velvet. The floor was concrete, though mostly hidden under a tangle of cables and tripods. In the corner sat an old couch with worn-out upholstery. Another section behind a folding screen was likely meant for makeup or changing.

Yixiang flipped the light switch. A dim bulb overhead cast a sterile, hospital-white glare — unusable lighting for a nude shoot. The blond looked around: several softboxes and color gel filters were stacked on a shelf. Lucky break. Some gear was already provided.

— Alright, time to make this place cozy, – Wang muttered to himself.

He fitted red filters over the lamps. A warm, crimson light flooded the room, swallowing the dampness and turning the cold concrete walls into something intimate and eye-catching. The shadows softened instantly. Even the old couch now looked surprisingly aesthetic. Nicholas smoothed out the black velvet on the walls to get rid of creases and adjusted his camera on the tripod. He checked the exposure and brightness. Red was a tricky color to balance, but he could handle it.

Twenty minutes later, a knock came at the door. Yixiang rushed to open it. On the threshold stood a girl — fragile, with a short bob haircut and wide eyes. She wore a floor-length trench coat with clearly nothing underneath. She smiled nervously.

— Are you Yixiang? I’m Miyuki. Your agency said you were a real pro, so... don't let me down.

— Likewise, – the blond nodded, stepping aside to let her in, — Make yourself comfortable while I finish setting up.

Miyuki slipped off her coat, standing there completely bare. Nicholas pretended to be intensely focused on his camera settings. His experience with nude photography was minimal, but he wasn't going to let it show. Standard procedure: frame the shot, catch the light, make the subject look stunning.

The shoot began. At first, everything went smoothly: the girl posed obediently on the couch, Wang clicked the shutter, and the red light bathed her skin like syrup. But then Miyuki asked to see a few shots.

— Yeah, these look great, – she drawled, scrolling through the preview screen, — Except... could you move that cable? It looks like a snake in the background.

Yixiang leaned down to clear the cable. But in doing so, his foot caught on another cord — the one connected to the studio strobe. The equipment crashed onto the floor with a loud thud, narrowly missing the camera tripod. The girl squealed and covered herself with her hands.

— Shit! – Wang gasped, reaching for the equipment. His heart plummeted, — I am so sorry! A thousand apologies! Are you okay?

— I think so... – Miyuki smoothed her hair with trembling hands, — Just be careful.

Nicholas set the strobe back upright and checked his camera. It was intact. Total dodge of a bullet. But the mood in the room had plummeted. The red light no longer felt cozy; it felt tense and oppressive.

To save the shoot, Yixiang turned it into a joke:

— Well, looks like I woke up your inner dragon. Let’s capture a shot with some attitude — like you just trashed the whole studio.

The girl snorted, then burst out laughing. The tension vanished instantly. The blond captured several fast, lively shots — catching her half-playful, half-annoyed smile. It turned out even better than originally planned.

— Alright, these shots came out fantastic, – Miyuki said ten minutes later as she put her clothes back on, — I’ll transfer the payment. And do clear that cable, please. You got lucky with me, but next time — who knows.

— Will do, – Nicholas nodded, seeing her out to the stairs.

Once the door closed behind her, he let out a heavy breath and leaned his back against the cool wall. The red light was still glowing, the equipment gently humming.

The client will be happy, – the blond thought, — My nerves, on the other hand, not so much.

He packed his camera into its case, switched off the softboxes, and climbed back up into the loud, rainy Dotonbori night. A phone in his pocket buzzed — a message from an unknown number. He glanced at the screen.

X: It’s Maki. Did you make it alright?

Nicholas smirked. The day had started with rain and ended with fallen studio lights and weird new acquaintances. Things couldn't possibly get any worse.

— Amusing, – he murmured to himself, heading toward the bus stop.

No more work for today, which was a massive relief. The payment for the last job had hit his account quickly, meaning he could afford to spend a little. Tomorrow was his day off anyway, a chance to relax properly. Today had completely destroyed his motivation to do anything, leaving Wang feeling like his current job wasn't his true calling — and that everything was awful, except for him.

While waiting for the bus, Yixiang decided to reply to Maki’s text, which he had read a few minutes earlier.

N: Everything’s fine. Thanks again for the help.

Still, something felt unfinished to the blond. Leaving things like this didn't feel right.

N: Maybe I could treat you to lunch or coffee sometime?

There. Now everything felt right. A savior deserved a proper thank-you, especially when they had paid for a business-class taxi.

The bus arrived, and Wang boarded, taking a seat by the window and putting in his earphones for a comfortable ride home.

His mind was filled only with thoughts of a warm shower, sleep, and peace.

The bus swayed gently. Nicholas sat by the window, his forehead resting against the cool glass. Outside, the wet streets of Osaka drifted past, filled with colorful signs in Kansai dialect and a few umbrella-clad pedestrians. Calm, instrumental music played in his earphones — a background track for his tired thoughts.

He realized he was no longer clutching his camera bag with a death grip like before. The case rested on his lap, and Wang finally let his shoulders drop.

Good. I'll be home soon.

His stop was in a residential neighborhood — one of those endless blocks of cheap two- and three-story apartment buildings. Yixiang stepped out into the light drizzle without even quickening his pace. Naturally, the camera stayed protected under his jacket. He walked past a 24-hour 7-Eleven, a laundromat, and a couple of small diners with automatic doors venting warm steam.

His building was a typical honeycomb structure: a narrow three-story box with peeling paint on the facade and a rusty iron staircase with wobbly handrails attached to the outside. No elevator — just steps that looked ready to fall apart.

Nicholas dragged himself up to the third floor. Neighboring bicycles were parked right at the foot of the stairs, and laundry hung drying under a small awning — business as usual. The smell of other people's dinners and laundry detergent hung in the air. Every step echoed through the metal frame of the staircase, but Wang was used to it. One step, another step. Keys jingled.

The apartment was tiny, but what else could you expect for a struggling photographer with terrible financial habits? Yixiang stepped inside and tossed his keys into a small plastic bowl near the doorway. He slipped off his soaked sneakers, hung his jacket on the drying rack, and switched on the oil heater. The walls were paper-thin; the neighbor to the left blasted his TV, while the neighbor to the right started coughing. Everything was audible, as if they were all sharing one room.

The blond carefully pulled out his camera, wiped it down with a dry cloth, and plugged it into the charger in the corner near the window.

— Get some rest, hard worker. I need to get myself sorted out now.

The shower booth was about the size of a space capsule. Wang tried to squeeze in without knocking over his skincare bottles. Turning on the hot water, he stood there for three minutes, staring at the white plastic panel with his mind blank. The water washed away the rain, his ruined mood, and the lingering red glow from that basement studio. Deep down, nude photography really wasn't his thing.

Afterward, Nicholas changed into soft sweatpants and an old vintage band t-shirt. The kitchenette consisted of a two-burner stove and a tiny sink. He brewed some green tea and pulled leftover rice with vegetables from the miniature fridge. Not much of a dinner, just a quick bite before bed.

At least tomorrow was his day off.

Yixiang stretched out on his futon, which he usually folded into the closet during the day. Right now, it was laid out on the floor over a thin mattress, with his pillow propped up high. Plans were already forming in his head: sleep in until noon, wander around aimlessly, maybe stop by a bookstore... Or buy a better-filled onigiri, now that the payment had cleared.

His phone chimed. The screen lit up in the dim room. The neighbor on the left went quiet, though the one on the right was still coughing. Yixiang propped himself up on an elbow, rubbed his eyes, and opened the chat.

M: Nico, you still up? Wow. Thanks for offering to treat me. Honestly, I was planning to suggest the same thing myself )) Want to meet up tomorrow? Are you free?

Nicholas raised an eyebrow.

Pushy... but sweet.

He quickly typed out a response without overthinking:

N: Yeah, tomorrow's actually my day off. What time and where?

The reply came almost instantly. Maki clearly hadn't put his phone away either.

M: Do you know that cafe Waffle Khan? The one with huge windows and Belgian waffles. In Sennichimae, not far from Dotonbori. Is 1:00 PM good for you?

Yixiang smirked. He loved waffles, though he rarely indulged — that place was far from cheap. But since Maki had suggested it, and he was the one who offered to pay…

N: Sounds good. See you tomorrow, Maki.

M: Sweet dreams.

The blond set his phone aside, turned off the nightlight, and stared at the ceiling. A muffled "bon appétit" echoed from behind the wall — the neighbor on the right still hadn't managed his cough. Yet, it felt almost cozy. His own little cell in the honeycomb, thin walls, an outdoor staircase echoing with someone's loud footsteps going down.

Meeting a stranger who paid for your taxi and saved your camera... Is this even normal? – Wang thought, — Well, since I offered, tomorrow can't possibly be worse than today.

He smiled to himself, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes. Tomorrow promised to be warm, quiet, and camera-free. Just coffee and waffles in good company.

— And no rain... hopefully, – he whispered into the pillow.

Of course, he still had no idea what kind of person Maki really was. But it was just a one-time meetup tomorrow.

Somewhere below, a front door slammed, its echo trailing up the concrete stairwell. Nicholas drifted off to sleep to the quiet humming of his camera charger and the distant rumble of nighttime Osaka.

The sun broke through a crack in the cheap blinds in a thin but persistent sliver of light. It landed right on Nicholas's face, making him wince and roll over to his other side. The futon had bunched up overnight into one massive fold somewhere under his lower back, the pillow had slid off to the side, and his left arm had gone completely numb.

— M-m-m, no... five more minutes, – he muttered into the void, pulling the blanket all the way up to his nose.

But his phone's alarm thought otherwise. An obnoxious, vibrating trill crawled across the wooden floor—Wang had forgotten to put it on the nightstand, and now the gadget was twitching somewhere near his headboard like a trapped bug. He had to peel his eyes open.

He sat up on the futon, squinting at the light and trying to remember what day it was. The weekend. Right, the weekend. He could have slept until noon, but...

The phone pinged again. Not an alarm this time, but a message.

Nicholas reached for it, still warm from charging. The screen lit up, displaying a text from Maki:

*M: Good morning, Nico. See you at 1 PM. I'll be waiting.*

And a blinking cursor, inviting him to type a reply.

That was when his stomach did a flip. His sleepiness vanished instantly, as if it had never been there at all.

He set the phone down and sat with his back perfectly straight for a few seconds, staring at the wall in front of him. A strange feeling settled in his chest—a mix of nerves and some ticklish anticipation. Nicholas even chuckled to himself: a grown man, handled so many photoshoots, haggled with clients until steam came out of his ears, and here... a basic meetup at a cafe with a guy he barely knew, and his knees were acting like jelly.

— What the hell, Wang, get a grip, – he said aloud, and the sound of his own voice made him feel a bit better.

He pushed himself up, stretching until his spine popped. His joints protested with a dull ache—thanks to a futon that was old as dirt. His bare feet slapped against the cold floor toward the shower cabin. It was time to make himself look decent.

The hot water felt especially good today. Wang stood under the spray, leaning his forehead against the plastic wall, trying to sort out whatever was happening inside his head.

What was he even feeling?

Gratitude? Yes, absolutely. Maki had literally saved him from a disaster yesterday—saving his camera, his nerves, and his reputation with the client. Any normal person in his shoes would have said "thank you" a hundred times and moved on.

But he just couldn't.

The brunette's face kept flashing before his eyes—that combination of sharp cheekbones, a strong jawline, and a soft, almost gentle smile. He remembered how Maki had leaned in to catch the falling camera—fast, precise, without any wasted movement. How his fingers had almost brushed Nicholas's hands in that moment, and his heart skipped a beat.

Wang shook his head, sending water droplets flying against the shower walls. No, what kind of thoughts were these so early in the morning? Just a random meeting. Just gratitude. Just coffee.

— Just coffee... – he repeated in a whisper, and the echo in the small shower stall didn't sound very convincing.

After his shower, he towel-dried his hair and stood in front of his open closet. This is where the real problems began.

Nicholas was generally not the type to overthink his outfits. His wardrobe had been built over the years on a "like it, wear it" basis, mostly consisting of thrift store finds, vintage pieces, and rare sale items. Clothes with history, with character. But right now, that character seemed to be mocking its owner.

He pulled out his favorite shirt—dark blue, micro-checkered, with a frayed collar that fit perfectly because it had been broken in by someone else's hands before him. He looked at it, held it up to himself, and twisted around in front of the cloudy mirror on the inside of the closet door. Looks good. But isn't it too simple? For a place like Waffle Khan, where Maki probably hangs out every week...

— Who cares where he hangs out? – Wang scolded himself out loud and tossed the shirt aside.

Next to go was an indie band graphic tee—too worn out. Then a hoodie with stretched sleeves—wrong for the weather, and just... no. Then another shirt, black this time, but it belonged to the "going out" category, and wearing it for a simple coffee felt like overkill.

He froze.

A simple coffee. Since when did he stress so much over a "simple coffee"?

His inner voice—that same snarky one that always woke up in moments of doubt—helpfully supplied a thought: *You're not stressing over the coffee. You're stressing over Maki. And you know it perfectly well.*

Nicholas clicked his tongue and decisively grabbed a light gray chunky-knit sweatshirt—soft, cozy, with a slightly stretched neckline that could be casually tugged off the shoulder if needed. Underneath, a plain white tee. Jeans—his favorite ones, a bit faded at the knees but clean and neat. Not too dressy, not too casual. Comfortable.

— This is how you're going, – he told his reflection, smoothing down his still-damp hair. The blonde strands stuck out in different directions, but it was that perfect creative mess that actually suited him. Maybe a little *too* suited for a "simple coffee." But Wang decided not to entertain that thought any further.

There was still plenty of time until 1 PM, but he started getting ready anyway. Pulled on his socks, checked for holes (nope, thank god), put on his only decent sneakers—dark burgundy with white soles, bought on sale half a year ago. He grabbed his wallet from the drawer; after yesterday's payment from Miyuki, it was a little thicker than usual. More than enough for coffee and waffles.

Wang picked up his phone again and opened his chat with Maki. His finger hovered over the keyboard.

What should he write? *Good morning, can't wait*? Too enthusiastic. *Okay, see you*? Too dry. *Thanks for the reminder*? As if he could forget...

He went with something in the middle:

*N: Good morning. Leaving soon.*

Minimalist, no unnecessary emotions. But his heart still jumped into his throat when the message went through. And a reply came almost instantly, as if Maki had been holding his phone in his hand:

*M: I'll be waiting. Be careful out there, the streets are still wet from yesterday.*

Care. There's that care of his again. Nicholas bit his lip and placed the phone face down so he wouldn't look at the message and reread it for the tenth time.

He looked around his small apartment. Today it felt especially cramped and especially empty. The unmade futon, a mug with yesterday's tea dregs in the kitchen, his camera by the window quietly blinking its green charging light. Wang walked over to it and ran a finger along the body, almost like a goodbye. Today, it was staying home. Today, he wasn't a photographer on an assignment. Today, he was just... Nicholas. Just Nico, going to grab coffee with the guy who saved him on a rainy evening.

The thought of having to sit across from Maki and talk about something for a whole hour (or maybe more?) made his insides twist again. What would they talk about? The weather? Yesterday? What if there was an awkward silence? Wang hated awkward silences; they threw him off balance worse than a ruined photoshoot.

*What if I bore him?* the thought flashed in his mind. *What if he realizes I'm not some cool photographer, but just a regular guy who barely scrapes by on gigs and lives in a cardboard box?*

And then, another thought, quieter but persistent: *But he asked you out. He texted first. He suggested meeting up. Which means he cares. Which means something caught his eye.*

Nicholas exhaled, closed his eyes, and counted to five—an old trick he learned back in school when his pre-exam anxiety went through the roof. It didn't always work, but right now it helped him relax a little.

He grabbed his keys, checked his pockets (phone, wallet, earphones—just in case), and threw on that same jacket that had been soaked through yesterday but had dried overnight and now smelled warm and familiar. He cast a final glance at the mirror by the door—small, round, and taped to the wall because he didn't have a proper one.

Staring back from the reflection was a guy with slightly messy blonde hair, in a cozy gray sweatshirt, with a faint blush on his cheeks—whether from the hot shower or the nerves. His eyes shone a little more than usual, and Wang couldn't decide if he liked that or if it scared him.

— Okay, let's go, – he whispered to himself, opening the door.

The hallway smelled the way it always did—of neighbors' lunches, laundry detergent, and slight dampness. The stairs creaked familiarly under his feet as he went down. On the second floor, a door slammed—someone taking out the trash. On the first floor, a poorly parked bicycle rattled. Everything as usual. Mundane. Familiar.

But Nicholas himself felt different. Like he hadn't just stepped out of his house, but crossed some invisible line. Like today wasn't just a day off, but something bigger. Something that could change the usual order of things.

The building door yielded with a slight creak, and Wang stepped out into the street. Fresh air hit his face—humid from yesterday's rain, but already warmed by today's sun. It smelled of wet leaves, heating asphalt, and faintly of pastries from a nearby bakery.

Nicholas paused on the porch, looked up at the sky, and took a deep breath. A full breath, right to the bottom of his lungs. The air was cool and clean; it tickled his nostrils and chased the lingering anxiety to the back of his mind.

— Get a grip, Wang, – he whispered, looking at the blue sky where rare, almost transparent clouds crawled lazily. — Just coffee. Just a conversation. Just a good day.

His heart was still beating faster than usual, but now it wasn't agonizing—it was almost pleasant, like the light thrill before something new and, possibly, beautiful. He took another deep breath, exhaled much calmer now, and took his first step toward the bus stop.

Nicholas walked toward the bus stop, carefully dodging puddles. After yesterday's downpour, the asphalt still gleamed, reflecting the rare rays of the sun, and every step echoed with a slight squelch under his soles. The air smelled of ozone and wet leaves—that specific scent you get after a good thunderstorm, when nature has calmed down but the city still remembers.

Wang caught himself walking faster than usual. Not because he was late—no, he had time to spare. Something inside was just pushing him, a kind of impatience he didn't fully understand himself. He even stopped halfway, caught his breath, and forced himself to slow down.

— Where's the fire, idiot? – he muttered under his breath, watching a bicycle ride past. — Going to an emergency? A date?

The word "date" grated on his ears even in his own head. He immediately corrected himself mentally: not a date, just a meetup. Just coffee with a guy who helped him. Just showing gratitude.

But then why were his palms slightly sweaty, and why did his chest harbor that exact same feeling he got before an important photoshoot—a mix of fear and thrill, when something more than just money is on the line?

People were already crowding the bus stop—a couple of students with backpacks, an elderly woman with a shopping cart, and a man in a business suit who kept checking his watch. Nicholas stood a little to the side, shoved his hands into his jacket pockets, and stared at the schedule board. The bus was supposed to arrive in seven minutes. Seven minutes of doing nothing. Seven minutes to start running possible conversation scenarios through his head again.

*Hey, Maki. Thanks again for yesterday.*

No, too formal.

*Hey man! How's it going?*

Too overly familiar, they'd only met once.

*Good afternoon. Nice to see you.*

Decent. But for some reason, his tongue wouldn't even form the words mentally.

The bus pulled up with a quiet electric hum, the doors hissed open, and Nicholas stepped inside, tapping his card on the reader. He took a seat by the window, just like yesterday—a habit built from years of commuting. The bus started moving, and familiar streets drifted by the window.

Osaka was waking up. Shop shutters were rolling up, vendors were setting out promotional stands on the sidewalks, an old song played from a radio somewhere. Wang watched all this, trying to distract himself, but his thoughts stubbornly returned to the upcoming meeting.

What did he even know about Maki?

His name. The fact that he's tall. That he has broad shoulders and a very sharp gaze—Nicholas noticed that yesterday when the brunette caught his falling camera. That he wears expensive clothes, but somehow... not in a flashy way, just naturally. As if a several-hundred-dollar coat is just a coat to him, not a way to show off his status. And that he ordered a business-class taxi without even asking for the address first—just because he could.

And also that he smiled in a way that made Nicholas's insides do a flip.

— This is crazy, – he whispered, leaning his forehead against the cold glass.

The bus swayed on a turn, and Wang instinctively grabbed the handrail. Outside the window, the neon signs of Dotonbori were already flashing by—bright and loud, they looked completely different in the daylight. Without the evening magic, without the crowds of tourists, they seemed almost vulnerable. Like actors without makeup.

His stop was announced ten minutes later. Nicholas stepped out, adjusted his sweatshirt, and looked around. Waffle Khan was tucked somewhere in the alleys of Sennichimae—a neighborhood he knew mostly by hearsay. There were fewer tourists here and more local spots for people who could afford not to cheap out on lunch.

Wang checked the map on his phone and turned into a narrow alley squeezed between two tall buildings. It smelled of freshly ground coffee and something sweet, like vanilla. The shop windows gleamed clean, and the paving stones under his feet were even and clearly new—nothing like the busted asphalt in his neighborhood.

With every step, his anxiety grew. It scratched somewhere under his ribs, making his heart beat a little faster and his breathing a bit shallower. Nicholas hated this feeling. He was used to being in control: at shoots, talking to clients, even when things went off the rails. But right now, there was no control. Now, everything depended on how the conversation would go, how Maki would act, how he himself would look in the eyes of this... who? A friend? An acquaintance?

— Stop, – he scolded himself. — You've seen him once. Once. Calm down.

And there it was—the cafe.

Waffle Khan turned out exactly as Maki had described: large floor-to-ceiling panoramic windows, through which he could see a cozy interior with wooden tables and soft armchairs. Above the entrance was a neatly calligraphed sign, and next to the door stood a small menu board. Just one look at it made Nicholas's eyes go wide. The prices here were... well, let's just say, not for his wallet. One thousand two hundred yen for a waffle? Nine hundred for a latte? He mentally calculated the contents of his wallet and swallowed hard. Enough for coffee and waffles, sure. But tipping was definitely out of the question.

— It's fine, – he whispered, straightening his back. — I offered to treat him. So I will.

He pushed the door open, and a little bell chimed above his head. Inside, it smelled of cinnamon, vanilla, and freshly brewed espresso—a thick, enveloping aroma that instantly wrapped around him from head to toe. The interior matched: exposed brick on one wall, warm light from Edison bulbs hanging from the ceiling on long cords, and a soft jazz melody drifting from hidden speakers.

At one of the tables by the window sat Maki.

He was dressed more casually today than yesterday—a dark green turtleneck sweater that accentuated his shoulders, and black jeans. No coat, no office strictness. But even in these clothes, he looked like he'd stepped off the pages of a style magazine. His hair was slightly tousled—maybe from the wind outside, or maybe because he was nervous too and had been running a hand through it. In front of him sat a cup of something steaming, but he wasn't drinking it; he was just warming his hands on it, staring thoughtfully out the window.

Nicholas froze for a second, just taking in the sight. Then he took a deep breath—the way he taught himself to do before difficult shoots—and headed toward the table.

Maki noticed him when Wang was just a couple of meters away. His expression changed instantly: thoughtfulness gave way to a warm smile, and that same spark Nicholas remembered from yesterday lit up his eyes. He half-rose from his chair—a polite gesture that somehow made Wang even more flustered.

— Nico! Glad you made it. Take a seat.

— Hey, – Nicholas pulled off his jacket and hung it on the back of his chair, trying to do it as casually as possible. It didn't work out great: his sleeve caught on a corner, and he had to yank it free. — Thanks again for yesterday. I'm still amazed at how you caught that falling camera. God-tier reflexes.

— It was nothing, – Maki waved it off and pushed the menu toward him. — The main thing is the gear is safe. I wouldn't have forgiven myself if someone's work tool got damaged because of our clumsy run-in.

Wang absentmindedly took the menu and skimmed the prices again. Yep, he hadn't misread it outside. Twelve hundred for a waffle. Fifteen hundred for a signature dessert. Coffee—starting at seven hundred yen. He quickly did the math: if they each got a drink and a waffle, it would come out to around four thousand with tax. Plus, maybe Maki would want something else...

He frowned, trying to keep a poker face, but Maki seemed to notice something. His smile softened a bit, and his gaze grew more attentive.

— Did you want to get something? – he asked, tilting his head.

— Yeah, – Wang cleared his throat and set the menu aside. — By the way, I told you I'm paying. So pick whatever you want, it's on me. It's the least I can do after yesterday.

Maki squinted slightly, and there was something so... understanding in that look. He didn't argue. He just nodded to some internal thought, then raised his hand to catch a waitress's attention.

— Won't be shy then.

A girl in a dark apron holding a tablet approached the table. She clearly recognized Maki—a short nod, a polite half-smile reserved for regulars.

— Good afternoon, Maki-san. The usual?

— Yes, please. A double espresso and a Vienna waffle with wild berries, – he shifted his gaze to Nicholas, and there was a hint of amusement in his eyes. — And my friend, – he paused slightly on the word "friend," and Wang couldn't help but notice it, — will choose for himself.

Nicholas opened the menu again, realizing there was no backing out now. Alright, in for a penny, in for a pound. He ordered a latte and a classic chocolate waffle, trying not to look at the price column. When the waitress walked away, he turned to Maki and said honestly:

— It's insane how expensive it is here. I thought Dotonbori was pricey, but this...

Maki laughed quietly. His laugh was deep, slightly raspy—very pleasant to listen to.

— I come here for the atmosphere, not the prices. It's quiet, and it rarely gets crowded. You can actually work or think in peace. And their waffles really are good, – he took a sip from his cup and continued. — So, how's your camera? Didn't take any damage after all that?

— No, thankfully. I checked it when I got home, – Wang perked up—this was a familiar and safe topic. — But I almost ruined everything at the shoot.

— Oh? What happened?

And Nicholas was off. He started telling him about yesterday's gig, about the basement studio, about Miyuki, about how he struggled to set up the red lighting. He spoke the way he always did—emotionally, waving his hands around, sometimes dropping to a loud whisper as if sharing state secrets.

— ...and red is just a hellish color for shooting. It eats everything! Contrast, details, skin tones—it all turns to mush. I spent half an hour doing witchcraft with the settings, swapping filters, almost blinded the model with the flash... Long story short, I hate red lighting. It's as moody as...

— ...like a kid who didn't get their candy? – Maki prompted with a slight smirk.

— Exactly! – Wang even snapped his fingers. — And it’d be fine if it was just about setting it up, but it changes when the model moves! She steps slightly to the side—and boom, the whole vibe drops to zero. I swear, I almost went gray yesterday.

Maki set his cup aside, interlaced his fingers, and rested his chin on his hands. His eyes—dark, with some deep undertone that Wang still couldn't quite pinpoint—looked straight at him, intensely attentive. It was the look of someone who wasn't just listening, but actually hearing you.

— You know, – he began, his voice dropping slightly as if he were about to share something important, — red gels really are incredibly finicky. I usually work with them by setting the exposure compensation to minus one-third of a stop. It lets you preserve the details in the shadows, and then I pull the contrast up using curves in post-production. Also, if your model is moving around, you can use continuous lighting instead of a strobe—yeah, it’s weaker, but at least you see what you’re getting in real time. And with red, that’s especially crucial because the camera sensor reads it differently than the human eye. What looks rich and deep to you might end up looking like a bloody mess on the screen.

He spoke calmly, steadily, almost casually. But every single word hit the bullseye—the exact same problems Nicholas had been agonizing over last night. Minus one-third of a stop. Curves. Continuous lighting instead of a strobe. These weren't just generic phrases or tips from the internet. This was experience. The real, hard-earned experience of a person who had faced those exact same hurdles more than once.

Wang froze. His hand, which had been reaching for his glass of water, stopped mid-air. Something clicked in his head—as if a puzzle he hadn't even been trying to solve suddenly snapped into place on its own.

Maki wasn't just some guy with money. Maki was a photographer.

And not just a photographer. He was someone who actually knew what he was talking about. Someone who understood the technical side of things on a level Nicholas hadn't even considered.

Everything inside him flipped. Gratitude, surprise, and a strange, almost painful sense of admiration tangled into a knot that lodged somewhere in his throat. He looked at Maki, at his calm face, at the faint smile playing on his lips, and felt his entire perception of this man bursting at the seams, reshaping into something completely new.

— What?

Nicholas blinked. Then blinked again. Somewhere in the back of his mind, the thought struck him that he must look utterly ridiculous — arm frozen mid-air over the table, mouth slightly agape — but he couldn’t help himself. Maki’s words kept ringing in his head, layering over one another: “minus a third of a stop,” “continuous light instead of strobe,” “the sensor reads it differently than the eye.”

These weren't the terms of an amateur. This was the speech of a professional.

— Hold on, – Wang finally lowered his hand and leaned forward slightly, studying the dark-haired guy's face with a new, heightened intensity. — Are you... are you a photographer? Seriously?

Maki smiled. It was that exact same smile Nicholas remembered from yesterday — wide, open, with his eyes crinkling at the corners. But now there was something else in it. A quiet kind of joy, as if he had been waiting for this exact question and was thrilled to finally answer it.

— Seriously, – he said simply, leaning back against his chair. — Though, to be honest, I thought you’d guessed already.

— Why on earth would I guess? – Wang still couldn't bring himself to close his mouth. His brain frantically replayed yesterday’s events: meeting in the rain, the umbrella, the taxi, how skillfully Maki had caught the camera... Wait. The camera. He had caught it the way only someone who knows the true value of that gear would. Someone who had held one in their own hands thousands of times.

— Well, – Maki tilted his head slightly toward his shoulder, a gesture that carried something almost boyish despite his overall composure, — I reacted faster to a falling camera than to a falling person. I’d say that speaks volumes.

Wang couldn't hold it in and burst out laughing. It came out a bit nervous and breathless — the kind of laugh you let out when tension melts away, but you still haven't fully processed what's happening.

— I just thought you had great reflexes. Or that you were just a polite guy with money who... – he cut himself off, realizing he had blurted out a bit too much.

— With money? – Maki smiled again, without a single trace of offense in his voice, — Well, you weren't wrong about that. I do have money. But that doesn't change the fact that I’m a photographer. And apparently, just as crazy of one as you are.

At that moment, the waitress approached their table with a tray. She neatly arranged the plates and cups: placing a double espresso in a tiny white cup along with a waffle topped with a mound of fresh berries and powdered sugar in front of Maki; and placing a tall glass of foamy latte alongside a waffle drenched in hot chocolate in front of Nicholas. The rich aroma of fresh pastry and coffee instantly filled the space between them, and Wang involuntarily inhaled. It smelled amazing.

— Enjoy your meal, – the girl said, disappearing as silently as she had arrived.

Maki picked up his espresso cup, but didn't drink right away — he simply brought it to his face, taking in the aroma. His eyes, still crinkled in a smile, looked at Nicholas over the rim of the cup. There was something warm, almost tender in that gaze — the way one looks at a person who has just made a major discovery and hasn't quite realized its full significance yet.

— You look like you’ve seen a ghost, – he noted.

— It’s just... – Wang broke off a piece of waffle and popped it into his mouth, wanting to occupy his hands and give himself a few seconds to think. The chocolate was hot and rich, the batter soft and airy. Ridiculously delicious. — It’s just that I didn't expect it. You don't look like a photographer.

— Then what do I look like?

Nicholas paused to think. Really, what did he look like? A businessman? An heir to a wealthy family? A man accustomed to getting whatever he wants with a snap of his fingers? All of those traits existed in Maki, but now, after his remarks about photography, those pieces suddenly clicked into a different picture altogether. He wasn't some playboy wasting his life away. He was a man with means, but one who didn't throw them away on hollow entertainment. A man who knew the value of things — of gear, of light, and of a great shot.

— I don't know, – Wang admitted honestly, — Like someone who’s used to being in complete control.

Maki let out a quiet laugh and finally took a sip from his cup.

— That’s true. I am used to controlling everything. But in photography, as you know, control is an illusion. You can set up the perfect lighting, compose the shot flawlessly, but at the critical second, the model blinks, or the wind blows the wrong way, or a cloud covers the sun. And there’s nothing you can do about it. You just have to... adapt.

He spoke so calmly, so casually, as if they were old friends discussing work over morning coffee. And Wang, who only half an hour ago had been struggling with anxiety and weighing every single word, suddenly felt something loosen inside him.

It felt like adjusting the focus ring on a lens — at first, the image is blurry and out of focus, and then suddenly, snap — everything turns crisp. So sharp that you can spot the finest details.

He wasn't a guest here. He wasn't a beggar. He was a colleague. Someone who spoke the exact same language as Maki.

And that realization washed over him like a warm wave.

— How did you get into photography? – Wang asked, no longer caring how the question might sound. He was genuinely curious, — You know, considering you clearly had the means to do whatever you wanted.

Maki set his cup down and pondered. His fingers — long, with neatly trimmed nails — rested on the edge of the table, and he absentmindedly tapped on the wood, as if beating a rhythm.

— Because of my father, strangely enough. He collects art. Paintings, sculptures, old prints. We have a whole gallery at home, can you imagine? – he gave a subtle smirk, though there was no vanity in it, just a light self-deprecating irony, — When I was a kid, he’d take me to exhibitions and talk about artists. About how they saw the world. About how light falls on a face in Rembrandt’s portraits, or how Japanese ukiyo-e masters captured the motion of water. I’d listen and think: “I want to do that too. But I can't draw.”

Wang listened with bated breath, completely forgetting about his waffle, which was already starting to cool down. Forgetting about his latte, its foam long since settled. Sitting right in front of him was a man telling a story — his own story — and every word sounded raw and authentic.

— Then my father gave me my first camera, – Maki continued, — An old, film Nicon. He said: “If you can't draw the light, catch it.” So I started catching it. At first, just everything in sight — cats, trees, sunsets. But as I grew older, I realized I was drawn to shooting people more than anything else.

— Portraits? – Nicholas clarified, leaning in closer.

— Yeah. Mostly fashion and model shoots, – Maki paused, picking his words carefully. His eyes drifted toward the window, where pedestrians outside were hurrying about their business, — I work with agencies. Shoot for magazines, catalogs, sometimes ad campaigns. You know, those glossy photos where everything looks flawless: the skin, the clothes, the lighting. The model stands in the right pose with the right expression, and the whole thing looks... pretty.

— Sounds like a dream, – Wang remarked.

— A dream? – Maki turned his gaze back to him, a faint trace of weariness flickering in his eyes, — Maybe. For some people, sure. But you see... – he took a beat and, perhaps for the first time in their entire conversation, appeared reflective rather than confident, as though opening up about something he rarely shared with anyone, — In commercial shoots, everything is strictly dictated. There’s a brief, an art director, a client who wants it to look “just like that magazine.” You aren't creating art — you’re producing a product. At some point, I caught myself thinking that I wasn't catching the light anymore. I was just... pushing a button.

Nicholas remained quiet. He had things he could say, but he felt it was more important to just listen right now. Because Maki was talking about something Wang himself had experienced countless times — just from the opposite side of the spectrum. He, Wang, lacked resources but possessed creative freedom. While Maki had everything handed to him, yet remained trapped within the boundaries of client demands.

— I want to feel free when it comes to that, – the dark-haired guy said, his voice dropping lower and more intimate, as if confessing something sacred, — To shoot not what I’m told to, but what I actually see. What I feel. Do you get it?

He raised his eyes to Nicholas, and there was so much yearning for something genuine in that look that Wang felt a sharp ache in his chest. He understood. Oh, he understood all too well.

Outside, the natural light had begun to shift. The sunbeams that had flooded the table half an hour ago were now softer and more diffused. Clouds drifted across the sky — not heavy rainclouds like yesterday, but light, translucent ones that only slightly dimmed the sunlight. The interior of the cafe grew a shade darker, allowing the Edison bulbs overhead to play a more prominent role, casting soft orange glimmers against the walls.

The jazz track that had been playing in the background transitioned into a slower piece, anchored by a deep upright bass and the subtle rustle of cymbals. The music, the light, the conversation — everything blended into a single, cohesive sense of comfort. The kind of cozy intimacy that only happens when you sit with someone close and realize that time is flowing differently. Slower. Just right.

Nicholas picked up his cup of now-cool latte and took a sip. The coffee still tasted great — pleasantly bitter, with a smooth, milky finish. He looked at Maki over the rim of the glass and suddenly realized he wasn't nervous anymore. Not at all. That sticky, unpleasant anxiety that had been scratching under his ribs all morning had completely vanished. In its place, something new was spreading inside — warm, genuine, and almost thrilling.

Interest. A deep, genuine interest in the person sitting across from him.

And it wasn't just because Maki turned out to be a photographer. It was how he spoke about his work — with pain, with longing, with that very same obsession Wang had always considered uniquely his own. Turns out, it wasn't just his. Turns out this tall, wealthy, impeccably dressed guy also went to bed thinking about composition. Also woke up with an idea for a new frame. Also got frustrated when the light refused to cooperate, and felt that spark of joy when he managed to capture that one perfect moment.

— You know, – Wang said, setting his cup down as the corners of his lips curved up on their own, — Yesterday, when I first saw you, I thought only one thing: “He would make an absolute dream of a model.”

Maki raised an eyebrow in surprise, then burst out laughing — out loud, tossing his head back. His laughter echoed through the half-empty cafe, making the waitress behind the counter look up from her tablet for a brief second before returning to her work.

— Me? A model? – he asked, still smiling, — Nico, usually people put me on the other side of the camera.

— I gathered that much, – Wang smiled back, wide and open, and it felt incredibly good, — But if you ever want to try — I have a great red gel filter. I promise not to drop the strobe.

— It’d be a sin to decline an offer like that, – Maki was still smiling, but now there was something deeper in his eyes. A sense of gratitude. Or anticipation. Or maybe both at once.

They ended up staying at the cafe for a long time — far longer than either of them had planned. They ordered another cup of coffee each. Then another one. The waffles were long gone, the plates cleared away, but they kept talking and talking — about photographers who inspired them, studios they had worked in, and how tricky it was to shoot with natural light when the weather changed every five minutes.

Nicholas shared stories about his assignments — strange, ridiculous, sometimes disastrous ones. About the time he shot a wedding and dropped a lens into a fountain. About a client who asked to be made "look ten years younger" and got offended when Wang honestly told him that Photoshop wasn't a time machine.

Maki laughed listening to those stories, then shared some of his own. About models who turned up three hours late. About clients who said "make it look pretty" without having the slightest clue what they actually wanted. About a high-stakes shoot where all the studio equipment broke down, forcing him to shoot on a smartphone — and how those photos ended up on a magazine cover anyway.

And the more they talked, the clearer it became to Nicholas: this was it. That exact feeling when you meet someone you can talk to forever. Where every topic naturally leads to another, where silence doesn't feel heavy, but simply gives you a breather before the next wave of conversation. It was rare. Terribly rare.

At one point, Wang caught himself staring at Maki just a beat longer than he should have. At the way he brushed his hair back, tucking away a stray lock. At how his fingers wrapped around the cup — carefully, almost gently. At the tiny crinkles forming around his eyes whenever he laughed.

And something fluttered inside him. Something Wang couldn't quite put a name to just yet.

Outside, the clouds had gathered a bit denser, and the first faint shadow chased across the glass — a hint of impending rain. But today, it didn't feel threatening. Today, even the rain felt like a natural part of this perfect, cozy scene.

The sun had already begun to sink toward the horizon by the time they finally stepped out of the cafe. Time had slipped by completely unnoticed — Wang couldn't even remember the last time he had spent several hours just talking without feeling exhausted or wanting to bolt. Being around Maki was... effortless. Astonishingly easy, as though they hadn't just met yesterday, but had known each other for years.

The street welcomed them back with the same humid air, which had grown noticeably cooler over the past few hours. The clouds that had previously only dimmed the sun had now merged into a thick blanket, turning the sky that familiar shade — a silver-gray that always signals steady rain. It smelled of wet pavement, cooling pastries from a nearby bakery, and something faint and floral, as if late lilac was blooming somewhere close by.

Nicholas zipped up his jacket and straightened the collar of his sweatshirt, which had gotten rumpled while sitting in the cafe. Maki stood beside him, casually shoving his hands into his jeans pockets, looking up at the sky with an expression as if calculating the exposure for an imaginary shot.

— Looks like it's starting up again, – he noted, shifting his gaze to Nicholas. — Did you bring an umbrella with you?

— Nope, – Wang admitted honestly, chuckling as he recalled yesterday. — You should have figured it out by now: I don't check weather forecasts. It's my personal brand.

— Then I'm glad I get the chance to be your umbrella again, – Maki smiled his signature smile — the one that brought tiny rays of crinkles to the corners of his eyes and made his gaze look outrageously warm. — But I have a better idea.

— Like what?

— Let's schedule a shoot, – he said simply, as if it were the most natural continuation of their conversation.

Wang blinked. He had only suggested it as a joke back at the cafe, never expecting Maki to take it seriously. At least, not this fast.

— Are you serious?

— Completely, – the dark-haired guy turned his body toward him slightly, leaving them standing nearly face-to-face on the narrow sidewalk. A couple carrying grocery bags walked past, a bicycle bell chimed somewhere in the distance, but all of it remained on the faint periphery. — You said I’d make a good model. I want to test that theory.

Nicholas froze for a second. His professional brain instantly kicked into gear — that exact part of him that always woke up at the word "shoot." He was already visualizing it: location, lighting, composition. Maki, with his sharp cheekbones and defined jaw, his dark eyes that could turn icy one moment and scorching warm the next depending on his mood. A black-and-white portrait? Or something in the shadows, with a harsh side light emphasizing the structure of his face?

— Fine, – Wang felt a wide smile spreading across his face. — But on one condition.

— Name it.

— After I shoot you, – he raised his index finger as if placing a seal on a contract, — you shoot me.

Maki raised an eyebrow in surprise. Then he let out a short chuckle, clearly intrigued.

— Is that so? You want to swap roles?

— Exactly. You said you lacked creative freedom. I'm no model, but... – Wang hesitated slightly, searching for the right words, — I think it could be interesting. For both of us.

Maki looked at him for a few seconds — intensely, thoughtfully, as though he were already sizing up angles and lighting himself. Then he nodded, a gesture carrying the edge of an accepted challenge. Something adventurous.

— Deal. First you shoot me, then I shoot you. Like two rounds in a game.

— Exactly, – Wang pulled his phone out of his pocket and opened his calendar. — When are you free? My week is pretty packed, but weekends are almost always open. Except when some eccentric client decides to book a nude shoot in a basement.

Maki smirked again and pulled out his phone as well. For a few seconds, they stood on the sidewalk cross-checking their schedules, an act that felt strangely natural — as if they had done this a hundred times before.

— Saturday, – the dark-haired guy said finally. — My whole morning is clear. We can start early while the light is still soft.

— Perfect. Saturday it is. I'll send you the address of a studio we can rent for a reasonable price. I have one in mind — not far from Namba. It has a massive window and white walls, perfect for playing with natural light.

— What if it rains?

— Then we play with the rain, – Wang shrugged. — After all, rain is the whole reason we met. It’d be symbolic.

Maki lowered his phone and looked at him with a new expression — as if Nicholas had just voiced something he had been thinking himself but hadn't dared to say out loud.

— Symbolic, – he repeated quietly. — I like how your mind works, Nico.

At that soft "Nico," something inside Wang fluttered once more — that exact feeling he had been trying to ignore all day. It felt like a tiny electric shock: brief, yet undeniable. He quickly looked away and slipped his phone back into his pocket, pretending to adjust his jacket.

— By the way, – Maki stashed his phone as well, looking at him with the same gentle half-smile, — are you heading home? Let me call you a cab.

— Again? – Wang frowned. — Maki, seriously, yesterday was more than enough. I can't...

— You can, – he interrupted softly, without any pressure. There was no condescension in his voice, no desire to show off. Just something very simple and human. — It's a long way to your place, the bus will take forever to arrive, and the rain, – he nodded toward the sky, where the first drops were already beginning to fall, — is about to come down hard. I just don't want you getting soaked and stressed again. It’s not a grand gesture, it’s not charity. It’s... well, just caring.

"Just caring." Words that could have sounded melodramatic or pushy, but coming from Maki, they sounded exactly as intended. Simple. Genuine.

Nicholas wanted to protest out of sheer habit — a knee-jerk reaction carved into his bones after years of fending for himself. He was used to relying solely on himself, used to the idea that any help came with a price tag, that everything had to be paid back eventually. But right now, looking at Maki standing in the damp drizzle quietly waiting for his answer, Wang realized something: he trusted him. He just did. No catch.

— Fine, – he exhaled, feeling the last traces of tension he hadn't even noticed holding onto melt away. — Damn it all. But next time — I’m paying. Not just for coffee, but for transport too.

— Next time? – Maki raised an eyebrow, a note of satisfaction slipping into his tone. — So there will be a next time?

— There will, – Wang nodded, feeling his cheeks warm up slightly. — At least two. Did you forget? Saturday. The shoot. Two rounds.

— Right, – Maki laughed and began tapping away on his phone, presumably ordering the car. — Can't exactly miss my big debut as a model.

A couple of minutes later, a familiar sedan pulled up to the curb — black, sleek, with tinted windows. Almost identical to yesterday’s. Wang paused for a moment, looking at the car and remembering how just twenty-four hours ago he had been standing at a bus stop, drenched and furious, thinking the day was a total disaster. And now...

Now everything was different.

— There you go, – Maki pointed to the car. — Your ride, Nico. Go on before the rain really starts pouring.

— Thanks, – Wang said, turning back right before sliding into the taxi. — I'll text you when I get home. And... Maki?

— Yeah?

— I'm really glad we bumped into each other yesterday. Truly.

The dark-haired guy didn't say anything — he just smiled. But that smile held so much warmth that no words were needed.

Nicholas stepped inside, and the door closed behind him with a soft, expensive thud. The interior smelled of new leather and a subtle air freshener — not sweet, but crisp, with a hint of citrus. The driver gave a silent nod and pulled away, while Wang, leaning his forehead against the cool window, watched Maki’s figure under the umbrella he had managed to open in those few seconds grow smaller and smaller until the taxi turned the corner.

The ride home passed in complete silence. Wang didn't even bother putting his earphones in — there were far too many thoughts swirling in his head to distract himself with anything else. He kept replaying the conversation at the cafe, Maki’s smile, the way he spoke about photography — with equal parts pain and passion. About wanting freedom. About being tired of just executing someone else's vision.

And then — about the upcoming Saturday.

By the time the taxi pulled up to his building, the rain was pouring heavily. But Wang didn't mind — he dashed straight to the entrance, leaping over puddles, and burst into the warm, detergent-scented dimness of the stairwell. He jogged up to the third floor, out of habit skipping the creakiest step, unlocked his door, and was finally home.

The apartment greeted him with silence and that same green charging light on his camera. Wang kicked off his sneakers, hung his jacket on the radiator (it barely got wet, but old habits die hard), walked into the room, and collapsed onto his futon, arms spread wide.

Echoes of the jazz melody from the cafe were still playing in his head. Before his eyes was Maki’s face, his gestures, the way he absentmindedly stirred his espresso with a spoon without even realizing it. And the way he had said: "I want to shoot not what I'm told to, but what I actually see."

Nicholas rolled onto his stomach, propped his head up with a hand, and stared at the wall illuminated by the streetlight outside. He wasn't sleepy yet — his body was in that strange state where fatigue is present, but the brain refuses to shut down, continuing to replay the day's events.

He began visualizing Saturday. The studio in Namba — he could already picture it: high ceilings, white brick walls, a massive window on the left letting soft, diffused morning light stream through. A tripod. The camera. And Maki — right in the center of the frame.

How would he look? He’d probably dress simple — jeans, maybe a button-up shirt. Or not? Maybe Maki would pick something more... expressive? Something that highlighted his natural features?

Nicholas rolled onto his back and stared up at the ceiling. Honestly, clothes weren't the point. The expression was key. The way Maki looked when lost in thought. The way his eyes crinkled when he smiled. The way shadows fell across his cheekbones when he tilted his head slightly.

— Black and white, – Wang decided. — Definitely black and white. Minimal retouching. No glossy finish — just textures, lines, light, and shadow. Capture the real him — not the Maki who orders "the usual" at an expensive cafe, but the one who talks about light like it's a living thing.

He could create a series exploring different moods: first — reserved, almost cold, just like the first few minutes of their meeting. Then — relaxed, laughing. And finally — that exact moment when he talked about freedom and his eyes looked so... exposed. That was the moment to catch. That exact one.

Wang closed his eyes and tried to picture framing the shot. A close-up? Or a medium portrait to include his shoulders and hands? Maki’s hands, by the way, were incredibly expressive — long fingers, neat nails. Hands like that practically begged to be in the frame. Maybe ask him to hold a camera? That would be symbolic — a photographer with a camera in hand, but on the receiving end of the lens.

And then, after the shoot, they would swap places. That was where things got most interesting — and most nerve-wracking. How would Maki see him? What angle would he choose? What would he try to convey through the photo?

Nicholas rarely stepped to the other side of the lens. He was used to being the one in control, the one observing, the one capturing. Being the one caught on camera was a completely different story. It was vulnerability. It was trust. You put yourself in someone else's hands and hope they see you accurately. Or at least interestingly.

But Maki... For some reason, he actually wanted to trust him.

His thoughts began to blur. The images before his eyes grew fuzzier: the studio, the light, Maki’s face, his voice — "I like how your mind works, Nico." Then — the cafe, the scent of vanilla and coffee, quiet jazz music. Then — the rain tapping against the taxi window. And once again — the green charging light of his camera blinking softly from the corner.

Somewhere behind the wall, the neighbor to the right finally stopped coughing. Downstairs, a door slammed shut — someone coming home late, just like Wang had. Outside, the rain picked up, its rhythmic tapping on the tin awning above the staircase sounding like a lullaby — steady, monotonous, soothing.

Nicholas rolled onto his side one last time, pulled the blanket up to his chin, and let out a deep, full-body sigh, releasing the last bits of the day's tension. His lips curved into a faint, barely visible smile.

— Saturday... – he muttered into the pillow, eyes already closed. — Two rounds…

And with that thought, he drifted off to sleep — deep, peaceful, and dreamless. Outside, the rain hummed, the camera in the corner softly blinked its green light, and somewhere across the city, Maki was perhaps looking up at the sky, thinking about the upcoming shoot as well.

But that was a story for another time.

​The week had passed in a strange way. Not particularly slow — every day was packed with work, small daily chores, trips around the city — but not fast either. Time seemed to stretch, becoming thicker, denser. Nicholas caught himself constantly returning in his thoughts to last Saturday: to the cafe with its vanilla-scented air, to the quiet jazz melody, to the conversation that had lasted several hours but felt like a single short, perfectly framed shot.

​On Sunday, he slept until noon. His body, exhausted by the nerve-racking Friday shoot and Saturday's excitement, finally claimed its due. After waking up, Wang lay in his futon for a long time, staring at the ceiling and listening to the neighbor on the right coughing again — now less frequently, but just as heavily. His thoughts were sluggish, lazy. He ate leftover rice for breakfast, checked his email (nothing urgent), scrolled through his phone feed (nothing interesting), and then sat down to sort through photos from past jobs — the ones that had been piling up on the memory card for a couple of weeks already.

​His hands worked on autopilot: open, review, pick the successful shots, dump into a separate folder for editing. His eyes glided over the faces of strangers, over strained smiles, over standard poses that clients for some reason considered "natural." A regular routine. But somewhere in the back of his mind, Maki’s voice was constantly echoing: “Red filters are a fickle thing.” And Wang caught himself smiling at his laptop screen like an idiot.

​On Monday, a new order came in — a fairly large corporate shoot. Good money, but a lot of work too: three days of prep, coordination with the client, a location scout for test shots. Nicholas threw himself headfirst into the work, and it was quite timely. The less free time he had, the fewer chances his thoughts would drift off toward a certain dark-haired guy with a broad jaw and a warm smile.

​Yet they kept drifting away anyway.

​On Tuesday evening, when he returned home after the test shoot — tired, with aching feet and a desire to simply collapse into the shower — his phone chimed. A message from Maki.

​M: How’s the week going, Nico? Not too swamped?

​And Wang, who just a second ago was ready to pass out cold, suddenly felt a surge of energy. He typed out a reply — short, slightly grumpy, in his usual manner: “So swamped that coffee will soon run through my veins instead of blood.” Maki replied with a laughing emoji and sent a photo — of himself: sitting in the very studio he had described, among spotlights and cables, holding a cup of coffee with a tired yet contented expression on his face.

​M: Same story here)

​Wang looked at the photo, which he ought to sort into an "Edit" folder or leave in its raw state, but Maki's face was the only image floating in his mind. Unexpected thoughts kept surfacing about how one could play around with the interesting, mesmerizing shape of his face and cheekbones. But as soon as it lingered longer than usual, Yisian would pull himself back, returning to his work routine.

​On Wednesday and Thursday, they texted briefly — a couple of messages a day. About work, about the weather (the rains kept stopping and starting again, as if Osaka couldn't decide what season it was), about small trivial things. Maki sent a funny meme about photographers, and Wang cracked up over it on the subway so loudly that people turned around to look at him. It was... nice. To have someone to just exchange silly things with. Someone who understands your professional humor. Someone who expects nothing from you except yourself.

​But the closer Saturday got, the more the anxiety inside him grew.

​On Friday morning, sitting with his laptop on the futon and finishing his third mug of green tea, Nicholas opened the chat with Maki and hovered over the keyboard. The problem he had been pushing away until now had risen to its full height and demanded a solution.

​He didn't have a studio.

​That studio in Namba he had been thinking about turned out to be booked for the whole weekend — some big commercial shoot, reserved a month ago. Other options were either too expensive (a day's rent cost half his monthly rent), or too trashy (the basement from the previous nude shoot was still giving him nightmares). And taking Maki, a guy from the world of gloss and business class, to some shithole... No, that was unthinkable.

​Wang bit his lip and began typing a message. Then deleted it. Typed again. Deleted again. The words just wouldn't come together.

​Well, what was he actually afraid of? That Maki would change his mind? That he’d be disappointed? That their communication, so light and pleasant, would shatter against the harsh reality in which Nicholas had nothing except a camera and a pair of cheap spotlights?

​

— To hell with it, – he muttered and quickly, before his inner critic had time to interfere, typed out:

​N: Listen, I have a problem. The studio I wanted to rent is booked. And other options are either too expensive, or the kind of places I’d be ashamed to bring you to. I don't want our first shoot to take place in some flea pit. Should we reschedule?

​The reply came faster than he expected. As if Maki was sitting with his phone in hand.

​M: Nico, relax. Why do we need a studio?

​Yisian blinked and reread the message twice.

​N: What do you mean "why"? You’re the model. I’m the photographer. Usually, you need a studio for that.

​M: Usually — yes. But I told you I was tired of "usually." Let's do a live shoot.

​N: Live?

​M: Out on the street, in a park, on the waterfront, in alleyways — anywhere. No studio light, no backdrops, none of that sterility. Just you, me, the camera, and the city. Pick a place. I trust your taste.

​Wang stared at the screen. Something stirred inside him — that exact feeling when an idea that hadn't even been fully formed in your head suddenly gains clarity thanks to someone else's words. A live shoot. No walls. No limits. Just light, just the moment, just the real thing.

​And Maki said "I trust your taste." Not "I suggest," not "maybe we could try," but — I trust. The word warmed something in his chest, spreading heat all through his body.

​N: Tennoji Park. There’s an old section with big trees and stone lanterns. In the morning, around nine, there’s hardly anyone there, and the light falls through the leaves — soft, diffused. Ideal for black-and-white portraits.

​M: Sounds wonderful. At nine by the main gates?

​N: Yeah. And... Maki.

​M: Hm?

​N: Thanks. For the "I trust."

​M: Goodnight, Nico. Tomorrow will be a good day.

​Wang set his phone aside and let out his breath. The anxiety that had been building up all week suddenly washed away, leaving behind only a light, pleasant flutter of excitement — the very kind you get before something important and longed-for. He sat there for a little while longer, staring at the ceiling and smiling at his thoughts, then turned off the light and fell asleep faster than on any of the previous days.

​Saturday morning turned out to be just as he had hoped: sunny, but with a light haze of clouds that softened the light and made it perfect for shooting. Yisian woke up early, without an alarm, and for the first few seconds just lay there, listening to the silence. Even the neighbor on the right was quiet today — either he had finally gotten enough sleep, or had gone off somewhere.

​

He got ready quickly, but meticulously: checked his camera, charged a spare battery, packed a couple of lenses into his backpack in case he needed a different depth of field. He dressed simply — dark jeans, a light t-shirt, that very same navy micro-check shirt he had rejected before the cafe meeting, but which now seemed perfectly suitable. Comfortable sneakers — lots of walking to do. He tied his hair into a messy ponytail so it wouldn't get in his face during the shoot.

​He arrived at Tennoji Park half an hour early — a professional habit that even years of freelancing couldn't erase. The park welcomed him with silence and the smell of damp earth. After a rainy week, the grass was lush, vibrant green, and the leaves of the trees glinted in the sun as if they had just been wiped down. The stone lanterns, old and covered in moss, stood along the paths like silent sentinels. Somewhere in the distance, the sound of water could be heard — probably a fountain running in the central area.

​Yisian walked down the alley, picking out the best location. He needed a spot where the light fell at the right angle — not straight on, but slightly from the side, to emphasize the contours of the face. He needed a backdrop — not too busy, but not blank either. Something with character. He stopped by an old stone lantern surrounded by ferns. Here, the light broke through the foliage, creating a whimsical pattern of shadows and sunspots on the ground. Perfect.

​At five to nine, he was standing by the main gates, waiting.

​Maki appeared right at nine — punctual, as always. He was dressed simply: dark jeans, a loose white shirt with sleeves rolled up to his elbows, a small bag over his shoulder. No gloss, no office stiffness. Yet he still looked as if he had stepped off a cover — tall, with flawless posture. Noticing Nicholas, he smiled and picked up his pace.

​

— Good morning, Nico. Hope I'm not late?

​

— You're right on time, like a train, – Wang smiled back, – Ready to pose?

​

— Ready, – Maki spread his hands, as if to show: "Entirely at your disposal," – Lead the way, photographer. I'm completely yours today.

​At those words — "completely yours" — something fluttered inside. Wang cleared his throat, hoping he hadn't turned red, and waved a hand toward the alleyway.

​— Then let's go. I've got a great spot.

​They walked deeper into the park. The morning sun was growing brighter, but a pleasant half-light reigned beneath the canopy of trees. Birds were singing, a dog was barking somewhere in the distance, leaves rustled under a light breeze. The park was living its quiet, measured life, and it was surprisingly calming.

​— Right here, – Yisian stopped by the stone lantern he had scouted earlier, — The light falls perfectly. Stand... – he paused for a moment, evaluating the composition, — A bit to the left. No, further left. Right there.

​Maki moved obediently, and Wang couldn't help but notice how naturally he did it. No stiffness, no self-consciousness. A person accustomed to being in front of a camera — even if usually from the other side.

​— Like this?

​— Like this, – Wang raised his camera, squinted into the viewfinder, and froze for a second.

​Maki stood at a three-quarter turn, and the light, breaking through the foliage, settled on his face in soft, flowing patches. One half of his face was illuminated — the sharp line of his cheekbone, the corner of his lips, the edge of his brow — while the second sank into shadow. It was beautiful. Damned beautiful. And Wang for a moment forgot that he was a photographer and Maki was a model. He just looked.

​— Everything okay? – Maki tilted his head slightly, a faint smirk sounding in his voice.

​— Yeah, – Wang shook his head, driving away the spell, — Just checking the light. Good. Really good, actually.

​He began to shoot.

​The first click of the shutter — and the anxiety that had been sitting quietly somewhere in his stomach vanished. All that remained were the camera, the light, and the person in the frame. Wang moved around Maki, changing angles, now crouching down, now standing on tiptoe, now taking a few steps back to catch a reflection in a puddle left behind after the rain. He worked silently, intently, and Maki didn't disturb him — he simply stood there, sometimes changing his pose at a barely noticeable gesture, sometimes smiling with the corner of his lips, sometimes becoming serious.

​At first, Wang shot what he had planned — crisp, structured portraits emphasizing the geometry of the face. But gradually, as the minutes passed, he began to catch something else. The way Maki tucked hair behind his ear while thinking he wasn't being shot. The way he squinted from the sun. The way his hand reflexively reached to fix his shirt collar, but stopped halfway, as if he forgot what he was doing. The way he looked off into the distance — at the pond, at the swimming ducks, at the sky — and that exact depth appeared in his gaze that Wang had noticed back at the cafe.

​There it was. The real thing.

​Click. Another one.

​At one point, Maki laughed — seemingly at his own awkwardness when he tried to lean against the stone lantern and almost slipped on the wet grass. Yisian caught that laughter in the frame — genuine, without masks, without staging.

​— Sorry, – Maki straightened up, still smiling, — Guess I make a pretty lousy model.

​— You make a great model, – Wang answered, not looking away from the viewfinder, — You're just too alive for standard poses. And that... that's exactly what's needed.

​They worked for about an hour. During that time, the sun rose higher, and the light grew harsher, less suitable for shooting. Wang lowered his camera, feeling his shoulders ache from the tension, and exhaled.

​— I think that's enough. I have so much material I'll be sorting through it for a week.

​— Mind if I take a look? – Maki came closer, peeking at the camera screen.

​Nicholas switched the camera to preview mode and began scrolling through the frames. Maki stood next to him — close enough for Wang to feel the warmth of his shoulder and the scent of his clothes: something fresh, with hints of citrus and something else, barely catchable, that made you want to breathe it in over and over.

​— This one... – Maki pointed at one of the shots — the one with the laughter, — It's real. I like it.

​— Me too, – Yisian said softly.

​They fell silent, looking at the screen. The sun was getting hotter, music started playing somewhere in the distance — a street musician on the central avenue, it seemed. The park was filling with more people: a couple ran past with a dog, a mother walked by with a stroller, a group of tourists with maps in hand stopped at a signpost.

​

— Well then, – Maki stepped back, and Nico immediately felt it get a bit colder, — Round one is yours. Is it my turn now?

​Nicholas froze, not bringing the camera all the way to its case. His hands halted in mid-air, his fingers gripping the body of the gear a bit tighter than usual. He slowly turned his head to Maki, a whole spectrum of emotions reflecting on his face — from confusion to mild panic.

​

— What do you mean "your turn"? – he asked, even though he had heard the dark-haired guy's words loud and clear the first time, — You don't mean... right now?

​Maki looked at him with that same calm, slightly teasing smile that was simultaneously annoying and captivating. He stood with his arms crossed over his chest, looking as though he had just suggested something completely mundane — like "let's grab another cup of coffee."

​— That is precisely what I mean. Right now.

​— But... – Wang frowned, frantically scrambling for arguments, — We agreed on two rounds, yeah, but I thought it would be on different days. I thought we'd look through my part first, then I'd edit the photos, then…

​— Nico, – Maki cut him off gently, but firmly, — Do you seriously want to wait another week?

​— I'm not ready! – Wang blurted out and immediately realized how childish it sounded.

​Maki quieted into a laugh. Not offensive — warm, rather, with that exact intonation that appeared every time Nicholas began to fuss and get nervous. He took a step closer, and now there was barely half a meter of distance between them. The scent of citrus and something fresh became more distinct.

​

— Listen, – he said, tilting his head slightly toward his shoulder, — We're both free. The morning has just started, the weather is great, the light is still soft for now, and you're already warmed up after shooting. Me too. We're here in a beautiful park, with a good camera and a great mood. Why put it off?

​Wang opened his mouth to object, but couldn't find the words. Maki’s arguments were... reasonable. Damned reasonable. And yet something fluttered inside — either fear, or embarrassment, or a mixture of both in a proportion he couldn't yet determine.

​— I just... – he stumbled, picking his words, — I didn't think it would be this soon. I thought I’d have time to prepare. Well, you know... mentally.

​— Mentally prepare? – Maki raised an eyebrow, sparks of amusement dancing in his eyes, — Nico, it’s just a photograph. You're not going to a police interrogation or a quantum physics exam. It's just you, me, and the camera. Everything is the same as it was for the last hour, just on different sides of the lens.

​— Exactly! – Wang threw his hands up, nearly hitting the branch of a nearby bush with his camera, — On different sides! You're used to being a model, you know how to pose, you know how you look in the frame. And I... I'm always on the other side. I don't know how to be the one getting shot. I don't know where to put my hands, how to stand, where to look…

​He cut himself off, realizing he was dumping onto Maki everything that had been spinning in his head for the past few minutes. Everything he usually kept to himself — his doubts, his insecurity, his fear of looking stupid.

​Maki listened to him silently, without interrupting. His face became a bit more serious — the teasing was gone, leaving only attention. The genuine, deep attention of a person who is truly listening.

​— You know, – he said softly when Wang went quiet, — I didn't always know how to pose either. When I was just starting to shoot, I asked friends to be my models, and they felt horribly awkward. One guy, a classmate of mine, told me: "Maki, I look like an idiot, and you're shooting it." And then I understood something important.

​

— What? – Wang looked up at him.

​

— That a photographer's job isn't just pressing a button, – Maki spoke slowly, as if sharing something sacred, — A photographer's job is to help a person relax. To see them as they truly are. To catch the moment when they forget about the camera and become themselves. And it works both ways: the model trusts the photographer, the photographer trusts the model. Without trust, nothing will work out.

​He took another step — now they were standing very close. The sun, breaking through the foliage, cast intricate shadows on his face, and Wang again — for the umpteenth time that morning — thought that Maki deserved a separate photoshoot just for his expressions.

​— I trusted you today, Nico, – the dark-haired guy continued, — I stood in front of your camera and didn't think about how I looked. I was just myself. Now it's your turn. Trust me.

​Those last words sounded almost like a whisper — quiet, intimate, as if they were not in a park, but somewhere much more private. And those exact words broke the last barrier inside Nicholas.

​He let out his breath — long, drawn-out, feeling tension he hadn't even noticed holding onto drain out of his lungs along with the air.

​— Fine, – he said, and his own voice sounded foreign to him — raspier, quieter, — You convinced me. But if I look like an idiot, I won't forgive you for this.

​— You won't look like an idiot, – Maki smiled, and his smile was so confident that Wang almost believed it, — I promise.

​— Where does that confidence come from?

​— Because I have a great model, – the dark-haired guy was already pulling a camera from his bag — compact, but clearly expensive, the kind professionals take for street photography, — And because I, unlike some people, know how to work with red light.

​Wang couldn't hold it in and snorted — the joke hit the mark, defusing the atmosphere.

​— Alright, alright, smart-aleck. Where should I stand?

​— To start — just stay right where you're standing.

​Maki took a few steps back, brought the camera up to his face, and froze. His posture changed instantly: the relaxed guy with a warm smile vanished; a professional appeared — collected, focused, with a keen gaze that scanned the space and the person in it with laser precision.

​Wang felt a chill run down his spine. Being targeted by someone else's lens turned out to be... strange. Not scary, no. Rather vulnerable. As if a protective layer had been stripped off him, and now every gesture, every look, every micro-emotion of his was visible and recorded.

​— Don't tense up, – Maki’s voice came from behind the camera, — Drop your shoulders. Your hands... just let them hang by your side. No, not like a soldier, relax your wrists.

​Wang tried to follow the instructions, but his body, as luck would have it, turned to wood. His hands felt foreign, his legs felt like cotton, and his face, he was sure, was frozen in some unnatural expression.

​— Nico, – Maki lowered the camera and looked at him over the viewfinder, — You look right now like you just got hit by lightning. What happened?

​— I told you! – Wang threw his hands up in despair, — I don't know how! I don't know what to do with my face!

​— Then don't do anything, – Maki put the camera aside, came closer, and stood right in front of him, — Forget about the shoot. Just look at me.

​— What?

​— Just look at me and think about something. Anything you want.

​Wang swallowed. Look at Maki? That was simultaneously the easiest and the hardest assignment. Easy — because looking at him was pleasant. Hard — because looking at him was... too pleasant.

​— What should I think about? – he asked, feeling his voice tremble slightly.

​— Anything at all. About the shoot we just had. About the park. About yesterday's dinner. About how annoying I am and how much you want me to back off, – Maki smiled again, and this time the smile was contagious.

​— Well, the last one sounds plausible, – Wang chuckled, and right at that moment Maki whipped up his camera and pressed the shutter.

​Click.

​— Hey! I wasn't ready!

​— Which is precisely why the shot will turn out great, – Maki was already reviewing the picture on the screen, nodding approvingly, — You were smiling. For real.

​After that, the shoot went easier. Maki didn't make him pose in the traditional sense — he simply walked beside him, sometimes taking a couple of steps back, sometimes asking him to look in a certain direction, but mostly just catching moments. Those random ones: how Wang fixes his hair, how he squints from the sun, how he laughs at another joke, how he gets lost in thought while looking at the water.

​They walked through the entire park — from the stone lanterns to the duck pond, from the old wooden gazebo to the blooming azalea bushes. Maki shot continuously, changing angles, settings, sometimes dropping to one knee or climbing onto a bench for a high angle. His movements were precise, practiced, yet at the same time — lively, passionate. It was clear that he was enjoying the process.

​— You know, – he said, lowering his camera to catch his breath, — You have a very photogenic face. The cheekbones, the jawline, the shape of your eyes — all of it sits great in the frame. You were worrying for nothing.

​Wang, who had just leaned down toward the water to examine his reflection, straightened up and grunted self-consciously.

​— You just have an expensive camera. It makes even me look good.

​— The camera has nothing to do with it, – Maki shook his head, — You can either see beauty or you can't. And, trust me, I see it.

​That last sentence sounded so simple, so casual, that Wang didn't immediately grasp its meaning. And when he did — he felt heat rush to his cheeks. Good thing there was a light breeze in the park — he could blame the blush on the weather.

​They continued shooting for about another half hour. The sun had climbed higher, the shadows had grown shorter, and the light — sharper and more contrasting. Maki took the final shot — Nicholas was standing on a bridge over the pond, leaning on the railing, looking off into the distance, at the water, at the floating leaves, at the light glints dancing on the surface. The breeze had slightly tousled his hair, which had slipped from its messy ponytail, and his white t-shirt, which had gotten a little rumpled during the shoot, but that was even for the better — it added life to the frame.

​— All set, – Maki announced, lowering his camera, — That was wonderful.

​— Let me see? – Wang hopped off the bridge and came closer.

​Maki handed him the camera, and Nicholas began scrolling through the photos. The first — that very one where he was laughing at the joke about "annoying Maki." Then — a series of shots by the stone lantern where he stood in the same pose Maki had an hour prior, only now the light fell differently. Then — a close-up where he looks straight into the lens, the tree canopies reflected in his eyes.

​And finally — the last shot. The bridge, the water, the glints. Himself — relaxed, calm, real. Without tension, without fear, without the desire to look "right." Just Nicholas.

​— Well? How is it? – Maki peeked over his shoulder.

​— It's... – Wang fell silent, picking a word, and couldn't find one. Because "beautiful" was too weak. "Professional" — too dry. "Stunning" — too loud, — It's the best thing I've seen in recent memory.

​— I'm glad, – Maki smiled, and there was so much genuine satisfaction in his smile that something inside Wang fluttered again, — That means both rounds were a success.

​They stood on the bridge for a little while longer, discussing the shot material. The sun was getting hotter, the park was filling up with people, and the secluded atmosphere of the early morning was gradually dissolving into the noise of the weekend. It was time to wrap up.

​Nicholas returned home closer to evening. After the shoot, he and Maki walked around the park a bit more, then went into a small cafe nearby — a completely ordinary one this time, without Viennese waffles or prices that made your eyes pop out. Just coffee, just sandwiches, just conversation about nothing and everything at the same time. Maki was telling him about his latest commercial shoot — filming some young actress for a watch ad, — and Wang caught himself listening not so much to the words as to his voice. The timbre, the intonations, the way the dark-haired guy stretched out his vowels when he was thinking, and how short and crisp his consonants were when he got excited.

​When they finally said goodbye at the station — Maki in one direction, Wang in the other, — the day had already passed into its second half. The sun, so bright and assertive in the morning, had now softened, bathing the streets in warm golden light. Wang rode the bus, pressing his camera backpack to his chest, feeling a strange, inexplicable emptiness. As if the whole day had been so filled, so saturated with emotions and events, that now, when it was all over, a vacuum had formed inside.

​At home, the first thing he did was kick off his sneakers and change into house clothes — old sweatpants and that exact band t-shirt that had seen better days. He brewed tea. Sat on his futon cross-legged and opened his laptop. The memory card moved from the camera to the card reader, and a minute later the folder with today's shots was displaying on the screen — the ones where he was shooting Maki.

​Wang clicked on the first file and froze.

​On the screen was Maki by the stone lantern — the very first frame, where he stood at a three-quarter turn, and the light, breaking through the foliage, divided his face into light and dark. Wang remembered making that shot. Remembered setting the exposure, thinking about composition, checking the white balance. It was a technical shot — a test to check the light. But now, looking at it on the big screen, he didn't see technique. He saw Maki.

​His eyes — dark, deep, with some elusive expression that Wang couldn't decode. His cheekbones — sharp, but softened by the soft morning light. His lips — slightly parted, as if he were about to say something, but changed his mind at the last moment. And that light stubble, which Wang had noticed back in the morning, now seemed not just a detail of his appearance, but part of his image — masculine, but not rough; mature, but not tired.

​He clicked further.

​The next shot — Maki fixing his hair, his hand frozen somewhere near his temple. The forearm muscles flexed, the shirt sleeve pulled up slightly, revealing a wrist with a thin band of a watch. Wang hadn't noticed this during the shoot, but now he could make out every detail: the way the tendons showed through under the skin, the way his fingers — long, with neat nails — touched the dark strands, and the way the sunlight had tangled in those strands, making them almost golden at the roots.

​Next — the shot with the laughter. The exact one Maki had called "real." Wang zoomed in on the image, staring into the face on the screen. Into the tiny wrinkles in the corners of his eyes — thin like a spiderweb, but so alive. Into his teeth — straight, white, but not Hollywood-perfect, just regular, human ones, with a slightly sharper canine on the left. Into the dimple on his cheek — Wang hadn't even noticed it before, and now it was right in front of him, barely visible, manifesting only when Maki laughed for real.

​He scrolled through the frames one by one — slowly, almost meditatively. Sometimes he returned to previous ones, compared them, searched for the best angle. But in truth, he wasn't picking photos for processing. He was just looking.

​At the way Maki squints from the sun, his eyelids dropping a bit lower, making his gaze more languid. At the way he stands by the pond, hands shoved into his jeans pockets, his pose — relaxed, yet collected — resembling a frame from some old French movie. At the way the breeze ruffles his shirt, the fabric outlining the contours of his shoulders and back — Wang had deliberately taken a step back then to catch that moment in full length.

​— Damn it, – he whispered, leaning back onto his pillow.

​The image still stood before his eyes — Maki, looking somewhere out of frame, with a half-smile that turned everything upside down inside. Wang covered his face with his hands and took a deep breath. His palms smelled of tea and a bit of street dust. He rubbed his eyes, as if hoping it would help chase away the illusion, but when he looked at the screen again, Maki was still there — just as handsome, just as alive, just as... attractive.

​Attractive. There it was. The word he had been afraid to even think.

​Wang slammed the laptop shut and stared at the wall. The room was quiet — only the fridge humming in the kitchen and the neighbor on the right occasionally coughing behind the wall. Ordinary sounds, familiar, homely. But now they seemed distant, unimportant. Because inside Nicholas, something much louder was taking place.

​He began to analyze. Not because he wanted to — because his brain refused to switch off and kept picking through the day's events like cards in a catalog.

​The meeting in the park. How nervous he had been waiting for Maki by the gates. No, not just nervous — he had been waiting. Eagerly. With that exact ticklish anticipation you usually feel before something deeply desired.

​The shoot itself. How he had looked at Maki through the viewfinder — and couldn't tear his eyes away. He kept telling himself it was professional interest: a good model, an interesting face, great light. But if it was only professional interest, then why did he still remember how the wind played with Maki’s hair? How the sun touched his cheekbones? How he licked his lips before smiling — a short, almost imperceptible movement that Wang had caught out of the corner of his eye and which was now lodged in his memory like a splinter?

​And then — the shoot where he himself was the model. How Maki had looked at him through the lens. Wang had felt that gaze on his skin — studying, but not evaluating. Attentive, but not critical. As if Maki wasn't just shooting him, but... seeing him. Truly seeing him. And it felt both terrifying and warm at the same time.

​"A photographer's job is to help a person relax. To see them as they truly are," — Maki had said. And he saw. Wang remembered the last shot on the bridge — the one where he was looking at the water. He remembered that at that moment he wasn't thinking about the shoot. He was thinking about how strange and good it felt to be next to this person. How easy. How right.

​— Alright, stop, – he said out loud and sat up straight again.

​He needed to lay it all out neatly. Coldly, rationally, without emotion.

​Fact one: Maki is a man. That wasn't a problem — Wang had known about his bisexuality for a long time and felt neither shame nor internal conflict about it. Just a statement of fact.

​Fact two: Maki is his new acquaintance, a fellow peer, with whom they had agreed on two shoots. Both shoots have already taken place. Formally, they owed each other nothing more.

​Fact three: Wang thinks about him. Constantly. Even when he doesn't want to. Even when he tries to distract himself with work or daily chores. Maki pops up in his thoughts like an uninvited, yet welcome guest.

​Fact four: when Maki smiles, something inside Wang tightens and releases at the same time — like a lens aperture opening to its maximum, letting in all available light, then narrowing down to a tiny dot, leaving only sharpness and contrast.

​Fact five…

​He didn't formulate the fifth fact. Because the fifth fact was obvious, and that was the very thing that scared him most.

​Wang opened the laptop again and stared at the icon of the folder with today's shots. His finger hovered over the touchpad. He could close all of this, go take a shower, go to sleep and forget. Or at least try to forget. He could postpone the editing until tomorrow, until the day after tomorrow, until never. He could simply not think about it.

​But he clicked on the folder and opened the first shot again.

​Maki was looking at him from the screen — calm, warm, real. And Wang, looking into his eyes — even if into pixelated, digital, lifeless eyes on a monitor — suddenly understood what he had been pushing away all day. All week. Ever since that very first message sent under the sound of rain.

​He likes Maki.

​Not as a colleague. Not as a friend. Not as an interesting conversationalist or a talented photographer.

​He likes him.

​For real.

​Wang slowly closed his laptop and lay on his back, staring at the ceiling. His soul felt strange: fear mixed with relief, anxiety with a quiet, barely emerging joy. He didn't know what would come next. Didn't know if Maki would reciprocate his feelings, if he would even find out about them, if anything would change between them after today.

​But he knew one thing.

​Tomorrow he will edit these photos. Every single one of them. Because these will be the best shots in his portfolio. And because he wants to see Maki’s face when he receives them.

​And after that... whatever happens, happens.

​Behind the wall, the neighbor coughed again. Somewhere below, a door slammed. Outside the window, the first streetlights turned on, their light seeping through a gap in the blinds in a thin orange strip. Wang turned on his side, pulled the blanket up, and closed his eyes.

​Tonight he wouldn't fall asleep right away. But when he did — he would see stone lanterns in his dreams, sunlight through the leaves, and the warm smile of the person who said: "Trust me.”

On Monday morning, Maki woke up before his alarm.

It rarely happened to him. Usually, he got up right on the ring, without fuss or delay — a habit developed through years of working with clients who were unforgiving of lateness. But today, something was different. He opened his eyes at six forty-three, thirteen minutes before the signal, and simply lay there, staring at the ceiling of his perfectly white bedroom.

Daylight was already breaking outside. Through the panoramic window (one of the perks of a studio apartment in downtown Osaka), the first rays seeped in, painting the walls in warm peach tones. Somewhere down below on the street, the first cars were already rumbling. The city was waking up.

Maki rolled onto his side and reflexively reached for his phone on the nightstand. The screen lit up, showing a complete lack of missed notifications. He opened the chat with Nicholas — just like that, for no particular reason.

The last message was from yesterday evening. Nico had sent a short "Thanks for the shoot, it was awesome" and an emoji — the thumbs-up one that everyone used when they were too lazy to write out words. Maki had replied back then with "Likewise, Nico. Good night," and that was where the exchange ended.

He scrolled a bit higher — to where they were discussing plans for Saturday. Then even higher — where they traded memes in the middle of the workweek. Then further still — where Nicholas wrote about the red light and his nerve-racking shoot in the basement. Maki caught himself smiling at the screen.

— Idiot, – he muttered to himself, put the phone aside, and sat up on the bed.

A packed day lay ahead. At ten in the morning — a meeting with the art director of a major fashion magazine to discuss the concept for an autumn cover. At one — a studio shoot: a young actress promoting a new line of cosmetics, three looks, a tight timeline. In the evening — processing material from the past week that he had been putting off for several days. A typical Monday for a successful commercial photographer.

Riki got up, went into the bathroom, and washed his face with cold water. He looked at himself in the mirror — the reflection showed a man with sharp cheekbones and a broad jaw. Memories from Saturday's shoot surfaced in his mind, where Nico’s professionalism — with precisely chosen angles and play with light — had revealed two sides of his face. It made him smile softly for a moment before beginning his morning routine.

The meeting with the art director went productively. They sat in the agency's bright conference room with mood boards, color palettes, and references from European magazines laid out before them. Mauss listened, asked questions, made notes on his tablet, and proposed his own ideas. He was collected, professional, convincing.

Yet somewhere in the back of his mind, a thought kept spinning: I wonder how Nico is doing? Monday is a tough day for freelancers. He's probably sorting through orders that piled up over the weekend. Or sitting with a laptop on his futon, drinking green tea and processing photos.

— Hirota-san, do you agree with this approach? – the art director's voice pulled him out of his reverie.

— Yes, entirely, – he replied, before even having time to realize what exactly he was agreeing to, — Please continue.

Nobody noticed a thing. A professional habit — appearing fully engaged even when your thoughts are far away.

The studio shoot began at one sharp. The space Maki rented on a permanent basis was his second home: huge windows, white walls, the best equipment money could buy. Here, everything was subject to his will — light, shadow, composition. He was the king of this little world, and usually, that feeling brought satisfaction.

Today, something felt off.

The actress — a pleasant girl of about twenty-three with flawless skin and a professional smile — stood in the center of the shooting zone, while Maki looked at her through the viewfinder and felt... emptiness. Technically, everything was perfect: light positioned correctly, composition precise, the model executing every instruction. But there was no life in the frame. There wasn't that very moment he had caught on Saturday in Tennoji Park.

Suddenly, a frame flashed before his eyes: Nicholas on the bridge, leaning on the railing. His gaze — somewhere beyond the frame, at the water, at the floating leaves. Hair that had slipped out of a messy ponytail. The wind ruffling his t-shirt and making the fabric almost translucent in the light. And that facial expression — relaxed, calm, real.

Click.

Maki lowered the camera and realized he had taken a picture on autopilot, without even looking into the viewfinder.

— Hirota-san? – the assistant standing nearby with a reflector tilted her head inquiringly, – Is everything okay?

— Yes, – he shook his head, driving away the illusion, – Just... adjust the light a bit. Let's shift the softbox to the left.

The shoot continued. Riki forced himself to focus — and he managed to pull it off. He was doing his job, doing it well; the client would be pleased. But for the first time in a long while, the work brought no joy. It felt mechanical. Almost empty.

During a break, while the model stepped out to touch up her makeup, Maki pulled out his phone. He opened the chat with Nicholas. His finger hovered over the keyboard.

What to write? "How's it going?" Too cliché. "How did the editing go?" Too businesslike. "I was shooting an actress today and spent the whole shoot thinking about you." Too... honest.

He locked his phone and put it back in his pocket.

This was becoming a problem. Hirota was used to controlling his life — his schedule, finances, emotions. He didn't allow himself to be distracted at work, didn't let his thoughts wander when concentration was required. But recently — ever since that rainy evening when he bumped into an awkward blonde guy on the street — that control had begun to glitch.

At first, they were just thoughts. Random, fleeting: "I wonder how Nico is doing?" Then — more intrusive ones: memories of their conversation at the cafe, of how Wang laughed while throwing his head back, of how he came alive whenever the topic turned to photography. Then — Saturday's shoot, after which everything became complicated altogether.

Maki couldn't forget how Nicholas had looked at him through the lens. That gaze — focused, burning, almost hungry. That's how people look at something deeply valuable. At something they want to preserve forever.

And he also couldn't forget how he himself had looked at Nicholas when they swapped roles. How he caught his smile, his embarrassment, his rare moments of relaxation. How, at a certain point, he realized he was no longer thinking about composition and light — he simply wanted to capture this person. Exactly as he was.

After the shoot, Mauss stayed behind in the studio longer than usual. He sent his assistant home, saying he'd clean up everything himself. Once the door closed behind her, he sat down in an armchair in the corner of the shooting area and pulled out his phone again.

This time, he didn't open the chat, but the gallery. The "Tennoji Park" folder — the very one where he had transferred Saturday's shots.

The first frame: Nicholas by the stone lantern. He was standing in the same pose Maki had assumed an hour earlier, but looked completely different. There was no staging, no feigned seriousness. He was simply standing — stooping slightly, one hand shoved into his jeans pocket while the other adjusted the hair the wind had pulled from his ponytail. His face was open, a little bewildered, yet trusting at the same time.

Hirota remembered making that shot. Remembered how nervous Wang had been, how he didn't know where to put his hands, how he mumbled "I don't know how to pose." And how later — gradually, step by step — he relaxed. How his shoulders dropped, how his breathing grew even, how that spark Maki had noticed back at the cafe reappeared in his eyes.

The next frame: Nicholas laughing. That laughter wasn't posed, wasn't for the camera. Riki had said something silly — something about the ducks in the pond looking, in his opinion, like "serious businessmen at a board meeting." And Wang had burst out laughing — genuinely, heartily, throwing his head back slightly. His eyes narrowed into slits, dimples appeared on his cheeks, and his ponytail, which was barely holding on anyway, finally fell apart, scattering blonde hair across his shoulders.

Maki zoomed in on the image. His fingers touched the screen, as if trying to reach out to that laughter, to that hair, to that joy.

He looked at the photograph and felt something warm blooming inside. Something he couldn't name yet. Or didn't want to name.

The third frame: the bridge. The very last one, where Nicholas stood leaning on the railing, looking off into the distance. His face was calm, serene. A gentle breeze played with strands of hair that had fallen onto his forehead. The sun, no longer as bright as in the morning, flooded his figure with a soft golden light. There was something poignant in this frame, something very fragile and strong all at once.

Maki looked at this picture the longest.

He remembered what he was thinking about when he took this shot. Or rather — about whom. He was thinking that Nicholas was handsome. Not just photogenic — that was obvious at first glance — but truly handsome. He possessed a natural, understated beauty that manifested not in static poses, but in movement. In the way he frowned when lost in thought. In the way he bit his lip when anxious. In the way his eyes lit up when he spoke about photography.

Maki thought about wanting to shoot him again. And again. And once more. In different locations, under different light, in different moods. He wanted to catch all of his expressions, all of his emotions, all of his shades.

And he also thought about wanting not just to shoot him. He wanted to simply be near him. To hear his voice. To watch him drink tea while comically sticking his pinky out. To feel the warmth of his shoulder when they walked side by side. To hear him say "Maki" — stretching the vowels slightly, with that light accent that betrayed a foreigner who had lived in Japan long enough to speak fluently, but not long enough to shed the softness in his pronunciation.

Riki locked his phone and set it aside. The studio was quiet. The spotlights, which had been burning hot just a while ago, were now cooling down with faint popping sounds. Outside the window, the sun was dipping toward the horizon, bathing the room in orange light — almost the same as on the evening they first met.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath.

He needed to admit it at least to himself. What he felt for Nicholas went beyond professional interest. Beyond friendly sympathy. Beyond a fleeting curiosity that should have faded after their very first meeting, but instead had only flared up brighter.

It was an attraction. Quiet, cautious, not yet fully shaped into words, but already quite palpable. Like a gentle spring breeze — not a gust, not a storm, but a breeze: soft, warm, promising rain soon to follow.

Hirota smirked at his own thoughts. Fancy that — a photographer used to working with professional models, with flawless faces and polished poses, had lost his peace of mind over a guy who didn't even know how to pose. Who lived in a tiny apartment on the outskirts and counted every yen. Who was afraid of red light from filters and dropped flashes during shoots.

And who was, a

t the same time, the most alive, the most real person Maki had met in recent years.

He picked up his phone again. Opened the chat with Nicholas. His finger hovered over the keyboard once more.

"Hey. How was your day?"

Too simple.

"Nico, I was reviewing our Saturday shots today. You came out great."

Too... I don't know. Too direct.

"Hey, maybe we could meet up this week? No cameras. Just coffee."

Now that was closer to the truth. But he still couldn't bring himself to hit send.

Maki locked his phone, slipped it into his pocket, and stood up from the armchair. It was time to pack up. Editing photos awaited him in the evening, and he knew for sure that instead of work files, he would open the "Tennoji Park" folder again and stare at Wang until his eyes began to stick together from fatigue.

At home, sitting behind a large monitor with a cup of cold coffee, he did just that. He opened Saturday's shots, selected the best ones — the ones he planned to send to Nico — and began editing. Light color correction, a bit of contrast, dimming the background slightly so the focus remained on the face. His hands worked on autopilot while his thoughts wandered off again.

On one of the shots — the one where Nicholas was laughing at the joke about the ducks — Maki paused particularly long. He zoomed in, peering into the details: the wrinkles at the corners of his eyes, the dimples on his cheeks. And he thought: "I want him to laugh like that more often. And I want to be the reason for that laughter."

It was well past midnight when Mauss finally closed his laptop. Outside the window, the lights of nighttime Osaka burned bright, multicolored, shimmering with neon. Somewhere out there on the outskirts of the city, in his tiny anthill of an apartment, Nicholas was sleeping. And Maki, looking at those lights, suddenly caught himself thinking that he wished he knew: was he dreaming of anything? And if so — of what? And most importantly — of whom?

He smirked, shook his head, and went to take a shower. The hot water washed away the fatigue, but not his thoughts. The thoughts stayed behind. They had settled somewhere under his ribs and refused to leave.

Lying in bed at last, Hirota picked up his phone one final time for the day. Opened the chat with Nicholas. Stared for a long time at the blinking cursor in the message field. And then he wrote after all — short, simple, barely thinking:

M: I hope you had a good week, Nico. I was editing our shots here and thought: maybe we could do it again sometime? Doesn't have to be a shoot. Just a walk.

He hit "send" before his inner critic had time to step in. The message flew into the network, and Maki, putting the phone aside, stared at the ceiling.

His heart was beating slightly faster than usual. He was waiting for a reply. And for the first time in a long while, that wait was pleasant — like the anticipation of something important. Something that was only just beginning.

The reply came a few minutes later. Short, but warm:

N: I was actually thinking the same thing. How about next weekend?

Maki smiled, rolled onto his side, and closed his eyes. Tonight he would fall asleep with the thought that somewhere out there, on the other side of the city, a certain blonde photographer might be thinking about him, too. And that thought felt warm. Warmer than anything he had felt in a very, very long time.

Riki's week turned out to be cluttered.

Not in the sense that anything was going wrong — on the contrary, from a professional standpoint, everything was perfect. Orders were completed on time, clients were satisfied, art directors praised his work in meetings. On Tuesday, he shot an ad campaign for a new line of eyewear — minimalist, stylish, exactly as the client had requested. On Wednesday, he held negotiations with representatives of a Tokyo glossy magazine who wanted to sign him to an exclusive contract. On Thursday, he reviewed portfolios of new models, selecting three for future projects.

Everything was going according to plan. As always.

But something inside had shifted.

Maki caught himself working on autopilot. His hands adjusted the lighting by themselves, his fingers mechanically pressed the shutter release, his lips uttered standard directions to the models: "Chin a bit higher," "Turn your shoulders," "Softer gaze." He was doing his work — doing it well — but that spark, that drive that usually accompanied him during shoots had vanished somewhere. It was replaced by something else — a quiet, pulling sensation, akin to a hunger that couldn't be satisfied with food.

He was thinking about Nicholas.

It happened at the most unexpected moments. While setting up the light — he remembered Wang talking about red filters and his basement shoot, gesturing so energetically he almost knocked over his latte cup. While editing shots — he saw before his eyes not the faces of professional models, but blonde hair casually tied in a ponytail and eyes that lit up at the word "photography." During lunch breaks — he would pull out his phone and open the gallery, not even noticing how his fingers automatically found the right folder.

"Tennoji Park."

He reviewed those shots every evening. It had become a kind of ritual — after a shower, before sleep, when the city outside the window grew quiet and he could finally be alone with himself. Maki would sit on the edge of the bed, tucking one leg under himself, and flip through the photos one by one. Not for work — for his soul.

Nicholas by the stone lantern — bewildered, yet trusting. Nicholas laughing at the joke about the ducks — with dimples on his cheeks and strands pulled from his ponytail. Nicholas on the bridge — calm, thoughtful, beautiful with that very natural beauty that no Photoshop could create.

Mauss looked at these frames and felt warmth spreading inside — soft, enveloping, completely unfamiliar. He had never experienced anything like this before. He had been in relationships — short, functional, non-binding ones. He had harbored infatuations — fleeting, built on mutual sympathy and convenience. But what he felt now didn't resemble anything from his past experience.

It was deeper. Subtler. And much, much scarier.

On Thursday evening, having finished editing commercial shots, Maki opened the chat with Nicholas again. Their last exchange had been short — the one where they agreed to meet over the weekend. Several days had passed since then, and Maki had felt the urge to write again multiple times. Just because. For no reason. To ask how his day went. To send a funny meme about photographers he found on social media. To tell him about a silly model who showed up forty minutes late today and didn't even apologize.

But every time his finger hovered over the keyboard, something held him back.

What if he came across as pushy? What if Nico was busy and didn't want to be distracted by idle chatter? What if their Saturday meeting was just a meetup between two colleagues, and Wang didn't attach the same weight to it that Riki did?

This insecurity was unfamiliar. Maki had always known what he wanted and wasn't afraid to go after it. But now the goal was... different. Not a contract, not a project, not a career move. But a person. A living, vulnerable, slightly awkward-in-his-honesty person who had managed to turn his structured life upside down with nothing more than laughter at a joke about ducks.

On Friday, Hirota couldn't hold out any longer and wrote. Short, almost matter-of-fact:

M: Tomorrow at the same time? Same park? Or do you want to try a new place?

The reply came quickly — as if Nico had been waiting for the message.

N: Let's do the park. I liked it there. Only let's go without cameras this time. Just walk around, okay?

Maki smiled at his screen. "Without cameras" — that meant Nico wanted to see him not just as a colleague. Not just as a photographer.

M: Deal. At nine by the gates. I'll bring coffee.

N: Do you remember how I take it?

M: Latte, no sugar, with a double shot of espresso. You said last time that otherwise it's "too milky and doesn't taste like coffee."

N: ...you actually remembered?

M: I'm a photographer, Nico. I remember details.

He didn't add: "Especially those that concern you." But it didn't seem necessary.

Saturday morning met him with sunshine and a cool wind. Maki woke up early, took a shower, and dressed with the kind of care he usually reserved for important business meetings. Light trousers, a dark blue sweater made of fine cashmere, and over his shoulder — a bag with a thermos containing two coffees: a latte for Nico and a black espresso for himself. He had even checked the temperature — not too hot, not too cold, just right for a walk.

He arrived at the park fifteen minutes early — not because he was afraid of being late, but because he wanted to be alone here before the meeting. To walk down the alley, recall where they had stood last Saturday, where they had laughed, where they had argued about the advantages of natural light over studio light. The stone lanterns still towered along the paths just the same, the pond still sparkled under the morning sun, the ducks still resembled serious businessmen at a meeting. Everything was just like then. And yet — different. Because now Maki knew: what he was feeling wasn't just sympathy.

Nicholas appeared right at nine. Maki spotted him from afar — the blonde head, the familiar navy micro-check shirt, the backpack on one shoulder. He wanted to call out to him, but something stopped him. Something in the way Wang was walking.

He moved slower than usual. His shoulders were slouched, his gaze — fixed somewhere on his feet. The usual energy that radiated from Nicholas even on his worst days had vanished somewhere. He looked... extinguished.

— Nico! – Mauss raised a hand and stepped forward, — Good morning.

Wang looked up, and a smile flickered across his face — but a pale, forced one. Not the kind that made everything inside Maki flip upside down, but a different one — polite, almost formal.

— Hey, Maki. Sorry, I think I'm a bit late.

— You're right on time. I just got here early, – Hirota handed him the thermos with the latte, — Here. Just the way you like it.

— Wow, thanks, – Wang took the thermos, and their fingers brushed for a moment. His hand was cold, despite the warm weather, — You really went out of your way.

— It's not "going out of my way." It's basic care.

They walked down the alleyway — toward the same spot as last Saturday. The park was living its morning life: birds were singing, foliage rustled, somewhere in the distance a dog barked at a squirrel. Everything was almost perfect. Almost — because Nicholas was quiet.

Maki didn't rush him. He knew: if a person needs to say something important, he'll say it himself. You just have to give him time. And space. And the feeling that someone is ready to listen.

They walked past the stone lantern. Then — past the pond. Then — onto the bridge, the very one where Maki had taken the last, best shot last time. Wang stopped at the railing and stared down at the water. His fingers clutched the thermos with coffee, but he hadn't taken a single sip.

— Something happened to you, – Riki said. And it wasn't a question.

Nicholas didn't answer. Only his shoulders twitched slightly — barely noticeably, but Maki noticed. He always noticed details.

— Nico, – He stepped closer, stood beside him, leaning on the railing. Their shoulders almost touched, — You don't have to tell me. But if you want to — I'm right here. And I'm listening.

A silence fell. Long, heavy, filled only with the sounds of the park and the soft lapping of water beneath the bridge.

And then Wang took a deep breath — as if preparing to plunge into ice-cold water — and said flatly, without raising his eyes:

— I need to move out of my current apartment because the building is scheduled for demolition. I have to find a new place soon, and an inexpensive one.

The news hit Maki like a punch to the gut.

He stood on the bridge, leaning against the railing, and looked at Nicholas — at his slumped shoulders, at his white knuckles clutching the thermos of untouched coffee, at his eyes that persistently avoided his gaze. The morning sun, so bright and promising just a minute ago, now seemed almost out of place — too joyful, too carefree for this conversation.

— Demolition? – asked Mauss, his voice sounding quieter than he had intended, — When?

— That's just the thing, I don't know exactly, – Wang finally raised his head and looked somewhere off toward the pond, where the ducks were still swimming in circles just as serenely, — I was informed literally an hour before our meeting. A notice came from the management company. The building was declared unsafe last year, but they only got around to the demolition now. They said — within a month the place needs to be vacated. Maybe sooner. Maybe a bit later. Nobody really explains anything.

Maki remained silent. Inside, everything tightened into a hard knot — anxiety, confusion, the urge to do something immediately. He remembered how Nico had described his apartment: a "cardboard box," an "anthill." But for all its flaws, it was his home, his space. His refuge, however tiny, however unsightly.

— Do you have options? – he asked cautiously, — I mean, where to move?

— Options? – Nicholas let out a bitter laugh and finally took a sip of coffee, – Maki, I live in the cheapest apartment you could possibly find in Osaka. My savings — that's the payment for the last job and a little extra. Have you seen the rent prices in this city? All I can afford is either another anthill like that, but in a different district, or a dorm room. And neither of those is fast. You have to search, look, negotiate…

He fell silent and stared at the water again. His profile — sharp, tense — stood out against the greenery of the park like a snapped branch.

Riki went over the options in his head. He could offer money — but he knew Nico would refuse. Pride wouldn't let him. He could offer to look for options together — but that would take time, which Nicholas, by the looks of it, didn't have. He could…

And then it hit him.

The studio apartment.

The very one he had bought two years ago for work, but which had ultimately turned into an equipment storage room. Spacious, bright, in a good area — not the center, but not the outskirts either. He had barely been there lately, preferring to work in a rented studio downtown, where there was more room for large-scale projects. The apartment was sitting idle, gathering dust, waiting.

And now, it seemed, it had waited long enough.

— Nico, – Hirota began, carefully choosing his words, — I have a proposal. And I ask you to hear me out to the end before saying no.

Wang turned to him. Caution was written in his eyes — the very same caution Maki had noticed back during their first meeting. The caution of a person who is used to paying for any help. Used to kindness being a currency, and one that always comes with interest.

— I'm listening.

— I have a second apartment. Or rather, a studio apartment. It's not far from Namba, in a good district. I bought it as a workspace, but I barely use it now — there's just equipment gathering dust. There are two rooms: a living area and a shooting area. Wall-to-wall windows. A proper bathroom, not that booth where, in your own words, you fit like an astronaut in a capsule.

He paused, giving Nicholas time to digest the information. The latter stood motionless, only his eyebrows drawing together slightly over the bridge of his nose.

— It's not charity, – Maki continued more firmly, — I'm not offering you to live there for free. You will pay the utilities — electricity, water, internet. That will be your responsibility. And also... – he smiled slightly, trying to ease the tension, — If you want, you could sometimes help me with editing photos. I never have enough time for the routine work. It would be mutually beneficial.

Wang was silent. His face — usually so animated, with constantly shifting expressions — was now frozen in a complex, hard-to-read emotion. Distrust? Doubt? A hope he was afraid to let in?

— Maki, I... – he cut himself off and rubbed the bridge of his nose, — Are you serious? A whole apartment? You barely know me.

— I know you enough, – Hirota replied calmly, — I know you are a talented photographer who shoots better than many professionals, even though you work with archaic gear. I know you care more about your camera than about yourself. I know you hate red light and adore green tea. I know you laugh at stupid jokes about ducks and that you have dimples on your cheeks when you smile for real.

He stopped, realizing he had said perhaps more than he had intended. But it was too late to back down.

— I know enough to want to help you, — he finished more quietly, – Just... think about it. It's a temporary option until you find something more suitable.

A pause hung in the air. Yixiang looked at him — long and intently, as if trying to discern something behind the words. Something Maki didn't dare say directly.

— Are you really... – he began and cut himself off again, — Are you really ready to let me into your apartment? With my chaos, with my clumsiness, with my stupid schedule?

— I'm ready, – Mauss nodded, not breaking eye contact, — What's more — I suggest we go there right now. You can take a look, and if you don't like it — just say so, and we'll figure out something else. No offense. No obligations.

Nicholas looked at him for a few more seconds, and then suddenly exhaled — a long, drawn-out breath, as if shedding an invisible burden he had been carrying all week.

— Okay, – he said, his voice trembling almost imperceptibly, — Let's go, I'll take a look. But only to look!

— Only to look, – agreed Maki, though deep down he already knew: he would do everything to make Nico like this apartment. To make it not an equipment warehouse for him, but a home. A real home where it's warm and safe.

He took out his phone and quickly called a taxi. Five minutes later, the car was already waiting at the park entrance. All the way to the apartment, Riki stole glances at Nicholas — watching him look out the window, bite his lip, his fingers nervously tapping against his knee. He wanted to say something encouraging, but he understood: words weren't needed right now. Right now, he just needed to be there.

The car turned into the courtyard of a modern residential complex — a high-rise building with a glass facade and an underground parking garage. Hirota heard Wang let out a soft, almost soundless exhale that sounded like "wow." He pretended not to notice, paid the driver, and stepped out first, holding the door.

— Come on in. We're going to the twelfth floor.

In the elevator, they rode in silence. The mirrored walls reflected the two of them — a tall brunette in light trousers and a sweater, and a slightly shorter blonde with still-tense shoulders, who was trying not to look at himself in the reflection. Maki pressed the button for the twelfth floor and gave a brief smile — just so Nico would know: everything is fine, everything is okay.

The elevator doors opened into a spacious corridor with soft carpeting and muted lighting. The apartment was at the end — number 1204. Maki took out the keys and unlocked the door.

— Go ahead in.

Nicholas crossed the threshold and froze.

The apartment was just as Hirota remembered it — bright, spacious, with a panoramic wall-to-wall window offering a view of the city. Minimalist furniture: a sofa, a coffee table, a shelf with photography books. Warm laminate on the floor. The kitchen area was separated by a bar counter, behind which a brand-new coffee machine was visible.

— This is... – Wang froze in the hallway, not daring to step further, — Maki, is this a joke?

— No, – Maki chuckled, taking off his shoes, — This is the guest room. Or rather, the living area. Further down the hall is the bathroom, it's a normal size, with a shower and a tub. And behind that door, – he pointed to the sliding partition made of frosted glass, — Is the shooting area. All the gear is in there.

Nicholas walked into the room slowly, as if in a dream. He stopped by the window, looking at the city stretching out below. Then he turned to the kitchen. Then — to the bookshelf. His eyes widened when he read a few titles on the spines.

— These are... these are Kawashima-sensei's albums. I thought they were impossible to find anymore.

— You can find anything if you know where to look, – Maki shrugged, but inside he felt warm from the reverence with which Wang touched the book spines with his fingers, — I thought you might be interested.

Nicholas was still standing in the middle of the room, slowly turning his head as if trying to absorb every detail. His fingers slid over the bar counter, over the sofa upholstery, over the spine of the photo album he still hadn't let go of. Riki watched him from the side, leaning his shoulder against the doorframe, feeling a strange mix of relief and anxiety spreading inside him.

Relief — because Nico no longer looked cornered. His eyes, dull and lifeless just half an hour ago, were shining again — cautiously, hesitantly, but shining nonetheless.

Anxiety — because Maki suddenly realized just how much it mattered to him that this guy agree. Not out of pity, not out of a sense of duty, but simply... to stay here. Nearby.

— Are you seriously ready to let me stay here? – Yixiang's voice sounded muffled, as if he still couldn't believe what was happening, — This isn't just an apartment, Maki. This is... this is a whole studio. You work here. Your equipment. Your things.

— I barely work here, – Mauss pushed off the doorframe and took a couple of steps deeper into the room, — I have another studio downtown. The one where I do commercial shoots. And this one... – he gestured around the space, — This one is more for the soul. But my soul has been occupied with something else lately.

He didn't specify what exactly. But the glance he cast at Nicholas — brief, almost accidental — said more than any words could.

Nicholas either didn't notice or pretended not to notice. He walked up to the sliding frosted glass partition and peeked into the shooting area. It smelled of dust and old wood — a smell familiar to every photographer.

— May I? – he asked, already taking hold of the handle.

— You live here now. Or at least, you're considering the option. So — yes, you may.

Wang slid the partition open and stepped inside. Maki followed him, trying to keep a slight distance so as not to press.

The shooting area was exactly as he had left it a month ago. Studio lights on stands, white and gray seamless backdrops rolled up against the wall. A couple of reflectors leaning against the corner. A cabinet with gear — lenses, filters, spare batteries. Everything in perfect order, just as Hirota was used to.

Nicholas froze at the entrance. His face — usually so mobile — froze in an expression Maki couldn't immediately decipher. Then he blinked. Then once more.

— This is... – he cut himself off and cleared his throat, — This is professional gear. Very expensive professional gear. And you want me to live here? With all this? What if I drop something? Or break it? Or…

— Nico, – Maki gently interrupted him, — You're a photographer. You know the value of this equipment no worse than I do. And you definitely know how to handle it. I trust you.

— Trust me? – Wang finally turned to him, and there were so many emotions in his eyes all at once that Riki couldn't have listed them even if he tried, — You've known me for a little over two weeks. Two weeks, Maki. We bumped into each other on the street in the rain, drank coffee, and walked in the park a couple of times. And you trust me with the keys to an apartment holding several million yen worth of equipment?

Maki paused. Not because he didn't know what to answer — on the contrary, he knew the answer all too well. But saying it out loud was frightening.

— I don't trust you because we've known each other for a long time, – he said finally, his voice quiet but firm, — I trust you because I see who you are. How you treat your work. How you pick up a camera. How you talk about light. A person who treats their craft with such care would never harm someone else's equipment. I know this. And I don't need years to understand it.

Wang looked at him — long and intently. And then suddenly his lips trembled. Not in a smile — in something more fragile. In something that looked like a crack in the armor he had been wearing all this time.

— You're strange, – he said quietly, — Very strange.

— I know, – Maki smiled with the corner of his lips, — I've been told that before.

— No, I'm serious. Nobody... nobody has ever done anything like this for me. I'm used to relying only on myself. I'm used to help being either a deal or a handout. And you... you're just offering. No conditions. No interest. Why?

There it was — the question Mauss had been afraid of. The one he couldn't answer honestly — at least, not now. Not when Nico was standing before him with such an open, almost defenseless expression on his face.

— Because I can, – he replied simply, — And because I want to. Sometimes that's enough.

Nicholas slowly exhaled. His shoulders, which had been tense and raised throughout the walk, dropped. He swept his gaze across the shooting area once more, the living room behind the partition, the panoramic window with Osaka stretching out beyond it. And then he took a step forward.

And hugged Maki.

It happened so unexpectedly that Maki froze for a moment. Nicholas's arms wrapped around his shoulders — tightly, desperately, as if he were afraid Hirota would disappear if he didn't hold on. He smelled of coffee and the park, and of something else — something warm, homey, that Maki couldn't pinpoint, but wanted to breathe in again and again.

Inside, everything flipped over.

He felt heat rush to his face — swift, uncontrollable, entirely uncharacteristic for a person used to keeping his composure under any circumstances. His heart, which had been beating steadily until then, suddenly accelerated, pounding somewhere in his throat, echoing with a pulse in his temples. It was alarming. Unfamiliar. And at the same time — pleasant. So pleasant that Riki felt a moment of fear — not of what he was feeling, but that he might give himself away.

He carefully — very carefully — raised his hands and returned the hug. He placed his palms on Nicholas's back, feeling the warmth of his body through the fabric of his shirt. He allowed himself to close his eyes — for just a couple of seconds — breathing in this scent, this moment, this unexpected closeness.

— Thank you, – Wang whispered somewhere into his shoulder, — I don't know what to say. Just... thank you.

— You don't need to say anything, – Maki answered, his voice sounding unexpectedly husky, — Just... stay. At least for a while.

They stood like that for a few more seconds. Then Nicholas pulled away — slowly, almost reluctantly. His cheeks had flushed noticeably, and he hurriedly looked away, pretending to examine the studio lights in the corner.

— I... um. Ahem, – he cleared his throat, — Okay, I agree. But only for a while. And I will pay for utilities, and help with editing. And also... well, whatever else is needed.

— Deal, – Maki smiled, feeling his heart gradually return to its normal rhythm, — Then here.

He pulled a set of keys from his pocket and held them out to Nicholas. Their fingers touched again — longer this time, because Wang took the keys carefully, almost reverently, as if it weren't a bundle of metal objects, but something far more precious.

— These are yours. They're for the main entrance, the apartment, and the mailbox. You can use them however you like. And one more thing...

He paused, waiting until Nico looked up at him.

— Text me often. I want to know that you're okay. If something breaks — tell me right away. If anything is wrong — I'll come over. Anytime. Understood?

Nicholas nodded, squeezing the keys in his palm.

— Understood. I'll text.

— Good. Then... – Maki pulled out his phone and quickly scrolled through his contacts, — I'll call a delivery service. They'll come to your old place and help with your things. How many boxes do you roughly have?

— Oh, well... – Wang gave a vague shrug, – A couple of boxes with clothes, my camera, a laptop, a couple of lenses. All the other furniture belongs to the landlord. I barely have anything to move. I lived... well, you can roughly imagine how.

Hirota nodded, trying not to show how much those words — "lived how" — stung him. He wanted to say that now everything would be different. That in this apartment, with its panoramic window and professional lighting, Yixiang wouldn't have to huddle in a closet and listen to his neighbor coughing. But he held back — now was not the time for grand statements.

— Then let's head back to your place, – he said, dialing the delivery service number, — We'll pack up your stuff, and I'll help.

But Wang suddenly shook his head — quickly, almost fearfully.

— No. No, Maki, thank you, but... I'll do it myself. Really.

— Why?

Nicholas hesitated. His fingers nervously fumbled with his backpack strap, and his gaze dropped back down to the floor.

— Just... you've already done too much. And I... I don't want you to see my old place. It really is an anthill. Peeling paint, a rusty staircase, neighbors coughing through the wall. I'm not ashamed, – he snapped his head up, as if defending himself against an unspoken accusation, — But after all this, – he gestured around the apartment, — I don't want you thinking...

He cut himself off.

Mauss looked at him and felt something tighten inside. Not pity — he knew Nico couldn't stand pity. Something else. Something resembling tenderness.

— I won't think anything bad, – he said quietly, — But if you want to handle it on your own — I understand. Just know: if you need help, I'm here. Always.

Nicholas nodded gratefully, but still a little tensely.

— Thank you. I'll manage. Really.

— I know. You manage a lot of things, – Maki allowed himself a faint smile, — Then it's settled: right now you go home, pack your stuff, and tomorrow... tomorrow you live here. In a normal apartment. With a normal bathroom. And without a coughing neighbor.

— Sounds like a fairytale, – Wang finally smiled for real, that very smile that made Mauss’s chest feel warm, — Alright. I'll go. And... Maki?

— Yeah?

— You really... You really are the best person I've met in recent years.

Hirota didn't answer. He just watched Nicholas take one more look around the apartment, as if still unable to believe that this was now his home, and then step out into the corridor and call the elevator.

When the elevator doors closed and the metal box carried Nicholas down, Maki leaned his back against the wall and slowly let out his breath. His heart was still beating faster than usual. The warmth from the hug hadn't faded yet — it lingered somewhere under his skin, like a stray ray of sunlight caught in his hair.

He looked at the empty apartment, which in a day would cease to be empty. At the panoramic window, behind which the city continued its usual life.

And then he smiled — to himself, with no witnesses, — and went to order the delivery.

After all, tomorrow Nicholas was starting a new life. And, maybe (just maybe), he was too.

The apartment greeted Nicholas with its usual silence, but today it felt different. Perhaps because he knew: these were the last few hours he would spend here. The last few hours in this anthill, where every crack in the wall was familiar, every creak of the floorboards homey, every sound of a coughing neighbor almost soothing in its predictability.

He closed the door behind him and leaned his back against it, scanning the space. The futon he hadn't bothered to put away this morning. The mug with the remains of yesterday’s tea on the windowsill. The camera peacefully blinking its green charging light in the corner. Everything was as it had always been. And at the same time — no longer his.

— Alright, – he exhaled, pulling himself away from the door, – Come on, Wang. Boxes, packing, and zero panic.

But the panic was already creeping in. It didn't sound alarms, it didn't scream — it softly clawed somewhere under his ribs, whispering questions Nicholas had been driving away all the way from the new apartment to the old one.

He started packing his things. He pulled a couple of cardboard boxes from the closet, which he had saved in case of a move — as if he had sensed they would come in handy someday. He packed his clothes: t-shirts, jeans, sweatshirts. That very blue plaid shirt he had worn to the meeting in the park. That very hoodie he had rejected before their first meeting at the cafe. Things with history, things with memories.

His hands were working on autopilot without any real plan, as if an algorithm were hardcoded under his skull, while his thoughts flowed on their own — a dark, murky stream.

At first, he was simply remembering. How Maki had smiled as he showed him the apartment. How his voice had softened when he said, "I trust you." How his eyes, dark and deep, had looked at him with a strange tenderness that made everything inside turn upside down. How he had hugged Maki — tightly, desperately, feeling him freeze for a moment before hugging back. Cautiously, almost gently.

Then, in that moment, it had felt right, natural. As if it couldn't have been any other way.

But now, in the silence of his empty apartment, far from the panoramic windows and professional lights, Nicholas began to think. And that was bad. Because he knew how to think — too well, too meticulously, and often his thoughts led him where he shouldn't go.

— Too ideal, – he muttered, taping down the first box, — Everything is just too ideal.

He stopped and sat down on the futon, staring at the wall.

Let's break it down. Coldly, calmly, without emotion.

Fact one: Maki is practically a stranger. They met two and a half weeks ago. Two and a half weeks is nothing. In that time, people usually get to know each other on the level of "how are you, what do you do, what's your favorite music." They don't offer keys to an apartment with millions of yen worth of equipment.

Fact two: Maki is a successful photographer. At least, that's what he says. He has expensive clothes, an expensive phone, an expensive camera. He orders business-class taxis without batting an eye at the fare. He shoots models for magazines. He knows technical terms. It all adds up.

But what if it doesn't?

What if Maki isn't who he claims to be?

Yixiang rubbed the bridge of his nose and frowned. The thoughts that had been mere vague shadows before were beginning to take shape: an ugly, terrifying shape.

Who in their right mind provides a guy they barely know with an apartment full of professional equipment? Who says "I trust you" after two weeks of knowing someone? Who goes through all this trouble — the umbrella, the taxi, the coffee, the shoot, now the apartment — asking for nothing in return?

What if Maki is asking for something, but just hasn't said it yet?

Nicholas felt everything inside him turn cold. He remembered the equipment in the shooting area. Professional lighting, backdrops, tripods. He remembered how Maki had talked about commercial shoots — "I shoot models for magazines." But what if it wasn't magazines? What if it was something else? Something people don't talk about openly?

Paid sites. Nude photography. Or maybe even video.

Wang squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. It sounded absurd. Maki didn't seem like someone involved in anything shady. His manners, his style, his speech — everything spoke of good upbringing and professionalism. But damn it, those were the exact kind of people who knew how to hide the truth best. The ones who looked flawless. The ones who smiled too warmly. The ones who said "I trust you" with such sincerity it made you want to cry.

— You idiot, – Wang whispered, addressing himself, — You don't know anything about him. Absolutely nothing.

What if their entire meeting had been set up? What if Maki was specifically looking for someone — a young photographer, short on cash, willing to do anything for work? What if he had been watching him all this time, evaluating him, testing him, luring him into a trap?

No. No, this was nonsense. Pure paranoia.

So why was his heart beating so fast? Why were the hands that had just been calmly folding clothes now trembling?

Yixiang stood up and paced the room — three steps one way, three steps back. His gaze fell on the camera, still blinking its green charging light. He remembered how Maki had talked about light. About the red filter hack. About exposure compensation. Those were the words of a professional — not an amateur, not a fraud. A person who knew those things couldn't be a fake.

Or could he?

— Okay, stop, – he said aloud, — Stop overthinking.

He sat back down on the futon and took a deep breath. He needed to separate fact from assumption. Facts: he had no money for rent. He had a month to move out. There were no other housing options right now — he had checked when he first got the demolition notice. Everything he could afford required time to search, process paperwork, and pay a deposit. He didn't have time.

And Maki had offered a solution. Ready-made. Free — almost. On terms so lenient that even Nicholas's pride couldn't find a reason to refuse.

And even if, even if Maki had some hidden motives... well, Wang would be on his guard. He wasn't a child. He knew how to spot danger. If something went wrong — he'd leave. Quickly and without hesitation.

But for now, he had to accept this help. Gritting his teeth, burying his fear deeper, but accepting it.

— You can handle this, – he told himself as he taped the second box, — You've always handled things. You'll handle this too.

Packing took a couple of hours. He gathered all his belongings — it turned out to be pitifully little. Clothes, a laptop, a camera, a couple of lenses, chargers, cables, a mug, a few odds and ends. His entire life fit into four cardboard boxes and one backpack. No furniture, no large appliances. Only what could be carried by hand.

When the last box was taped up, he straightened his spine and looked around the empty apartment. It suddenly seemed even smaller than usual. Even poorer. Even more... temporary. As if he had never truly lived here, but had merely been waiting — without knowing what for.

The delivery truck was already waiting below — Maki had organized everything, just as he had promised. Yixiang began bringing the boxes down one by one — carefully, so as not to strain his back. The rusty staircase creaked beneath his feet as usual. The neighbor on the right peeked out at the noise, coughed into his fist, and closed his door without even saying goodbye. Not that Nicholas expected any goodbyes. He hadn't gotten close to anyone here — he just lived, just worked, just existed.

The truck driver — an elderly man with a warm face — helped load the boxes into the back. Wang got into the passenger seat and looked at his old home through the window. Peeling paint, rusty stairs, laundry drying under the awning. All of it was left in the past. In the past where he had been alone — completely, utterly, in every way.

The vehicle pulled away. The streets of Osaka drifted past the window — first familiar, almost homey, then increasingly alien. The new district was different: cleaner, brighter, more spacious. Trees along the sidewalks, neat benches, glass building facades. A different world. A world Wang didn't belong to.

The truck stopped near the entrance. The movers, two sturdy guys, quickly and efficiently carried the boxes up to the twelfth floor. Apartment 1204 greeted him with the same silence, which now seemed suspicious rather than promising. Nicholas stood in the middle of the living room, looking at the boxes, the panoramic window, the shelf with photo albums, and felt like a stranger. Not a guest — a stranger.

He was about to open the first box when his phone chimed.

M: How did it go? Did you get your things moved?

Nicholas looked at the screen. His heart started beating faster again — not from warmth this time, but from cold. From that exact sticky, repulsive fear that had taken root inside him over these past few hours.

He typed out a reply:

N: Yes, all set. Thank you.

Short. Dry. Emotionless.

M: Great. I'll drop by tomorrow to check if everything is okay. If you need anything — text me.

N: Alright.

He put the phone down and stared at the wall. Before, he would have answered Maki differently — warmer, more lively, maybe even happier. But now... now something inside had broken. Or, on the contrary, had switched on — the very defense mechanism that had helped him survive all these years. The defense that said: "Don't trust. Don't relax. Be ready for the blow."

He walked into the kitchen area and stood in front of the coffee machine. Expensive, high-end — the kind he could only dream of. A few button presses — and the scent of fresh espresso filled the room. Wang sat down at the bar counter, wrapped both hands around the cup, and stared out the window.

The city behind the glass was living its life: the first evening lights were turning on, cars were passing by, the distant glow of Dotonbori flickered somewhere far off. Beautiful. Very beautiful. But not his.

He was thinking.

He needed to look for a new apartment. Fast. The sooner he found a place of his own, the sooner he'd stop feeling like a debtor. The sooner he'd stop guessing what was hidden behind Maki's kindness — genuine care, or something dark he hadn't figured out yet.

He opened his laptop and went to rental listing websites. Scrolled through a few pages. Nothing. Everything within his budget was on the outskirts — in anthills just like his old place. And the places that looked decent cost two to three times more than he could afford.

— Perfect, – he muttered.

He spent another hour methodically browsing listings and setting up alerts on every site he knew. "Apartment up to 50,000 yen," "Room up to 35,000," "Urgent rental." Filters, bookmarks, subscriptions — now, if something suitable popped up, he'd be the first to know.

Closing the laptop, he picked up his coffee cup again — already cold. Took a sip — bitter, but invigorating.

— Alright, – he said aloud to the empty room, — Here's the plan: work, save money, find an apartment. Communicate with Maki politely, but at a distance. No hugs. No euphoria. Just facts.

He stood up, walked over to the boxes, but didn't open them. Instead, he approached the panoramic window and pressed his forehead against the cold glass. Down below, twelve floors beneath him, evening Osaka flowed — bright, noisy, indifferent. And somewhere out there, in one of its districts, Maki was perhaps also looking at the city, thinking about his own things.

— Who are you really, Maki? – Nicholas whispered, and his whisper dissolved into the silence of the huge, unfamiliar apartment that was now temporarily his home.

Yixiang was about to gather his strength and start unpacking, but his phone chimed again. Another message from Maki.

M: Have you unpacked your things yet? How's the coffee machine? Working alright? If anything breaks — tell me right away, I'll send a technician.

Too caring. Too attentive. Before, it would have touched his soul. Now it was making him suspicious.

N: Haven't unpacked yet. Made coffee. Machine works, thanks.

He placed the phone screen-down and walked back to the window. He felt like an impostor in this ideal space — a person who had accidentally wandered into someone else's life and now didn't know what to do with it.

The phone chimed again. Maki clearly wasn't planning on ending the conversation.

M: You sound kind of tense. Is everything really okay? Maybe I should drop by?

Nicholas clenched his teeth. Drop by, sure, a hundred times over. To check on his "ward." To make sure the investment was working out. Or — whatever it was Maki actually needed? He still didn't know.

N: No need. I'm tired and want to be alone. I'll call tomorrow.

He pressed "send" and immediately regretted it. That sounded rude. Far too rude for someone who had literally saved him from the streets. But the fear — that sticky, repulsive fear — was stronger than politeness.

Maki didn't reply. A minute passed. Two. Five. The phone remained silent.

Yixiang exhaled and set it aside. Later. All of it later.

He walked up to the coffee machine again and made himself another cup — plain black this time, no milk, no sugar, bitter. Just like his thoughts.

Cup in hand, he sat down at the bar counter, pulling one leg up under himself. The boxes still stood unopened against the wall. He looked at them, feeling a strange apathy — usually after a move, he couldn't wait to unpack, organize everything, make the place cozy. But here... here it felt pointless. Because this wasn't his home. This was a temporary shelter. And the sooner he found something of his own, the better.

His head was buzzing. The thoughts he had tried to drown out with work and apartment hunting kept coming back again and again — like waves crashing onto the shore no matter how far you try to run from them.

Maki. His smile, his voice, his hands that had rested so gently on his back when Wang had hugged him in an impulse of gratitude.

"I trust you," Maki had said. And it had sounded so sincere, so damn sincere that Nicholas had believed him. For a minute. For an hour. For a whole day.

And then those cold, calculating, mean thoughts had arrived.

He picked up his phone again, opened their chat. Scrolled up — to where just yesterday they were exchanging memes and arranging to meet in the park. Warm messages, funny pictures, short "how are yous" in the middle of the workday. All of it looked... normal. Friendly. Sweet, even.

But now every message felt double-edged. Every "good night" — suspicious. Every "I'm glad we met" — part of some plan Nicholas hadn't figured out yet.

— Maybe I'm just losing my mind? – he asked out loud.

The empty apartment didn't answer.

He stood up, walked over to the boxes, gathered his strength, and started unpacking — just to keep his hands busy. Clothes — into the wardrobe. Laptop and chargers — onto the desk by the window. Camera — onto a special shelf that Maki seemed to have intentionally left empty. Lenses — right beside it. The photography books he had dragged around with him through his last three apartments — onto the shelf, nudging Kawashima-sensei's albums aside.

Unpacking helped. The monotonous movements were soothing, offering an illusion of control. By the time he had unpacked three boxes out of four, he realized the fear had receded a bit. It hadn't disappeared — but it had dulled. Shrunk down to a small cold marble deep inside him.

Yixiang sat on the sofa and picked up his phone again. Still no messages from Maki. The last one — the one he had answered so coldly and sharply — was still hanging in the chat as an unread reproach.

Nicholas wanted to write, to explain, to apologize. But what could he say? "Sorry, I overthought things and decided you might be shooting porn and want to lure me into servitude"? No. That sounded insane even inside his own head.

He put the phone down and stared at the ceiling. The plan he had made for himself a couple of hours ago was still in effect: work, save money, and find an apartment. Be careful with Maki and no hugs, no revelations, no euphoria. Keep a distance. At least until he figured out what was actually driving the man.

But somewhere deep down — so deep he was afraid to look there himself — he wanted to believe. He wanted Maki to turn out to be exactly who he seemed during those first two weeks. Warm. Caring. Genuine. He wanted all this fear to be nothing more than paranoia born from years of loneliness and the habit of expecting a catch.

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath. Tomorrow would be a new day. Tomorrow he would pull himself together, unpack the last box, check the equipment in the shooting area, and maybe even answer Maki normally, like a human being. Without that icy chill in every word.

But today… Today he allowed himself to exist in the silence. In this strange, unfamiliar silence that was simultaneously terrifying and soothing.

Outside the window, Osaka continued to live its life. Somewhere down there, eleven floors below him, people were laughing, arguing, falling in love, breaking up. And here, in apartment 1204, Nicholas sat at the bar counter with cold coffee, trying to figure out: what was he now — a lucky guy who was unbelievably fortunate to meet a kind person, or a fool who had walked straight into a trap?

There was no answer yet. But he knew that sooner or later, he would find out.

The main thing was — not to let his guard down.

The night went horribly.

Nicholas tossed and turned, tangling himself in the unfamiliar bedsheets — too expensive, too smooth, smelling of fabric softener rather than the accustomed scent of the old futon he had grown into over the years. The pillow was too high, the mattress too soft, and the silence too deep. No neighbor coughing, no TV humming through the wall, no squeak of the rusty staircase under someone's footsteps. Just silence. Deafening, suffocating, filling the entire space.

He drifted into sleep and surfaced back up like a swimmer repeatedly swallowed by waves. Coherence gave way to nonsense in his dreams: one moment he was back in the old basement under the red light, with Miyuki demanding her money back; the next, he was running down the endless alley of Tennoji Park while Maki stood in the distance with a camera, laughing — though his laugh wasn't warm, but somehow cold, metallic. Then he opened the door to apartment 1204, only to find void behind it. No furniture, no equipment, no walls. Just a concrete floor and an echo.

At four in the morning, he woke up in a cold sweat and couldn't fall back asleep.

— Lovely, – he whispered to the ceiling, feeling his eyes sting with exhaustion, — Just perfect.

He lay there a bit longer, watching the sky slowly brighten through the panoramic window — turning from black to dark blue, then gray, then pinkish. The city was waking up. Down below, the first cars were already rustling by. It was time to get up.

Work was the one thing that had always saved him. On the shittiest days, during the darkest nights, when his thoughts became unbearable, he would pick up a camera and immerse himself in the process. Light, composition, exposure — clear, understandable parameters that could be controlled. Unlike life. Unlike feelings.

He forced himself out of bed and took a shower in the new bathroom — spacious, with good water pressure, and a heated floor that turned on automatically. It was pleasant, but he forbade himself from enjoying it. Don't get used to it. This is temporary, this isn't yours.

The coffee machine worked flawlessly, filling the kitchen with the aroma of fresh espresso. He drank a cup standing up, looking out the window, and was about to open his laptop to check his email when his phone rang.

The number was unfamiliar, but the caller ID displayed: "Osaka Wedding Agency 'Sakura'."

— Hello? – his voice sounded raspy after the sleepless night, and he cleared his throat.

— Good morning! This is Tanaka-san from the 'Sakura' agency. Apologies for the early call, but we have an urgent request. A full-day wedding shoot today. Our lead photographer fell ill, and the clients are begging not to reschedule. Are you available?

Nicholas froze for a moment. A wedding. A serious job, which meant good money. Wedding shoots paid better than standard portraits. And work that would take up the whole day would leave no time for self-reflection.

— Yes, I'm available. Send the details to my email. Address, time, the clients' preferences.

— Sending right now! Thank you so much, you're saving us!

He hung up, and a minute later he was reading the email. A wedding at a small Shinto shrine on the outskirts of the city, followed by a photo session in a park and a modest banquet at a restaurant. The groom — Takahashi Kenji, an IT company manager. The bride — Takahashi Yumi (still Yamamoto Yumi for now, but in a few hours everything would change), a primary school teacher.

Yixiang started getting ready. Camera, spare battery, a few lenses — a standard zoom for wide shots and a fast prime for portraits. Nothing extra. He always traveled light to weddings — experience had taught him that on such a fast-paced day, excess equipment only got in the way.

Right at the door, he cast a glance at his phone. Still no new messages from Maki — neither from last night nor this morning. That last cold "No need. I'm tired" was still hanging in the chat as an unread reproach.

Nicholas set his jaw and shoved the phone into his pocket. He'd deal with it later.

The shrine was located in a quiet neighborhood, away from tourist routes. Small, cozy, surrounded by old pines and a neat rock garden. When Nicholas arrived, preparations were already in full swing: the coordinator was setting up flowers, an assistant photographer (some kid hired by the agency to help out) was checking the lighting, and in a separate dressing room, the bride was preparing for the ceremony.

He stepped inside to introduce himself and discuss the details of the shoot. Yumi turned out to be a young woman with soft features and warm brown eyes that were currently shining a bit more than usual — whether from tears, excitement, or both combined. She sat in front of the mirror in a white kimono, with the makeup artist putting on the final touches.

— Good day. I'm Nicholas Wang, the photographer. The 'Sakura' agency sent me as a replacement.

— Oh, good day! – she turned around and smiled, but the smile came out uneven, — Thank you for agreeing on such short notice. I was so worried the shoot would fall through. 

— Don't worry. Everything will go great, – he pulled out his camera, checked the settings, and took a couple of test shots of the interior, — I'll leave you for now so you can finish getting ready. I'll meet you at the altar.

He had already turned to leave, but Yumi suddenly called after him.

— Wang-san... wait.

There was something in her voice that made him pause. Something resembling anxiety. The makeup artist had just stepped out to get a brush, leaving them alone.

— Yes?

Yumi paused, fidgeting with the edge of her kimono sleeve. Then she took a deep breath and began to speak — fast, haltingly, as if the words she had kept inside for so long were finally bursting out.

— Forgive me, I know you're just here as a photographer, and it's not your job to listen to someone else's problems, but... I need to tell someone. I can't talk to my mom about this — she's too happy that I'm finally getting married. I can't talk to my friends — they'll just say it's pre-wedding jitters and that it will pass. But I... I'm really scared.

Yixiang lowered his camera and looked at her attentively. Something in her trembling voice resonated deep within him. Something very familiar.

— What are you scared of? – he asked softly, sitting down on an adjacent chair.

Yumi bit her lip, gathering her thoughts. Her fingers nervously picked at the folds of white silk.

— Kenji... he's too perfect, you see? Too perfect. He remembers all my favorite flowers, he never raises his voice, he always asks how my day went and actually listens to what I say. He supported me when I decided to switch schools. He was the one who proposed getting married six months after we met, because he 'saw no point in waiting if we both know this is forever.'

She trailed off, and in that silence Nicholas heard what she hadn't said out loud. That very "but" hanging in the air.

— Sounds like a dream, – he remarked cautiously, — But you're still afraid.

— Yes! – she snapped her head up, tears glistening in her eyes, — Because I've never had it like this before. My ex... he was completely different. Flowers and courting at first, but then came the screaming, the reproaches, the control. I couldn't leave for a year because he kept saying I was nothing and no one else would ever want me. And when I finally left — it took two years of therapy to learn how to trust people again.

She caught her breath and continued — quieter now:

— And then there was another relationship. Seemed normal enough. But when I brought up family, children, the future — he just vanished. Texted that he was 'not ready for something serious,' and blocked me everywhere. After three years together.

She raised her eyes to Nico, and that look held so much fear and hope at once that his heart tightened.

— And now Kenji. He does everything right. He hears me. He wants the same things I do. And I... I can't shake the feeling that it's too good to be true. That there has to be a catch somewhere. That he's either lying to me, or I simply don't deserve this kind of happiness. Do you understand?

Nicholas understood.

He understood so well it was almost painful. Because just yesterday — no, literally last night — he had lain awake thinking the exact same thing. About Maki. About his kindness. About his flawlessness. About how it was "too good to be true."

— Have you talked to Kenji about this?

— No, – Yumi shook her head and wiped the corner of her eye with a lace handkerchief she held in her hand, — I'm afraid. What if he gets offended? What if he thinks I don't trust him? What if it ruins everything we have?

Yixiang fell silent. Then he leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, and spoke — slowly, choosing his words carefully. He was no psychologist and wasn't used to giving advice, but right now he felt he had to say something.

— You know, I'm no expert on relationships. But it seems to me... if you don't talk about this now, before the wedding, that fear will stay with you. It won't go anywhere. It will sit somewhere deep down and poison every happy moment. Every time Kenji does something nice, you'll think: 'Is he just pretending?' Every time he says 'I love you,' you'll be waiting for a 'but' to follow.

Yumi listened to him with bated breath. Her fingers stopped picking at her sleeve and froze.

— It's better to know the truth before the ceremony, – he continued, — Whatever it may be. If Kenji is truly who he claims to be, he will understand, listen, and reassure you. And then you'll walk down the aisle with a light heart. And if he isn't... – Wang paused, — If he isn't, it's better to find out now than a year from now when it'll be much harder.

— Do you really think so? – Yumi whispered.

— I do, – Nicholas nodded, — I think an honest conversation is the only way to stop guessing and start knowing. Everything else is just a guessing game, and guessing games don't work in things like this.

Yumi looked at him with a long gaze, and then suddenly smiled — for real, that genuine smile breaking through tears and fear into freedom.

— Thank you, Wang-san. I... I'll talk to him. Before the ceremony. Right now.

— Good, – he stood up and picked up his camera again, — And I'll go take a few shots of the shrine in the meantime. Let me know when you're ready.

He left the room and walked toward the altar, where the first guests were already gathering. The assistant was fussing over a reflector, the priest was checking the ritual items, and traditional music echoed somewhere in the distance. But Nicholas's thoughts were far away from here.

"It's better to know the truth before the ceremony. If he is truly who he claims to be, he will understand."

The words he had just said to Yumi echoed in his own head. And the longer they sounded, the clearer he realized: this wasn't just advice for a bride. It was something he needed to hear himself.

Because he was afraid of the exact same thing. That Maki was too perfect. That behind his kindness lurked something dark. That he was either lying, or Nicholas simply didn't deserve to be treated this way.

But what if it was simpler? What if Maki was precisely who he seemed to be? And the only way to find out the truth was to ask? Not walk in circles, not construct conspiracy theories in the middle of a sleepless night, not hide behind cold text messages. Just talk. Honestly and openly.

— How can I advise others to do this when I can't bring myself to do it? – Yixiang muttered under his breath, adjusting his exposure.

The shoot went well. Excellent, even. Yumi and Kenji walked out to the altar holding hands, and their faces made it clear: the talk had happened. The bride no longer looked frightened — she was glowing. Truly glowing, without a shadow of fear. The groom looked at her with such tenderness that Nicholas had to capture the shots on the fly — their emotions were that natural and alive.

He shot the ceremony, the walk in the park, the first dance, the cutting of the cake. Hundreds of frames. Hundreds of moments of happiness. And with every click of the shutter, his resolve grew stronger inside him.

In the evening, when the banquet concluded and the guests began to disperse, Yumi approached him once more.

— Wang-san, I want to thank you again, – she said, her eyes truly shining, — I talked to Kenji. He... he just hugged me and said he understood. That he was ready to wait as long as it took for me to believe it. That he loves me — not for any reason, but just because, – she smiled and squeezed the bouquet in her hands, — You were right. It was the best advice of my life.

— I'm glad for you, – Nicholas smiled in return, — Be happy.

He packed his equipment, said goodbye to the assistant, and stepped outside. The evening Osaka air breathed coolness. The first stars were lighting up in the sky, and somewhere far off, behind the silhouettes of the high-rises, the sun was setting, painting the clouds in shades of peach and lilac.

Nicholas stood on the steps of the shrine, clutching his camera bag in his hand, looking at the city. Yumi's words were still ringing in his head: "He loves me not for any reason, but just because."

He pulled out his phone, opened the chat with Maki. The last message — his own cold "No need. I'm tired" — was still hanging unread. He typed a new message — slowly this time, choosing his words with care:

N: Hey. I know I was sharp yesterday. I'm sorry. If you don't mind, I'd like to meet up tonight and talk. It's important.

He pressed "send" and took a deep breath. The anxiety that had tortured him all night and all morning suddenly retreated — it didn't disappear completely, but shrank to a small, manageable lump. He had made a decision. He was going to talk to Maki. Honestly, openly, with no secrets. Ask everything that was tormenting him, and come what may.

Because it was better to learn the truth now than to keep guessing and tormenting himself and the other person.

He walked down the steps and headed toward the bus stop. Today he wouldn't call a taxi; he wanted to be alone with his thoughts — before they turned into the words he was about to say.

The phone chimed. A reply from Maki.

M: I don't mind. Come to Tennoji Park. I'll be waiting by the bridge. That same one.

Nicholas read the message, and for the first time in twenty-four hours, a real smile appeared on his lips. Not forced, not polite — real.

He didn't know how this conversation would end. Maybe his fears would be confirmed, and everything would crumble. Or maybe — and he really, really hoped for this — it would turn out he was just a fool afraid of his own happiness. Either way, he would know everything today. In an hour. By that very bridge where two weeks ago Maki had taken the best photo of his life.

He quickened his pace. The bus was just pulling up to the stop.

The bus crawled slowly, far too slowly for someone in a hurry. Nicholas sat by the window, forehead pressed against the cold glass, watching the streets float by. Evening Osaka shimmered with neon, shop windows flared with colorful lights, crowds of people flowed along the sidewalks like endless rivers, but all of it passed by somewhere outside, without touching him, without penetrating inside. Inside, there was only fear.

No, not fear. Anxiety. That same, painfully familiar anxiety that took root somewhere under his ribs and began its monotonous work: twisting his stomach into a tight knot, making his heart beat faster, forcing his thoughts to spin in the exact same circle like a broken record.

He rehearsed what he was going to say in his head. Building phrases, discarding them, building them anew. "Maki, I need to apologize for yesterday." No, too formal. "Look, I was an idiot yesterday, and I need to explain..." Too casual. "I thought a lot last night and realized that..." Too dramatic.

The bus lurched on a turn, and he reflexively grabbed the handrail. A familiar sign flashed outside the window — the Waffle Khan cafe where they had sat almost three weeks ago. Three weeks. Just three weeks, yet it felt like a lifetime had passed.

He remembered that day: how nervous he had been before the meeting, how he had sorted through his clothes, how he had frozen before every message. He remembered how Maki had smiled while talking about shoots, and how his eyes had warmed when he spoke about freedom. He remembered the park, the bridge, the last frame. He remembered the hug — that tight, desperate hug, after which everything had gone wrong.

Or rather, everything had gone wrong afterward — when he was left alone in the empty apartment and allowed his demons to take over.

— Fool, – he whispered, and the guy in the adjacent seat glanced at him with mild confusion.

The bus finally arrived at his stop. Nicholas stepped out, took a deep breath of the cool evening air, and headed toward the park. The familiar alley, the familiar stone lanterns, the familiar sound of water somewhere in the distance. Everything was just like last Saturday — and yet completely different. Because now he wasn't coming here for a shoot, or for a walk, but for a conversation that could change everything.

Maki was waiting for him by the bridge.

He stood leaning against the railing, looking at the water — exactly like Yixiang had on that day when they swapped roles. His posture was relaxed, but something in it — maybe shoulders held a little too straight, maybe hands held a little too still — betrayed tension. Hearing footsteps, Riki turned around, and Wang noticed something that made everything inside him contract.

Maki looked upset.

No, he wasn't crying, wasn't frowning, wasn't displaying wild emotions — he had never done that in all the time they'd known each other. But his eyes, usually warm and lively, now seemed dimmed. The corners of his lips were turned slightly downward. And the smile he greeted Nicholas with — polite, almost formal.

— Hey, Nico, – he said, his voice sounding quieter than usual, — Thanks for coming. I'm glad to see you.

— Hey, – Nicholas stopped a couple of steps away from him, not daring to come closer, — Are... are you okay? You look...

— Tired? – Maki gave a crooked smile, — Yeah, probably. Didn't sleep well last night.

Me neither, Yixiang wanted to say, but kept silent. Instead, he approached the railing and stood beside him — just like they had stood two weeks ago when Maki was taking his final frame. The sun had almost set, and the water in the pond seemed dark, almost black, with only rare glimmers from the streetlamps trembling on the surface.

For a few seconds, they were silent. The silence was awkward — the kind that had never existed between them before. Nicholas felt the tension building inside him, felt the words he had prepared for so long get stuck somewhere in his throat.

— Maki, I... – he stumbled and cleared his throat, — First of all, I need to apologize for yesterday. For how cold I was in my replies. For that 'no need.' It was rude, and you didn't deserve to be treated like that. Especially after everything you've done for me.

Maki turned his head and looked at him. There was no reproach in his gaze — rather, a sort of tired understanding.

— You had a right to your mood, Nico. Moving is stressful. I understand.

— No, – Wang shook his head, — It wasn't about moving. Or rather, not just about that. I came to talk precisely because of my behavior. Because it wasn't out of nowhere. And I want to... no, I need to explain, if you're ready to listen.

He went quiet, waiting for a response. Maki was looking at him — attentively, searchingly, with that very look that always made Nicholas feel seen. Truly seen. Without masks, without pretense.

— I'm listening, – he said simply, — Tell me.

Yixiang took a deep breath and turned toward the water. It was easier that way — looking at the dark surface of the pond, at the reflections of the lamps, at the floating leaves, rather than looking at Maki.

— Yesterday, after you left, I started packing my things, – the blonde began slowly, choosing his words carefully, — And while I was packing my four boxes — four boxes, Maki, that's my entire life, — I started thinking. You know I think a lot. Sometimes too much. And sometimes my thoughts lead me to bad places.

He paused, gathering his words. Maki remained quiet, not interrupting.

— I started analyzing our situation. You're a successful photographer with an expensive studio apartment. I'm a loser living in an anthill who can't even save up for decent rent. We've known each other for three weeks, and you offer me a place to live in your apartment, with professional equipment, with a view of the city, just like that. For utilities and 'helping out with editing sometimes.'

He let out a bitter chuckle and shook his head.

— And my brain, which is used to expecting a catch from everyone and always, started spinning that thought. What if this is too good to be true? What if you're not just a kind person, but... I don't know... pursuing some goal? What if the equipment in the shooting area isn't used for magazine shoots, but for something else? For paid sites, for example. Or for videos. And you're looking for someone to shoot that. Or even worse… Looking for someone to shoot.

He caught his breath and finally turned to Maki. The brunette's face was unreadable, but something flickered in his eyes — pain, surprise, or something in between.

— I know it sounds crazy, – Nicholas continued quieter, — I know. But then, in the middle of the night, alone with my thoughts, it felt logical. The only explanation. Because I'm not used to people helping me just like that. Without conditions. Without interest. Without hidden motives. I'm not used to someone saying 'I trust you' and actually meaning it.

He dropped his gaze to his hands, which were nervously picking at the hem of his shirt.

— I had a terrible night, Maki. I barely slept. I tossed and turned, running through every possible scenario in my head — from realistic ones to completely paranoid ones. And during the day, before tonight when you texted, I was still in that state. That's why I answered so coldly. That's why I said 'no need.' Not because I didn't want to see you, but because I was afraid. Afraid that my thoughts were true. And simultaneously afraid that they were false, meaning I'm just an idiot hurting the only person who treated me like a human being.

He fell silent. The last words were still hanging in the air when he raised his eyes to Maki.

— I don't know why you're doing this, – he said honestly, — I don't know who you really are — just a kind person with a big heart, or someone who has hidden motives. But I decided it was better to ask directly than to keep guessing and tormenting both of us. I don't want to live with this fear. I don't want to suspect you. I want... I want to trust you. But to do that, I need to hear the truth. Whatever it may be.

He stopped speaking, feeling his heart pounding somewhere in his throat. A silence fell — deep, almost tangible. The water in the pond quietly lapped against the stone banks. Somewhere far off, ducks were settling in for the night. The wind rustled through the leaves.

Maki looked at him with a long, strange gaze — as if seeing him for the first time. His face, usually so calm and composed, became vulnerable for a moment. Open.

— Nicholas... – he uttered softly, and there was something in his voice that made everything inside Wang tremble.

Maki stood on the bridge and waited.

He had arrived half an hour before the appointed time — an old habit he could never manage to root out. Arriving early to get prepared in time. To not keep anyone waiting. To control the situation. But now, leaning against the wooden railing and gazing into the dark water of the pond, he felt control slipping away from him like water through his fingers.

The sun had almost set, and the park was sinking into a lilac twilight. The first lanterns lit up — their glow reflecting in the pond in shimmering golden trails. Somewhere in the distance, ducks were settling in for the night, flapping their wings against the water. Everything was quiet, peaceful, almost idyllic.

And only inside Maki a storm raged.

He kept replaying yesterday's chat in his memory — those short, cold messages that had come from Nicholas. "No need. I'm tired." Just four words, but they hit harder than any failed project, any ruined contract. Because behind them stood something Riki feared most of all. Distance. Alienation. That very wall that Nicholas, it seemed, had begun to build between them.

He kept running yesterday through his mind over and over again. Showing the apartment. The way Nico had hugged him — tightly, genuinely, with such gratitude that it took Maki's breath away. Everything had been fine. More than fine. And then — those messages. Cold as a winter wind.

What had he done wrong? Had he been too pushy? Had the apartment offer been taken as an intrusion into personal space? Or maybe Nico was simply tired — and that was normal, and there was no need to look for hidden meaning where there was none?

But a hidden meaning, it seemed, was there. Today's message — "I'd like to meet up tonight and talk. It's important" — sounded as if Nicholas had made some sort of decision. And Maki was terrified of that decision. Terrified that Nico would say: "Thank you, but I can't accept your help. I'm moving out. Let's stop this communication."

He gripped the railing tighter, feeling the wood dig into his palms. No, he shouldn't overthink it. He just had to wait and listen. Whatever Nico said — he would handle it. He was an adult, after all.

But at the thought that this conversation might be their last, everything inside him went cold.

Footsteps behind his back made him turn around. Nicholas was walking down the alley — blonde hair tousled, shoulders tense, gaze fixed somewhere down at his feet. Maki noticed right away that he looked tired. Just as tired as Maki felt himself.

He tried to smile, though the smile came out less effortless than usual. Greeted him. Joked about sleeping badly. And then Nico started talking, and Maki listened with bated breath.

He listened about four cardboard boxes holding an entire life. About a sleepless night and thoughts that led him to bad places. About suspicions — the very ones Maki could never have anticipated, but which, having heard them, he suddenly understood.

And the longer he listened, the quieter the storm inside became.

Nicholas spoke of paid sites. Of hidden motives. Of how this whole situation was too ideal to be true. And Hirota, who usually possessed such complete self-control, suddenly felt laughter bubbling up to his throat. Not offensive, not mocking — rather bitter, full of relief.

Nico was not afraid of him. He was afraid of the situation. And that was... understandable. Logical. Fair.

When Nicholas finally went quiet, exhaling his last words — "I want to trust you, but to do that, I need to hear the truth," — Maki felt the tension that had held him all this time release its grip.

— Nicholas... – he uttered softly.

And then the corners of his lips twitched, and he laughed softly — short, almost soundless, shaking his head.

Nicholas looked at him in bewilderment. His face — so serious, so tense — froze in expectation. He clearly had not expected laughter.

— Sorry, – Maus rubbed the bridge of his nose, still smiling, – I'm not laughing at you. I'm laughing at the situation. At myself. At what an idiot I am.

He took a deep breath, calming down, and turned his whole body toward Nicholas. Now they stood face to face — close, almost as close as when Nico had hugged him in the empty apartment.

— You know what the funniest part is? – he asked, – Your thoughts were completely logical.

Nicholas blinked.

— What?

— Really. I was listening to you just now and thinking: "He's right. He's absolutely right." Looking at the situation from your side — from the side of a person who's used to relying only on himself, who isn't used to help, who for years lived in a world where everything has a price tag — my behavior really does look strange. Suspicious, even. A stranger offers an apartment with expensive equipment two weeks after meeting? That sounds like the start of a bad detective story.

He chuckled again and shook his head.

— I'm sorry I didn't explain things better. I'm sorry I didn't tell you about myself — for real, not in general phrases about work and family. I just... – he paused, choosing his words, – I acted impulsively. Saw that you were in trouble and immediately wanted to help. It's a flaw of mine — I act first and think later.

He exhaled heavily and looked at the dark water.

— You know, when you texted "I want to talk," I got scared. I thought it would be worse. Much worse, – he turned to Nicholas, and his eyes no longer held tired distance — only relief and a very sincere, almost childlike joy, — I thought you'd want to leave. For good. Say "thank you, but I can't" and disappear. And this... – he gestured at the space between them, — This is just a conversation. A tough one, but just a conversation. And I'm insanely glad you came.

Nicholas remained silent. His face — so stern and tense just a minute ago — softened now. Something resembling a smile appeared at the corners of his lips.

— You really thought I'd leave? – he asked softly.

— I was afraid of it, – Maki admitted honestly, — Because you are... to me... Because I don't want you to leave.

He paused, gathering his thoughts. Traces of tension were still trembling inside, but his voice sounded calmer now. More confident.

— I promise you, Nico, – Maus said, every word firm as stone, — I'll prove my intentions are pure. Not with words — with actions. And I'll tell you about myself. Not all at once — I'm no master at pouring my soul out in a single evening — but gradually. About family. About work. About why that apartment was empty and why I offered it to you specifically. I want you to know who you're trusting. So you don't have to guess.

He tilted his head slightly, and that very warm spark Nicholas remembered from their first meeting flashed in his eyes.

— What do you say? Agree to give me a chance?

Wang looked at him for a few seconds. And then slowly, as if tasting the words, uttered:

— That offer... sounds good. Very good. I agree.

And for the first time in those long, anxious twenty-four hours, Maki allowed himself to smile for real — openly, broadly, with that exact dimple on his cheek that Nicholas had caught on camera two weeks ago. He didn't know what would happen next, but one thing he knew for sure: Nico wasn't leaving. He was staying. And that was all that mattered.

— In that case, – Riki said, turning away from the railing, — Maybe let's take a walk? There's a taiyaki stall nearby. You're probably hungry.

— How do you know I like taiyaki?

— I didn't, but now I'll file that away inside my head.

Nicholas let out a light laugh, but it was a warm, almost happy sound. They set off down the alley — shoulder to shoulder, just like before. Only now there was no longer a wall between them. There was only the evening, the streetlamp light, and the quiet promise of new beginnings.

They walked along the evening alley of Tennoji Park, and the city beyond its borders gradually grew quiet. The lanterns were already lit full force, casting soft orange light onto the paths. Almost no passersby were left — only rare couples who, like them, were in no rush to go home. Maki felt calmness spreading inside — the exact calmness he had lacked so much over the past day.

— You know, – he began as they passed the stone lantern that had become an unwitting witness to their first shoot, — I promised to tell you about myself. Let me start right now. From the very beginning.

Nicholas glanced at him with interest, but said nothing — simply nodded, inviting him to continue.

— My full name is Hirota Riki, – Maki uttered, and those words sounded almost solemn, as if he were introducing himself anew, — Hirota is a Japanese surname from my mother. Riki is the name given by my father. But there's something else, – he paused briefly, — My father is German. So I have a second surname — Maus. Hirota Riki Maus. Long, complicated, inconvenient for Japanese documents. At school they teased me as "mouse" because of that surname — you get it, Mauss means "mouse" in German.

Nico let out a quiet huff, and in that huff Maki heard a warm, barely perceptive note of understanding.

— So I took a second name — Maki. It's a contraction of Maus and Riki, but sounds more Japanese. A comfortable name for those who find it hard to pronounce "Riki Maus" without stumbling. And later it became my professional pseudonym. All my professional contacts know me as Maki. And you... you know me as Maki, too. But now you know more.

He stopped, waiting for a reaction. Nicholas froze right in the middle of the alley and stared at him with an expression as if seeing him for the first time.

— Wait, – he said slowly, — Are you saying Maki isn't your real name?

— It's real. Just not the only one. Like yours, probably, – Riki tilted his head slightly, — You're not local, right? You have an accent — light, almost unnoticeable, but it's there. And the name — Nicholas Wang — doesn't sound Japanese.

Nicholas blinked, then chuckled and shook his head.

— You're right. My full name is Wang Yixiang. Wang is the surname, Yixiang is the name. In Taiwan it sounds normal, but in Japan... – he shrugged, — Problems started from day one. Nobody could pronounce "Yixiang" with the right tone. Butchered it however they wanted. And then, when I started working, a client accidentally called me Nicholas — think he mixed me up with someone — and the name stuck. I started introducing myself as Nicholas to avoid explaining every time how to pronounce my real name. To friends I'm Nico. To clients — Weno. That's my pseudonym.

— Weno? – Maki repeated, tasting the word, — Nice. Where's it from?

— From Wang. Just rearranged the letters and added an ending. Sounds European, clients like it.

Hirota stopped and looked at him — a long, attentive look mixing surprise, tenderness, and something else he couldn't put a name to yet.

— So we're both... – he began.

— ...living under second names, – Yixiang finished, and his lips stretched into that very smile that warmed Maki's chest, — You've got Maki, I've got Nico. Your work pseudonym is Maki, mine is Weno. We're like mirrors.

— Mirrors, – Riki repeated, feeling something flip inside, — Never thought of it that way, but you're right.

They walked forward again, but now something new hovered between them. A light, almost airy feeling of kinship. As if two people accustomed to hiding behind convenient masks had suddenly seen each other without them.

— Tell me more, – Maki requested, — About yourself. About how you ended up here.

And Nicholas spoke. At first hesitantly, picking his words, then — more and more freely, as if a dam holding back water for a long time had finally burst.

— My family is in Taiwan. Mother, father, older sister — all there. We're not exactly close... – he stumbled, choosing his words, — They wanted a different life for me. Stable. Clear. For me to get a "normal" profession — accountant, engineer, something like that. But ever since childhood I was obsessed with photography. I remember finding my father's old camera in the closet space — it must have been twenty years old, still shot on film. I secretly took it to school, shot everything in sight — friends, cats, sunsets. It was... like breathing. Like I had finally found a way to speak to the world in my own language.

He fell silent, looking off into the distance at the city lights starting to turn on behind the park trees.

— But my parents didn't understand. Said it wasn't serious, just a hobby, you can't make a living like that. And I... I just knew I couldn't sit in an office nine to six. Couldn't do it. So at eighteen I packed my things and left for Japan. I'd always liked this country — its culture, its aesthetics, its light. You probably know what I mean — the light is different here. Softer. Like it was made for photography.

— I know, – Maki replied quietly.

— I came with one suitcase and half the price of a ticket in my pocket. No language, no acquaintances, no support. The first six months I lived in a hostel for foreigners, worked three jobs — waiter, cleaner, mover. Anything to save up for my first camera. A real digital one, not that antique I brought from home. And then... – he chuckled, — Then I started shooting. For free, for food, for reviews. For years. Slowly. But I never regretted it once. Even when things were really bad, when there was no money for rent, when orders fell through — I knew it was mine. That I couldn't do it any other way.

Hirota listened, and every word echoed inside with something deep, almost painful. He looked at Nicholas — at his profile illuminated by streetlamps, at how he frowned remembering hard times, at how his fingers unconsciously clenched into a fist — and suddenly understood.

That was why he was like this. That was where that pride came from, that distrust, that habit of waiting for a catch. A person who had been carving a path for himself since age eighteen without support, without a safety net, without a family behind him, couldn't be any different. He was used to everything in life coming through struggle. And when someone offered help just like that, without conditions, it didn't bring joy — it brought fear. Because it didn't fit his view of the world.

— Nico, – Maki said softly, — I'm glad you told me. That... explains a lot.

— What exactly? – Yixiang turned to him, alertness readable in his eyes — an old habit he hadn't shed yet.

— Your caution, your distrust. What you talked about on the bridge, – Maus shook his head, — You're used to having to fight tooth and nail for everything in life. And that's normal. It's armor that helped you survive. I don't blame you for the suspicions. On the contrary — now I understand them much better.

Nicholas said nothing, only nodded, and they kept walking. The red gates of the park were left behind, and before them lay evening Osaka — noisy, bright, inviting. But neither felt like turning off anywhere. They reached the building — the very one where Wang lived now — and went up to the twelfth floor.

The apartment was quiet and cozy. The boxes that had piled up against the wall yesterday were unpacked now — Nico had evidently found the strength to settle in after all. Maki sat on a bar stool while Yixiang worked his magic over the coffee machine, and looked around. The apartment was beginning to feel lived-in. On the shelf, crowding Kawashima-sensei's albums, stood worn books on photography — clearly from Wang's personal collection. Next to the laptop lay a notebook with some notes, and on the back of the sofa hung that same blue plaid shirt.

— Here, – Nicholas set a cup in front of him and sat down nearby, — Tell me more about yourself. You promised.

Riki cupped the mug with his palms and thought. Where to begin? With childhood in Kyoto, where ancient temples stand side by side with modern buildings? With his father, who collects art and cultivated a love for beauty in him? With his mother, who taught him discipline and order, but never managed to pass on her restraint?

And then an idea came to him.

— Nico, – he said, setting his cup aside, — I want to propose something to you.

— Go ahead.

— Listening to your story about childhood, moving, how you started out, I thought: this is important. What we tell each other isn't just words. It's our story. And I want to keep it.

Wang frowned slightly, not seeing where he was going.

— Remember talking about the wall in the hallway? – Maki continued, — The empty one. You said it'd be great to fill it with photos.

— I remember.

— I propose doing something different. Not just hanging shots, but creating a project. Let's call it... – he thought for a second, — I don't know. "Double Exposure"? "Shared Frame"? The idea is that we'll meet outside of work. On the street, in a park, in a cafe — anywhere. And during those meetings, we'll tell each other a story from our past. About family, work, dreams. And then — take a shot. One shot for one story.

Nicholas's eyes lit up — with that exact professional spark Maki had learned to recognize at first sight.

— A shot that conveys the atmosphere of the story, – he caught on, — Not literally, but symbolically. Like a visual metaphor.

— Exactly. And we'll print those shots and hang them on the wall. One left, one right. Moving toward the center. That way we'll get... – Maki gestured at imaginary space, — Not just a gallery, but a map. A map of how we get to know each other. Step by step. Story by story.

Yixiang stayed silent for a few seconds, considering. His face — so alive, so expressive — went through a whole spectrum of emotions: surprise, admiration, a light touch of disbelief. And then he smiled — that broad, open smile that made his face look almost boyish.

— That's... brilliant. Really. An interactive game for two photographers. We don't just tell — we create. We capture moments. And later, looking at the wall, we can remember every story behind every frame.

— And not forget what we've already told, – Maki added, — Because, you know, memory is a fickle thing. But a photo stays.

— A photo stays, – Nicholas echoed.

They sat at the bar counter, separated by two cups of cooling coffee, looking at each other. Outside the window, Osaka glimmered with thousands of lights, but here, in the quiet of apartment 1204, time seemed to stand still.

— Then it's settled, – Maus said, — We start tomorrow. Or even today — why not? We already have our first story.

— Which one?

— The one you just told. About the boy who left Taiwan with one suitcase and a dream. About how he started out. I want to take a shot for that story. Something that conveys its essence.

Yixiang pondered.

— And what could that be?

— I don't know yet, – Maki admitted honestly, — But we'll figure it out together. That's the point.

He extended his hand across the bar counter — palm up, open, inviting. Nicholas looked at that palm, then at Hirota, then at the palm again.

— Deal, – he said and shook his hand. His fingers were warm and slightly rough from working with cameras constantly, — We start project "Shared Frame" or "Wall of Stories." We'll figure the name out later.

— We will, – Maki agreed, — We have plenty of time now.

He didn't say "we have a shared home now," but those words hung in the air on their own. And judging by how Nicholas looked away and blushed slightly, he heard them too.

The empty wall in the hallway was waiting for its first shot. And Riki already knew: whatever it turned out to be, it would be the beginning of something very important. Something worth bumping into each other in the rain three weeks ago to catch the falling camera of a blonde stranger who wasn't a stranger anymore.

Monday started for Nicholas with a feeling he hadn’t experienced in a long time. How could he compare it? Perhaps to that feeling when you adjust the focus on a lens and suddenly realize: just a little more — and the shot will be perfect. Everything is still a bit blurry around the edges, but the center is already sharp, and you know that in a moment the picture will come together.

He woke up in apartment 1204, and for the first time in several days, it didn't cause him anxiety. The sun flooded the room through the panoramic window, the coffee machine hummed routinely, and the phone on the nightstand showed an unread message from Maki:

M: Today after work? There's a place in Dotonbori that serves the best ramen in Osaka. And I have a story for you.

Nicholas smiled, typing a response:

N: Intrigued. What time?

M: At seven. By the exit of Namba station. And, Nico... bring your camera.

Thus began their first week of the "Shared Frame" — a project they had come up with on Saturday evening and which now, it seemed, was becoming something much greater than just a game.

Monday, evening. Dotonbori.

The famous Dotonbori Canal shimmered with neon — signs reflected in the dark water, creating a whimsical pattern of red, blue, and green. Tourists crowded near the famous bridge, taking photos against the backdrop of the giant crab and the running Glico man. The smell of fried noodles, sweet pancakes, and ocean breeze blended into one thick, intoxicating cocktail.

Maki was waiting for him by the station exit — as always, five minutes early. Today he was dressed simply: dark jeans and a loose sweater that made him look less "bourgeois" and more... homey, perhaps. Spotting Nicholas, he waved his hand and smiled.

— You're on time. Hungry?

— You bet, – Wang confessed, adjusting the camera strap on his shoulder, — On an assignment all day, didn't even get a chance to eat properly.

— Then let's go. The ramen shop is called "Ryudo" — it's in an alleyway, tourists hardly ever go there. The perfect place for a conversation.

They walked down the main street, weaving through the crowds, and turned into a narrow alley. It was quieter here — just a few local establishments with warm light from the windows and steam rising above the kettles. "Ryudo" turned out to be tiny — only six seats at the counter bar — but unbelievably cozy. They sat side by side, ordered a bowl of tonkotsu ramen each, and Maki, stirring the broth with his chopsticks, began his first story.

— I told you I started shooting because of my father, – he said, — But I didn't tell you how exactly it happened. I was eight years old when my father took me to an exhibition for the first time. It was a Daido Moriyama retrospective in Kyoto. Do you know his work?

— Black-and-white street photography, – Nicholas nodded, — High contrast, grainy, very... raw.

— Exactly. I was standing in front of a huge print — a woman crossing the street, shot from a very low angle — and I couldn't tear my eyes away. It wasn't just an image. It was a moment. Alive, breathing, real. It took my breath away. I turned to my father and said: "I want to do that too." He bought me a simple digital point-and-shoot camera the next day. A funny one, five-megapixel resolution. But I ran around with it like it was a treasure. Shot everything in sight — the yard, passersby, my shoes in a puddle. Most of the frames were terrible. But one... one turned out well.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through the gallery, and showed Yixiang a scan of an old photo. The shot was childishly awkward, but there was something in it — the right moment, the right light. The silhouette of his father against the sunset, shot from behind. He was standing on the balcony of their old house, looking out at the city.

— That was the first shot I was praised for, – Hirota said quietly, — Mom saw it and said: "You have a good eye, Riki." She rarely praised me. But then... then I believed in myself.

Nicholas silently looked at the photo — at how a little boy had caught his father in the golden evening light. Then he raised the camera he was holding on his lap and quickly took a shot — steam above the bowl of ramen, Maki with his phone in hand, the warm light of the lamp above the bar counter.

— What are you doing? – Riki raised an eyebrow in surprise.

— Shooting your story, – Wang answered simply, — The steam is like developing film. As you talk, memories emerge from the past like an image in a darkroom. And your phone shows the first frame — as if you're still that boy.

Maki looked at him with a long gaze, and something warm flashed in his eyes.

— That's... beautiful. I hadn't thought about it that way.

— Neither had I until you told me, – Yixiang shrugged, — Alright, your turn to shoot. I have a story too.

He set down his chopsticks, took a sip of the broth — scalding hot, savory — and began:

— In school, I had two passions. Photography, obviously. But also — badminton. I played for the school team three years in a row. I was pretty good — not a champion, but in the top five. I loved that feeling: the shuttlecock flies so fast your eyes can't track it, and you have to react. Movement, speed, precision — like photography, only with your body.

Maki listened, his head tilted slightly.

— Why did you quit?

— I didn't quit — I combined them. But in my final year of school, there was an important tournament. Regional — for me, it was a chance. And the day before, I fell during training and sprained my right wrist. The very one I shoot with. The doctor said — no strain for at least a month. I sat in the stands and watched my team play without me. We lost in the semifinals. I blamed myself — I thought if I had been there, everything would have turned out differently. And then I took the camera with my left hand and started shooting. Just so I wouldn't go crazy. And it turned out... strange, but interesting. The shots were crooked, awkward, but they had an emotion that wasn't there before. Longing. Helplessness. Hope. I realized then that photography isn't just technique. It's what you feel. And it doesn't matter which hand you shoot with.

He fell silent. Maki, who had been holding his camera ready the whole time, raised it and took a picture. Wang wasn't posing — just sitting there, looking at his right hand, which still remembered that injury.

— What did you shoot?

— Your hands, – Mauss said, — You're holding the chopsticks like a racket. And on your wrist — a scar. I only just noticed it now. Is it from that fall?

— From that very one, – Nicholas chuckled, — Sharp eye you have.

— I'm a photographer, after all, – Maki shrugged, smiling brightly.

They laughed — quietly, almost in unison — and ordered another portion of ramen each. The evening promised to be a long one.

Wednesday, evening. A cinema in Umeda.

The idea to go to the movies came from Nicholas. He texted Maki in the morning: "Listen, there's an old movie — 'The Photographer from Osaka', a documentary from the seventies. They're showing it as a retrospective at a small cinema in Umeda. Want to go?" Maki replied instantly: "I do. What time?"

The cinema turned out to be tiny — only forty seats, with velvet chairs and a heavy curtain before the screen. They sat in the last row with popcorn that Wang insisted on buying ("It's part of the experience, Maki, don't ruin the moment"), and immersed themselves in the black-and-white magic of old Osaka.

The film told the story of a post-war photographer who documented the rebuilding of the city. Ruined buildings, bridges under construction, people's faces — tired, yet full of hope. The voiceover spoke of photography as a way to preserve time, to stop it if only for a fraction of a second.

After the movie, they stepped out onto the street, and evening Umeda met them with a cool wind and the bright lights of shopping centers.

— You know what caught my attention? – Nicholas said as they walked toward the station, — He wasn't shooting celebrities or big events. He was shooting ordinary people. And that mattered.

— Because that's where the truth is, – Maki nodded, — Not in staged shots, but in life as it is. It reminded me of something.

They stopped near a fountain at the entrance of a shopping mall, and Maki began his story:

— In high school, I had a period when I thought I was going to be a great fine-art photographer. I won a school contest — shot a series on the old temples of Kyoto, very atmospheric. They sent me to the regional stage in Tokyo. I was sure I was going to win. I arrived, saw the other participants' works — and realized how raw I still was. There were shots that made my jaw drop. I took eleventh place out of twenty. I remember sitting on the train on the way back, looking out the window, and thinking: "I have no talent. I'll never amount to anything."

— But you did, – Nicholas noted.

— I did, – Hirota agreed, — Because instead of quitting, I started to work. Not just shooting whatever came to hand, but studying. Composition, light, the history of photography. An hour of theory every day before bed. Practice every weekend. I stopped waiting for inspiration and just started doing. A lot. Badly. Well. In different ways. But the main thing — doing. And a year later, I won the city contest. And two years after that — the national one.

He paused and added:

— That's probably the main thing I learned about myself. I'm not a genius. I'm a hard worker. Everything I have is the result of work. Not talent, not luck, not family money. Work.

Nicholas raised his camera and took a shot. Maki stood against the backdrop of the fountain, illuminated in blue and green — a figure surrounded by water and light, like a symbol of a man who had built himself out of reflections and perseverance.

— Why the fountain? – Mauss asked.

— Because you talked about hard work. The water in the fountain flows constantly, without stopping. Just like you — you work without a break. And the light — it reflects in the water, but its source is you.

Maki didn't reply, but his eyes said more than any words could.

— My turn to tell a story, – Nico said, — And I think the film gave me an idea.

They sat on a bench near the fountain, and Wang began:

— I told you I have an older sister. Her name is Mei, she's six years older than me. And she's a dancer. A professional. When I was really small, she taught me how to dance. Seriously. She'd turn on some nineties pop music, push the furniture aside in the living room, and say: "Come on, kiddo, repeat after me!" And I'd repeat it. Clumsily, hilariously, but with absolute dedication. We put together full routines for family holidays. My parents laughed, my grandmother clapped her hands.

Maki listened with a warm smile.

— Is she still dancing?

— Yeah. In Shanghai, in a contemporary troupe. We rarely see each other, but when I visit — we definitely go to the studio. She still tries to teach me something. Last time it was a waltz. Can you picture me dancing a waltz?

— Honestly? Barely.

— That's what she said too, – Nicholas laughed, — But you know, those lessons gave me more than I thought. Dance is rhythm. Photography is too. In dance, you move to the beat of the music, and in photography — to the beat of the moment. Catching it when it's ripe. It's very similar. Mei taught me to feel the rhythm, not just see the frame, but hear it.

Riki raised his camera and took a picture of Nicholas against the dark sky, which reflected the city lights. A silhouette inscribed into the rhythm of the metropolis — like a dancer frozen in a pause between two movements.

— Rhythm, – he said, — You and the city — one rhythm.

Yixiang looked at the shot on the camera screen and nodded. It seemed they were beginning to understand each other without words.

Friday, evening. Apartment 1204.

On Friday, they decided to stay in. Both had experienced a long workday — Maki had shot a campaign for a new brand, Nicholas had been editing wedding photos and taking calls from prospective clients. By evening, both were dead tired, but neither wanted to cancel the meeting. Because these meetings — with stories, with photographs, with quiet conversations over a cup of coffee — had already become something important. Something worth pushing through the exhaustion for.

They sat on the couch, each holding his own mug. Outside the window, a fine rain was drizzling — the first in several days — and its quiet tapping on the glass created a cozy backdrop for their conversation.

— Today I want to tell you about cats, – Nicholas began, tucking his leg under himself.

— About cats? – Maki raised an eyebrow in question.

— Yeah. As a kid, I was constantly bringing strays home. Seriously, my mom went crazy. I found them everywhere — in the schoolyard, in the park behind our house, near garbage cans. Dirty, skinny, sometimes sick. And I brought them home. I think we had about twenty cats pass through our apartment overall. My parents scolded me at first, then got used to it. They even started helping — treating them, finding good homes for them. But one cat I kept.

He pulled out his phone, scrolled through the gallery, and found an old photo — a ginger cat with white paws, sleeping on a boy's lap.

— This is Jun. He was the frailest of all the ones I found. He was abandoned when he was tiny, he barely survived. I nursed him with an medicine dropper, kept him warm under a lamp, took him to the vet using my pocket money. And he made it. Lived with me for ten years. When I left for Japan, Jun stayed with my sister. He died two years ago — quietly, in his sleep. Mei wrote to me, and I... I sobbed like a child, honest to God.

Hirota remained silent, but his hand reached for the camera on its own. He shot Nicholas sitting on the couch, clasping the mug with both hands, looking off into space. There was no cat in the frame — only a person and his memories.

— You shot me, – Wang noted.

— Yes. Because your story isn't just about a cat. It's about you. About how you cared. How you saved him. How you cried when you lost him.

Nicholas nodded and smiled softly.

— Your turn now, – he said, taking a sip, — Do you have a story for today?

Maki paused, gazing at the rain outside the window.

— I do. About how I decided to become a professional photographer. Not just as a hobby, but to make it my life.

— Was it a single moment? Or gradual?

— A moment, – Maki said, — I was twenty. I was studying economics — my father insisted, saying photography wouldn't put food on the table. I hated economics, but I endured. And then there was an exhibition — a university one, for students. I exhibited a few of my works, just to participate. And one woman — an art history professor — came up to me and said: "You have a gift, Hirota-kun. You see what others don't. Don't bury it in the ground."

He paused, remembering that day.

— She wasn't a photographer. She hardly understood anything about technique. But she saw something in my photos. Something I hadn't noticed myself. I walked out of the exhibition and called my father. Told him I was dropping out of economics. He was furious — we didn't speak for six months. But my mother supported me. She said: "If this is yours — go all the way." And I went.

— And how is your father now? – Nicholas asked.

— Now... he's come to terms with it. Even seems proud, I think. But he still grumbles sometimes that a "real profession" would have been more reliable, – Mauss chuckled, — I don't argue. I just keep shooting.

Nicholas raised his camera. In the viewfinder was Maki against the window, with raindrops trickling down the glass. The light from a streetlight passed through them, creating a whimsical pattern of shadows and glares on his face.

— The rain is like doubts, – Wang explained, pressing the shutter button, — And you look through them and keep going.

Maki looked at the resulting shot and slowly nodded.

— We've already gathered several great shots, – he said, — But I suggest we don't hang them up one by one. Let's collect all the stories of this week, and on Sunday we'll do the "hanging." All together, in chronological order. Like a ritual.

Nicholas looked around the living room, lingering on the empty wall in the hallway.

— I like that. On Sunday we'll hold a ceremony. The solemn filling of the void.

They talked late into the evening — about cats, about dancing, about childhood dreams and adult decisions. The rain outside subsided, leaving behind wet asphalt and a fresh scent drifting in through the slightly open window. Three stories. Three photographs. And there were still two days left before they would gather at that very wall and turn their conversations into something tangible.

When Maki was leaving — late already, almost midnight — he turned around in the doorway and said:

— You know, Nico... I'm glad we're doing this.

— Me too, – Yixiang replied, — Until the day after tomorrow?

— Until the day after tomorrow.

The door closed. The apartment became quiet again, but it was a different silence. Not the kind that pressed and frightened, but the kind that filled the space. A silence that held the anticipation of the coming days, the next story, the next shot.

Nicholas sat on the couch for a long time, reviewing today's photos on the camera screen. Three photographs. Three keys to a person who was growing closer with every passing day. He didn't know what would happen when the wall was completely filled. But he suspected that by then, they wouldn't need a map to understand each other.

Nicholas sat in silence for a long time, unable to tear his eyes away from the camera screen. He scrolled through the photos one after another, lingering on each a little longer than necessary. And suddenly he caught himself thinking something that earlier would have seemed almost impossible to him: he was truly beginning to trust Maki.

Not because Maki had proven anything. Not because of promises, or the apartment, or the expensive gear that could be mistaken for an attempt to buy his favor. Trust had arrived entirely differently — in small, almost imperceptible steps. In the way Riki listened. How he never interrupted when Yixiang spoke about something important. How he didn't try to rush him, demanded nothing in return by way of candidness, and didn't take caution as an insult. He simply stayed by his side. Day after day. Story after story. And that, it seemed, was what frightened Nicholas most of all. Because he was used to waiting for the moment when everything good would come to an end. And now, for the first time in a long while, he didn't want to prepare for that moment.

He closed his eyes and slowly exhaled. Somewhere deep inside, beneath the layers of habitual caution, that feeling he had so carefully tried to ignore stirred again. It had appeared back then, under the rain, on that very first day when a stranger caught his camera and smiled as warmly as if they were already acquainted. Then Wang got scared. He backed away. Built a wall around himself because it felt safer that way. And he had thought that if he hid this feeling deep enough, it would disappear on its own. But now, looking at the photographs, he suddenly realized: it hadn't gone anywhere. It was simply waiting. Quietly, patiently, until Nicholas finally stopped being afraid of it.

And now it was blossoming inside again — cautiously, almost imperceptibly, but stronger with every passing day. In Hirota's warm gaze. In his messages. In the anticipation of their next meeting. In that strange flutter that occurred every time Nicholas heard footsteps outside the door of apartment 1204, hoping it was him. Perhaps that was why the thought of a filled wall suddenly felt so strange. If the photographs were truly going to move toward one another, from the edges to the center, what would happen when they met? Nicholas didn't know. And for the first time, he didn't want to seek the answer in advance. He just wanted to reach that moment together with Maki.

Sunday arrived surprisingly fast.

Nicholas woke up before his alarm — a rare occurrence that usually meant either a sleepless night or too many thoughts in his head. Today, it seemed to be the second. For a while, he just lay there looking at the ceiling, trying to understand why he was feeling such a strange excitement. They were just going to hang up some photographs. Nothing special. Ordinary work that could be finished in an hour, two hours at most.

So why was his heart beating a little faster than usual?

Nico turned onto his side and looked at the clock. There were still nearly forty minutes left before Maki’s arrival.

"Too early," he thought.

And then he smiled to himself.

In this, they were surprisingly alike. Maki would almost certainly arrive early, too. He was probably already standing somewhere near the building entrance, pretending he had just happened to be passing by. Or maybe he had arrived twenty minutes ago and was now waiting for a decent amount of time to pass so he wouldn't look overly impatient.

The thought made Wang smile.

Strange.

Just a few weeks ago, the thought of someone entering his life so easily would have caused him almost physical fear. And now he knew this person's habits. He knew Mauss always arrived early. He knew how he smiled when he was genuinely happy — wide, open, with a small dimple on his cheek. He knew Riki started talking a little faster when he was nervous, and that when it was truly important for him to hear an answer, he tilted his head slightly to the side.

And perhaps the most frightening thing was that Nicholas wanted to know even more.

He got out of bed, walked into the kitchen, and set the coffee to brew. Then, almost without thinking, he pulled some food from the fridge and began preparing something simple for Maki’s arrival.

A few seconds later, he froze.

He looked at himself.

Then at the cutting board.

— Seriously? – Yixiang muttered.

He had never cooked for Maki. Well... almost never. And why had it suddenly begun to feel so natural?

Nicholas let out a quiet breath and shook his head.

Perhaps trust really did change a person. It subtly seeped into the most ordinary things. Into the desire to leave a cup of favorite coffee for someone. Into the habit of listening for footsteps outside the door. Into the thought that he wanted to share this day with this exact person.

And yet once, he had been convinced that it was safest of all not to let anyone in.

Maki really did arrive early.

When Hirota rang the doorbell, Nicholas was just finishing laying out the photographs on the large table in the equipment room.

— You're early, – he said, opening the door.

— Me? – Mauss put on the most innocent expression he could muster, – Are you sure?

Nico looked at his watch, then back at him.

— By twenty minutes.

— That’s called punctuality, – Maki huffed, crossing his arms over his chest.

— That’s called "I arrived earlier than you, but I don't want to admit it."

— What terrible slander.

Nicholas laughed and stepped back, letting him inside.

And this was new, too.

Once, he would have felt anxiety upon seeing another person in his apartment. Especially a person he had known for only a few weeks. But now he simply stepped aside, allowing Maki to walk in.

Without inner tension. Without the urge to check where he was looking or what he was noticing. He simply let him in.

Riki seemed to feel this small change, too. His gaze lingered on Nicholas’s face for a moment, but he said nothing. He only smiled.

The equipment room was gradually turning into a small laboratory of memories. Sitting right there was the special printer they had chosen to print the photos on. Beside it lay neat stacks of thick photo paper, several test prints, scissors, a ruler, a pencil, and a roll of double-sided tape. On the computer screen, the image files were still open.

The photographs lay before them. Six images. Six stories. Six small pieces of the past that had now, in some incredible way, ended up in the present.

Maki was the first to pick up one of the prints. The shot with the steam above the bowl of ramen.

Nicholas looked at it and smiled.

— It's strange seeing it printed out.

— Why? – Riki raised an eyebrow, since printing photos was completely routine for him. But maybe for Nico it was something new?

— Because now it's real.

Mauss looked up.

— And before?

— Before, it was just a photo on a camera. A moment you could scroll past. But now... – Yixiang ran his fingers along the edge of the paper, – Now you can hang it on a wall. It won't disappear anywhere.

Maki didn't answer.

He only looked at the photo a little longer. Perhaps he understood, too. A photograph really did change when it became physical.

On a screen, it was part of hundreds of other shots. It could be deleted, lost, forgotten. But here, in their hands, it became part of the space. Part of a home. Part of their story.

— Alright, – Hirota finally said, — Let's decide which side we start from.

They carried the photos into the hallway. The empty wall met them with silence. Just yesterday, it had seemed like merely unfulfilled space. White, too clean, almost featureless. But now Nicholas looked at it and, for the first time, saw not emptiness.

He saw a beginning.

— So, our photos move toward each other, – Mauss said.

— Yours on the left, mine on the right?

— Exactly.

Nicholas looked at the wall.

— And what if we don't manage to meet in the center?

Riki turned his head.

— What do you mean?

— Well... if there turn out to be more stories than space.

Silence hung for a few seconds. And then Maki smiled.

— Then we'll find another wall.

Nicholas froze.

Just a few words. Completely simple. But for some reason, they struck somewhere deeper than they should have.

"We'll find another wall."

Not "you'll find," not "we'll have to remove something," not "we'll think about it later." We'll find. Together.

Wang looked away, pretending to study the photographs.

— Logical, – he muttered.

But he couldn't hide his smile.

They spent a long time deciding how to arrange the pictures. In the end, they came to the conclusion that they needed to leave enough space between the photos — enough for roughly two or three future shots.

Not because there wasn't enough room. On the contrary. They wanted it to remain.

— We might still remember something else, after all, – Nicholas said, sitting directly on the floor with his back against the wall, — Something important.

— Of course.

— Or something that seems unimportant now, but later turns out to be important.

Maki looked at him.

— Like what?

Yixiang thought for a moment.

— I don't know. Sometimes memories work in strange ways. You think you remember the main thing, and then suddenly you remember some little detail. A scent. A person. A conversation. A place. And you realize that this exact detail, for some reason, has stayed with you for your whole life.

Riki nodded slowly.

— Then it's a good thing we left room.

He said it completely calmly. But Nicholas felt that same strange warmth inside again.

Room.

For new photos, for new stories, for what they hadn't yet had time to learn about each other.

Nico looked at the wall and suddenly realized how symbolic all of this was.

After all, they were doing the exact same thing with each other. Leaving room. Not trying to fill a person entirely in a single evening. Not demanding that everything be told at once. Not rushing to occupy every free corner of another person's life. Leaving space for the next story, for the next confession, for what might one day turn out to be far more important than everything they knew about each other today.

— Hey, – Maki’s voice brought him back from his thoughts.

— Hm?

— You're floating off in the clouds again.

Nicholas looked up.

Riki was standing beside the photo he held in his hands, looking at him with a faint smile.

— I was just thinking.

— About what?

Wang wanted to answer. He wanted to say, "About you." But that was too honest. Too early and too dangerous. So he merely shrugged.

— About the wall.

Maki looked at him for a few seconds, as if he understood that wasn't the whole truth. But he didn't press the question. And for that, Nicholas was grateful to him.

He simply extended a hand.

— Will you help me stick it up?

Yixiang stood up, holding onto Maki’s strong hand.

— Of course.

They approached the wall together.

Maki pressed the first print — the very one with the steam above the ramen — to the left edge. Nicholas aligned it with a level.

— A bit more to the right, – Hirota looked like that very artist trying to direct the workers hanging his paintings in his own gallery.

— Like this?

— One more millimeter.

— You're impossible, – Nico was already struggling to hold back a smile at such strange meticulousness from Riki.

— I'm a photographer. I have the right.

— To a millimeter?

— Especially to a millimeter.

Nicholas laughed softly, no longer holding back.

— Alright. One more millimeter.

The shot was in place. The first one. Mauss stepped back a pace, and Nicholas stood beside him. They looked at it. A completely simple shot. Steam. Light. A phone. Maki telling a story about his childhood. But now that moment was part of their home. The first point on the map.

Next, on the right, appeared the shot of Nicholas — his hands, chopsticks, the scar on his wrist.

Yixiang looked at it and suddenly felt a strange, almost childlike urge to smile.

Maki noticed it.

— Something funny in the photo?

— No, nothing.

— You're smiling, – Hirota wanted to get a better look at this moment, even leaning down slightly to look up at Yixiang’s pleased face from below.

— I have the right.

— To a smile?

— Especially to a smile.

Riki laughed. And in that moment, Nicholas understood what it was he liked so much about these meetings. They weren't trying to create something perfect. They weren't building a relationship out of beautiful words. They were simply taking small pieces of life and carefully attaching them to one another.

A story, a photo, a memory. Another story, another shot. And between them — open space for the future.

Wang looked at the photographs arranged on both sides of the wall and suddenly thought that perhaps trust was precisely like this. Not loud, not sudden.

It simply turns up beside you one day — in the form of a cup of coffee made for another person, in the form of a photo on the wall, in the form of open space you left in advance for something that doesn't yet exist.

Nicholas slowly shifted his gaze to Maki.

He was standing right beside him, examining the prints, frowning thoughtfully as if already trying to figure out which shot should appear next.

Yixiang felt warmth growing inside him again. That same feeling he had tried to hide for so long. Now it no longer seemed like a threat to him. Because beside him was a person who didn't rush him, didn't demand, didn't force. Who simply stayed by his side.

And maybe that was why Nicholas allowed himself, for the first time, to think of the future not as something uncertain and frightening, but as a wall with plenty of free space left on it.

And of a person with whom he wanted to gradually fill that space.

They stood at the wall for a few more minutes. Just looking. Six photographs — three on the left, three on the right — no longer seemed like a random set of frames. A logic was emerging in them. A rhythm. Like in a good photography exhibition where each successive shot echoes the previous one, even if they were taken by different people at different times.

Nicholas stepped closer and ran a finger along the edge of the shot showing his hands.

— You know what's strange? – he said thoughtfully.

— What? – Maki was standing slightly behind, his voice sounding muffled, as if he too felt the solemnity of the moment and didn't want to shatter it with loud noises.

— I've never hung my own photographs at home.

Hirota blinked.

— Never?

— Never, – Nicholas lowered his hand and slipped it into his jeans pocket, — They stayed in folders on my computer. In cloud storage. In portfolios for clients. But on walls — never. I always thought: what for? It's just work. Just shots. And hanging something on a wall is... – he paused, picking his word, — It's like saying: "Here, look. This is a part of me."

Maki didn't answer, but Nico felt his gaze — attentive, warm, entirely non-judgmental.

— I wasn't ready to show that part, – Wang continued more quietly, — Even to myself. Especially to myself. Because if you hang a photograph on the wall, you can't hide from it anymore. It will look at you every morning. Remind you. Ask: "Well? Are you still the person who shot this? Or someone else now?"

He fell silent. It was quiet in the hallway; only somewhere behind the wall, the elevator hummed softly as someone rode up to the fifteenth floor.

— And now? – Maki asked.

Nicholas turned to him. In the dim light of the hallway, Hirota's face seemed sculpted out of soft light and shadow — cheekbones, dark eyes, full lips — all of it was... almost familiar. That was how much Wang had come to trust him.

— Now, I think I'm ready, – Yixiang said, surprising himself with how calmly the words sounded, — Maybe not completely. But enough to begin.

Riki smiled — that very smile that made something flip in Nicholas’s chest — and nodded toward the wall:

— Then we have a plan. To fill all of this space. Photo by photo. Story by story.

— And when we fill it?

— Then we'll think, – Mauss tilted his head slightly to his shoulder, a mischievous spark flashing in his eyes, — But I have a proposal.

— What is it?

— Let's take a break. You cooked something in the kitchen — I can smell it. And it would be a crime to let that smell go to waste.

Nico laughed softly. The smell really had filled the entire apartment — a light aroma of toasted bread, something sweet, and coffee. He had almost forgotten about what he was cooking himself, so absorbed had he been in their "ceremony."

— You're like a bloodhound, – he shook his head, — Alright, let's go. But let the photos hang without us for a bit. Let them get used to it.

— Photos don't get used to things, – Maki remarked.

— These ones do. I'm sure of it.

They moved into the kitchen, and Yixiang suddenly realized that the anxiety that had been troubling him since morning was gone. It hadn't dissolved completely — somewhere on the periphery of his mind it was still simmering, like a distant hum — but it had stopped being sharp, cutting. Now it was more of an anticipation. Like before a long trip, when the bags are packed, the tickets are in hand, and there are still thirty minutes before the taxi — and you sit in the kitchen, drinking tea, thinking about what lies ahead.

Nicholas set plates of French toast on the table — the very kind Mei had taught him to make long ago. Maki grunted in approval and, without waiting for an invitation, picked up a fork.

— You know what I was thinking while we were hanging the prints? – Hirota said, cutting off a piece of toast.

— What?

— That we could expand our project. Not just a wall. Not just photos. A whole series. Remember when you said you wanted to do something more personal? Not commercial assignments, but a real art project?

Nicholas nodded. He really had said that — one evening when he was tired after yet another wedding shoot. Back then, it had felt to him like he was stuck. Like all those orders were just a way to survive, not a way to live. Like real photography was out there, somewhere beyond the horizon, while he was stomping in place, afraid to take a step.

— I remember, – he said, — And what are you suggesting?

— Make a series out of the "Wall of Stories." Name it something... I don't know. But we wouldn't just shoot stories from the past, but moments in the here and now. How we get to know each other. How our perception changes. We could even keep a journal — text or audio. And then, when enough material builds up, hold an exhibition.

Wang froze, fork in hand.

— An exhibition?

— Yes. In a gallery. Or some art space. I know a couple of places in Osaka that are open to young photographers. We could submit an application. Show not just the shots, but the process. The stories. How two people who knew almost nothing about each other gradually become... – he cut himself off.

— Become what? – Nico asked softly.

Maki looked at him. In his gaze, there was no longer his habitual light irony — only something deep, warm, and a little frightened, like someone who had walked up to an edge and suddenly saw how far down the ground was.

— Closer, – he said finally, — Gradually become closer.

Nicholas slowly exhaled. He hadn't noticed that he was holding his breath.

— That's... ambitious, – he said, returning to his toast, — And terrifying.

— Why?

— Because it's too personal. To put out for public display not just photographs, but what stands behind them. How we argued, how we made up, how you told me about your father for the first time, and I told you about Jun. These aren't just frames. This is us.

— And isn't that what art is for? – Maki set down his fork and leaned forward, resting his elbows on the table, — Aren't the most powerful works the ones where the artist shows his true self? Unembellished, without masks, without those eternal "I'm fine"s. Vulnerable. Real.

— Maybe, – Yixiang shook his head, — But I've only just started showing this to you. I'm not sure I'm ready to show it to the whole world.

— And you don't have to, – Hirota said softly, — It's just an idea. We don't have to submit anything anywhere. We can just keep hanging photos on the wall and tell no one about them. In the end, this project — it's primarily for us. Not for an audience.

A pause fell. Nicholas looked into his coffee cup, at the dark surface reflecting the ceiling light — a tiny star in a miniature universe. Maki’s idea frightened him. But at the same time, there was something unbelievably alluring in it. The chance not to hide. The chance to say: "Here I am. Here are my scars, my mistakes, my fears. And I'm not ashamed of them."

— Give me time, – he said finally, — I'm not saying "no." I'm saying "give me time to get used to the idea." And let's start small. Not with an exhibition. But with something... smaller.

— Like what? – Maki perked up.

— Like... – Nico thought for a moment, — Do you have that test print we made last week? Where you're standing by the fountain. We didn't hang it because it didn't make the first six.

— I do. It's in the equipment room.

— Let's do something else with it. Not on the wall. But... – he scanned the kitchen, the living room, and his gaze landed on the refrigerator, — Do you have any magnets?

Riki blinked in surprise, then laughed:

— You want to hang a photo on the fridge? Like a tourist souvenir?

— No. As a reminder. That even test shots matter. Not everything has to be perfect to be important, – Wang stood up and headed to the equipment room. He returned with a small print — the one where Maki was standing against the fountain in Umeda, illuminated in blue. This photo was good, but it hadn't quite made the wall, — Where are your magnets?

Hirota silently opened a drawer and pulled out a round magnet — black, with the logo of some camera gear brand, clearly from a promotional mailing.

— Here.

Nicholas attached the photograph to the fridge and stepped back a pace.

— There. Now we don't just have a wall, but a fridge of stories, too.

— A fridge of stories sounds like the name for a very strange podcast, – Mauss chuckled.

— Or for a very strange exhibition. Imagine: visitors walk into a gallery, and there's a fridge. They open it — and inside are photos. And a note: "Stories that need to be kept cold so they don't spoil."

— You're a genius, – Maki exhaled with such genuine admiration that Nico felt embarrassed for a moment.

— I just think about food a lot, – he muttered, turning away. But the corners of his lips crept betrayingly upward.

They returned to their cooling toast. Outside the window, the Sunday afternoon was rolling toward evening — the sun was no longer burning so fiercely, the shadows had grown longer, and the sky was turning from blue to a delicate pink. Somewhere in the distance, the bells of a Buddhist temple began to chime — a low, lingering sound that always reminded Nicholas of home.

Sunday evening was slowly bleeding into night. Nicholas took a deep breath, preparing to tell a new story, since they had free time anyway. Except the one that came to mind was heavy to remember. But Maki seemed to understand from that very breath that it was hard for Yixiang. He suddenly reached out and gently touched his wrist — the one with the scar.

— Wait, – he said softly, — We've already hung too much on the wall today. And pulled too much out of ourselves. I want you to tell this story not on the run, not by forcing it, but when you're truly ready. When there's silence inside, not exhaustion after a whole day.

Nicholas froze. Maki’s fingers were warm and rested on his skin lightly, almost weightlessly. He could have pulled his hand away. Could have pretended he hadn't noticed. But instead, he slowly turned his palm over and, for a brief second, squeezed Hirota's fingers in return — quickly, almost fearfully, like a person who was only just learning to trust.

— Tuesday then, – he said, his voice a little raspy, — I'll tell it on Tuesday. I promise.

— Deal, – Mauss nodded and pulled his hand away, but the warmth of his touch stayed with Yixiang until Monday morning.

Tuesday, evening. Shitennoji Temple.

They met by the main gates of Shitennoji Temple — one of the oldest Buddhist temples in Japan, tucked away among the modern buildings of Osaka like a precious gem set in glass and concrete. Maki hadn't chosen this place by accident. He knew Nicholas needed silence and space to talk about difficult things. Here, among stone lanterns, pagodas, and ancient trees, even the air felt denser and calmer, steeped in the scent of incense and damp earth.

Nicholas arrived at six sharp. Not earlier, not later — minute for minute. Maki noted this to himself and smiled: it seemed Yixiang was also starting to fight his habit of arriving early. Or maybe he had simply spent an extra half hour gathering his courage.

They walked slowly through the temple courtyard, gravel softly crunching beneath their feet. There were hardly any tourists — a weekday evening, the last rays of the sun gilding the roof of the pagoda, while somewhere deep within the temple, monks were finishing their evening service. Their voices — low, rhythmic — reached Nicholas and Maki as a muffled echo, as if the world itself were singing along to this moment.

They stopped near an old carp pond. The fish lazily flicked their tails, scattering duckweed as the water softly lapped against the stone banks.

Nicholas was silent for a long time, simply looking at the water, and Maki didn't rush him. He stood beside him — not too close, but not far either — and waited.

At last, Yixiang spoke. His voice sounded muffled, as if pushing through the depth of time.

— I told you I left Taiwan when I was eighteen. But I didn't tell you why it was then, not earlier and not later. It wasn't just because I dreamed of becoming a photographer. There was another reason. Or, rather, a person.

Maki turned his head slightly, but asked nothing. He just listened.

— His name was Li. We went to the same school. He was two years older — tall, talented, played the violin, and was planning to enter the music academy in Taipei. We were friends. Friends for a long time. And then... – Nicholas shoved his hands into his windbreaker pockets, and Maki caught the moment the blonde's body grew more constrained, his shoulders tensing, — Then I realized it wasn't just friendship. For me. For him — I don't know. I never asked.

He fell silent. A carp in the pond splashed its tail, shattering the pagoda's reflection into a thousand golden shards.

— I was afraid, – Yixiang continued in almost a whisper, — Afraid to confess. Afraid he would turn away, that our friendship would break, that my parents would find out. In Taiwan, you know, not everyone is ready to understand and accept. My parents — definitely not. So I stayed silent. I was silent for half a year. Just walked beside him, looked at him, and thought: "If I tell him, everything ends." And then he left for that academy. Didn't even properly say goodbye — sent a message: "I'm in Taipei, see you on break." We didn't see each other. Not on break, not after. I wrote to him once — a long, stupid letter where I confessed everything. He replied briefly: "I'm not like that. Sorry."

Nicholas fell silent. In the quiet of the temple courtyard, his words hung in the air like the chime of a bell — heavy, irreversible. Maki didn't move. He felt that any movement — even a breath, even a sympathetic touch — could break this fragile moment of revelation.

— And that's when you left? – he asked at last, when the silence became almost unbearable.

— Yes. A month after that letter. I couldn't stay. Everything around reminded me of him — school, the streets, the park where we used to walk. And my parents... they didn't know anything, but I felt I couldn't pretend anymore. Couldn't be the "right" son who would get a normal job and marry a nice girl. I had to leave. Far away. Somewhere no one knew me. Where I could start from scratch and figure out who I actually was.

He exhaled heavily and finally lowered his shoulders.

— I didn't choose Japan just because of photography. I chose it because here I could become someone else. Nicholas Wang, not Wang Yixiang. A person without a past. Or so it seemed to me back then.

Maki nodded slowly. Something in his chest ached — a dull, deep pain he couldn't separate from Nicholas's pain. He recalled their conversation on the bridge, when Yixiang had talked about suspicion, about walls, about the habit of expecting a catch. Now everything was falling into place. It wasn't just a tough childhood and living independently. A betrayal — even if unintentional, even if just circumstances — had left a scar that hadn't healed in years.

— Thank you for telling me, – Hirota said softly, — I know how hard that is.

— You too? – Nicholas raised his eyes to him for the first time in several minutes.

— Me too, – Maki offered a faint smile with the corners of his lips, — Not right now. I'll tell you my story in return. But first — I want to take a picture for our wall. For you.

He raised the camera that had been hanging from his shoulder strap the whole time and pointed the lens at the pond. In the viewfinder were the water, the carp, the golden shards of the reflected pagoda. And Nicholas's silhouette standing on the bank — lonely, but at the same time no longer as much as before. He shot not his face, but his figure from behind, against the background of the water and sky. The shot turned out high-contrast: the dark silhouette of a man who had just laid his soul bare, and the bright, almost glowing water in which the carp swam.

— Why a shot like that? – Nico asked, peering at the camera screen.

— Because your story isn't just about pain, – Maki said, — It's about how you're standing at the edge and looking into the water. The water is the past. It reflects the light, it's beautiful, but it can pull you under if you look too long. And you're standing on the bank and haven't fallen. You made it through. And the carp is a symbol. In Japanese culture, carp swim against the current. Just like you — you swam against everything: against expectations, against fear, against loneliness. And you swam out.

Nicholas looked at the shot for a long time, and his lips trembled.

— You see things in me that I didn't see in myself, – he said in almost a whisper.

— That's why we're photographers, – Hirota replied gently, — We see what's hidden.

They were silent a little longer, then Nicholas extended a hand:

— Now it's your turn. You promised a story. And I have an idea for a shot.

Maki handed him the camera and paused for a moment to think. Then he nodded toward the stone stairs leading up to the main hall of the temple.

— Let's go. I'll tell you on the way.

They climbed the steps — old, worn down by thousands of feet — and sat on the top landing, which offered a view of the entire temple complex. The sun had almost set, and the sky over Osaka turned a deep purple, pierced by streaks of orange.

— My story isn't about love, – Maki began, — Or maybe it is about love, but a different kind. A love that suffocates.

Nicholas looked at him attentively.

— I told you my father is an art collector. He cultivated a love for the beautiful in me. But he was also trying to make me an extension of himself. Not just a son — an heir. Someone who would continue his work, manage the collection, move in circles of art dealers and gallerists. When I told him I was dropping economics and switching to photography, he was furious. We didn't talk for half a year. But I've already told you that. There was something else, though.

He paused, gathering his thoughts.

— When I was sixteen, my father threw a reception at our house for important guests from Europe. Some gallerists, critics, a couple of artists came. I was supposed to be present — as the "heir," as the "continuation of the family line." I put on a stupid suit that was too small in the shoulders and walked around the living room with a glass of juice, pretending to be the perfect son. And at one point, one of the guests — an elderly Frenchman with a cane — asked me: "Young man, what do you want to become?" I answered honestly: "A photographer." He smiled and said: "That's wonderful. Art is freedom." And then my father walked up, heard our conversation, and... laughed. Loudly, theatrically. He said to the guest: "Oh, don't listen to him, those are childish fantasies. Riki will manage my gallery when he grows up." And he patted me on the shoulder. Like I was a dog that had performed a trick.

Maki fell silent. Nicholas didn't take his eyes off him.

— I didn't say anything back then. Just stood there and smiled, because the guests were looking. But inside, something broke. I realized that to my father, I wasn't a person. I was a project. An investment. An extension of his ambitions. And whatever I did, he would always see in me only what he wanted to see. Not me.

He exhaled deeply and looked at the darkening sky.

— Years passed. I became a photographer. A successful one. I have orders, exhibitions, a name. My father accepted it — at least outwardly. But every time we meet, he still asks: "When will you settle down? When will you get into real business?" As if everything I do is just a drawn-out prank. I love him, Nico. Really, I do. But that love is sometimes like a cage.

Silence hung between them — heavy, but not oppressive. The kind where two people can simply be together without trying to fill the void with unnecessary words.

Nicholas raised the camera and took a shot. In the frame was Maki sitting on the temple steps against the purple sky and the pagoda. His face — tired, but calm — was turned toward the last ray of sun breaking through the clouds.

— You shot me, – Riki noted.

— Yes. You talk about your father, but you look at the sky. As if looking for an answer there. Or permission. And the ray of sun — it's like the voice of that Frenchman who told you about freedom. It's still with you. Even when your father doesn't hear it.

Maki looked at the photo on the screen and laughed softly — that very laugh where bitterness and relief blended together.

— We were both running from expectations, – he said, — You from your parents and from Li. Me from my father and his plans. We both became photographers because photography is freedom. Because only through a lens can we be ourselves.

— Mirrors, – Nicholas softly repeated their old word.

— Mirrors, – Maki repeated, confirming his companion's words.

They descended the stairs and passed through the temple gates when night had already fallen over the city. A whole week lay ahead, and the wall in the hallway was waiting for new shots. But right now, they didn't want to rush anywhere. They simply walked side by side, shoulder to shoulder, and in that silence there were more words than in any conversation.

Thursday, evening. Kuromon Market.

The idea to meet at the covered Kuromon Market — "Osaka's kitchen" — had come to Maki spontaneously. On Wednesday, he caught himself looking through photos of food on his phone that Nicholas had posted on his social media, and suddenly realized: they had never walked through the market together. And yet a market was the quintessence of a city. Bustling, colorful, smelling of fried seafood and sweet mochi. The perfect place for a story that wouldn't be about pain, but about joy.

Nicholas agreed right away. By the end of the work week, he was feeling drained — shoots, editing, client negotiations — and the thought of simply wandering between stalls, sampling takoyaki, and rushing nowhere felt almost like paradise.

The market met them with noise and bright light. Covered arcades hung overhead, decorated with paper lanterns and commercial signs. Vendors called out to buyers, tourists snapped photos, and somewhere deep in the market, a chef in a white hat deftly flipped a giant octopus on the grill. Scents blended into one intoxicating cocktail — soy sauce, ginger, woodsmoke, sweet glaze.

— Heavenly, – Nicholas exhaled, taking in the air, — I only come here when I need to shoot a feature for the blog. But just because — never.

— Then today we're having a tasting, – Maki moved forward with confidence, weaving through the people, — I know the best mochi stall here. And the best grilled shrimp. And octopus balls that melt in your mouth.

— You talk like a seasoned foodie.

— I'm not a foodie, I'm an explorer. I've been exploring the flavors of Osaka ever since I moved here from Kyoto.

They bought a portion of takoyaki each — piping hot batter balls filled with pieces of octopus, drizzled with thick sauce and sprinkled with bonito flakes. They ate on the move, burning themselves and laughing, then washed it down with cold green tea from a can.

Near a sweets stall, Nicholas suddenly slowed his pace. His attention was caught by tiny, multicolored mochi on skewers — dango, neatly laid out in three rows: pink, white, green.

— This reminded me of childhood, – he said, pointing at them, — Mei and I often ate dango during festivals. In Taiwan, they aren't like in Japan, but they're similar. Mei always took the pink one, I took the green, and Mom said the white one was the tastiest because it had no food coloring. We would argue until we were hoarse over whose dango was better.

Maki looked at his face, suddenly lit up with a warm smile, and something stirred in his chest.

— Let's buy one each, – he suggested, — You take green, I take pink. In honor of Mei and your mom.

— And the white one? – Nico raised an eyebrow in surprise.

— We'll leave the white one for next time. When you're ready to tell me about your mom.

Yixiang nodded silently, but gratitude flickered in his eyes. For Maki not rushing him again. For leaving space.

They bought the dango and stepped over to a small bench by a fountain in the center of the market. Life buzzed all around, but here, in a small island of calm, one could pause for a minute.

— My turn to tell a story, – Riki said, taking a bite of the pink mochi, — And it's also about food. Or rather, about my grandmother.

— I didn't know you had a grandmother, – Nicholas noted.

— I did. She passed away five years ago. But before that, she lived in Kyoto, in an old district, and ran a small tea house. Not a shop — a proper tea house where neighbors stopped by to drink tea and eat homemade wagashi. I spent every summer with her while I was in school. She taught me how to make sweets — not just following a recipe, but feeling the ingredients. Understanding when the dough "breathes," when the bean paste is ready, when the sugar glaze has reached the right temperature. It was magic. Not chemistry, not cooking — magic.

He fell silent, and that same soft, almost childlike smile appeared on his face that Nicholas rarely saw.

— Grandma was the only person in the family who supported my passion for photography from the very start. When my father yelled that I was killing my future, she said: "Riki, do what makes your fingers sing." My fingers sang when I held a camera. And when I kneaded dough for mochi. She used to say that art is everywhere — in photography, in the tea ceremony, and in sweets. The main thing is to put your soul into it.

Nicholas listened, and a picture rose before his eyes: little Maki in an apron, smudged with flour, standing on tiptoe at his grandmother's table, carefully shaping uneven balls of mochi. And his grandmother — an old woman with wrinkled hands and kind eyes — adjusting his fingers and laughing softly.

— I want to take a picture, – Nico said, raising his camera, — Don't pose. Just keep eating.

Maki obediently took another bite, and at that moment Yixiang pressed the shutter. The frame captured a close-up of his face — lips smudged with pink glaze, smiling eyes reflecting the light of the market lanterns. And the pink mochi held in his fingers, like a symbol of that very childhood happiness that never goes away if held gently.

— Is this going to be my shot for the wall? – Maki asked, looking at the screen.

— Yes. I want it to be about your grandmother. About how important it is to have someone who believes in you unconditionally. Who says: "Do what makes your fingers sing."

— Then we need a second dango, – Maki said, — The green one. For Mei.

— I haven't told the story for it yet.

— Tell it now then.

Nicholas was silent for a moment, looking at the green mochi in his hand. Then he began softly:

— Mei was always my main protector. When I was teased at school because of my last name, because of my interest in photography, because I was "different" — she always stood up for me. Once she even got into a fight with a boy who broke my first camera. Can you imagine? A dancer, fragile, graceful — and she broke a bully's nose. Our parents were in shock, but I looked at her and thought: "That's who I want to be. Strong. Brave. Afraid of nothing."

He chuckled.

— I never became like her. I'm still afraid. Afraid of a lot. But when I'm scared, I remember that day and think: "Mei wouldn't be scared. She'd go and do it." And that helps.

Maki raised his camera and took a shot in response. In the frame was Nicholas holding the green dango against the colorful market, with a smile that was half joy, half gentle sadness.

— For Mei, – he said, — For all the older sisters who fight for their younger brothers.

— For Mei, – Nicholas repeated.

They finished their mochi and wandered around the market for a long time, sampling grilled shrimp, octopus balls, and cold matcha lattes. Somewhere between the spice stalls and a traditional fan shop, Maki suddenly stopped and looked at Nicholas with a long, attentive gaze.

— You know, – he said, — I just realized. We're no longer just photographers working together. We're... something else.

— And what's that? – Nico asked softly, feeling his heart skip a beat.

— I don't know, – Hirota shook his head, — But I like this "something." A lot.

Nicholas said nothing in response. He simply reached out — carefully, almost hesitantly — and touched Maki's fingers. He didn't pull his hand away. On the contrary — he squeezed back slightly. And they walked further through the noisy market, holding hands, like two people who had finally found someone with whom they didn't have to pretend.

And tomorrow was Friday, followed by Saturday. And the wall in the hallway was waiting for new shots.

Saturday turned out to be long, like an endless windowless hallway. From early morning, Maki was rushing around the city — first a meeting with a potential client in the Umeda district, then an urgent reshoot for a promotional booklet because the client wasn't satisfied with the first batch of frames (“too dark, make them lighter, but keep the atmosphere, you're a professional, aren't you?”), then another meeting, an evening one this time, with a former classmate who had suddenly decided to open a gallery and wanted advice. By nine in the evening, Mauss felt gutted — not so much physically as morally. Too many people. Too many conversations. Too many forced smiles.

He returned to his apartment, kicked off his shoes at the threshold, and collapsed onto the sofa without even turning on the light. Outside the window, evening Osaka buzzed, but inside it was quiet and empty. Maki lay looking at the ceiling, trying to understand why, despite all his success, all the contracts and projects, he was now so desperately missing something.

The answer came on its own — not in the form of words, but in the form of an image. Kuromon Market. Bustling, colorful, smelling of fried seafood. And Nicholas standing by the dango stall with a warm smile on his lips. His fingers squeezing the green mochi. His voice talking about Mei. And that moment when Maki took his hand, and he didn't pull away.

Hirota sat up abruptly on the sofa.

There it was. That was what he was missing.

He looked at the clock. Almost eleven. Late. Decently late for an unannounced visit. But Friday and Saturday had been completely swallowed by work, tomorrow's Sunday threatened to do the same, and the thought that he wouldn't see Nicholas until next week suddenly seemed entirely unbearable.

“I'll just go,” he thought, pulling his shoes back on, “Just to say hello. Say I was nearby. That I wanted to see him.”

He was already grabbing his keys from the small table when a sobering thought flashed in his head: “What if he's asleep? What if he has someone over? What if he doesn't want to see me?” But his feet were already carrying him to the door. Because somewhere deep inside, Mauss knew: even if Nicholas threw him out — even if he just shut the door in his face — at least he tried. At least he made a step forward instead of remaining in his empty apartment, staring at the ceiling.

The taxi brought him to the familiar building in twenty minutes. Nighttime Osaka floated past the window — lights, bridges, rare pedestrians. Hirota looked at the city and, for the first time in a long while, didn't think about composition, about light, about framing. He was thinking about the person he was traveling to. About his laugh. About his hands. About how he frowns when he listens. About how he looked away when they held hands at the market — not fearfully, but rather surprised, as if he himself couldn't believe it was happening.

“What do I feel for him?” Maki asked himself.

Affection — yes, that was obvious from their first meeting. From the very moment they bumped into each other in the rain, and the unfamiliar blonde's camera flew onto the asphalt, and he, Riki, caught it at the last moment. Even then, something clicked — like a camera shutter — and the world became a little brighter.

But now? Now it was more than affection. It was... attraction? The desire to be near? The need to hear his voice at the end of a hard day?

Maki replayed their recent meetings in his head. Shitennoji Temple, where Nicholas had told him about Li — about his first bitter experience, about a betrayal that wasn't a betrayal, but felt like one nonetheless. Kuromon Market, where they ate dango, held hands, and were almost happy. And every meeting added a new layer, a new depth to what Mauss felt. As if he were developing film — slowly, frame by frame — and the image was becoming clearer and clearer.

“I want to be with him,” Hirota suddenly thought. And scared himself with that thought, “Not just work. Not just be friends. Be with him. Always.”

A confession was still a long way off. Maki knew Nico wasn't ready — after everything he had been through, after Li, after the loneliness, after the walls he had built for years. Rushing him was impossible. Pressuring him — impossible. He just needed to be near. Give him time. Give him space. And wait.

But today Maki couldn't wait. Today he needed to see him — even for five minutes, even just to say hello at the door. Because inside, an exhaustion had built up that couldn't be relieved by sleep, coffee, or work. An exhaustion that, it seemed, could only be lifted by the presence of one specific person.

The taxi stopped at the entrance. Maki paid, stepped onto the sidewalk, and raised his head. The windows of the twelfth floor were lit — so Nicholas wasn't asleep. That made it easier.

He took the elevator up and froze in front of door 1204. His heart was pounding somewhere in his throat. “Stupid,” he told himself, “You're a grown man, and you're acting like a teenager before a first date.” But his hand was already reaching for the doorbell.

Nicholas opened it a few seconds later. He was in a home t-shirt and loose pants, his hair tousled, holding a mug of something hot. Seeing Maki, he froze. His eyes — dark, surprised — widened.

— Maki? – he exhaled, — Did something happen?

Yixiang clearly hadn't expected a guest at this hour. His gaze darted from Hirota's face to his clothes, to his camera bag, back to his face — as if trying to read the answer before it was spoken aloud.

And here Maki, who was always so composed, who always knew what to say, was suddenly lost. All the prepared phrases — “was nearby,” “wanted to see you,” “decided to stop by” — flew out of his head. He stood in the hallway, looking at Nicholas, and felt something warm, vast, frightening spreading inside.

— Nothing happened, – he finally said, and his voice sounded quieter than usual, — I'm just... tired. Very tired. Friday, Saturday — non-stop orders, meetings, conversations. I didn't have a single minute of peace. And I realized that... – he stumbled, picking his words, — That I want to rest. Properly. Not alone. But... with you.

The last words hung in the air. Wang was silent, and Mauss felt everything inside him tighten. Now he would say: “It's late.” Or: “I was going to sleep.” Or simply look awkward and close the door.

But instead, Yixiang blinked, then stepped back a pace and said:

— Come in. I just made tea. Reheating it for the third time, actually — can't sleep.

He spoke casually, almost carelessly, but something flashed in his eyes that Maki didn't manage to catch in time. Something resembling relief.

They went into the living room. An open laptop lay on the coffee table, surrounded by scattered memory cards and a couple of notebooks with notes. Apparently, Nicholas had also been working late. Maki took off his jacket and sat on the sofa, feeling the tension of the day slowly begin to release its grip. The apartment smelled of wood, tea, and something else — warm, cozy, which he had already grown accustomed to associating with this place.

— Heavy week? – Nico asked, handing him a mug. Their fingers touched for a second, and Maki noted that Nicholas's hand was warm — that exact temperature when you don't want to let go.

— Long, – Hirota took a sip of tea, — Very long. And it's not even about the work, but that it's... empty. You know? I do a bunch of things, meet a bunch of people, but all of it is somehow fake. And then I come home and realize that the only thing I want is to talk to you. Not about work. Not about projects. Just... talk.

He hadn't planned to be this candid. The words broke out on their own, and Maki felt a moment of fear — wasn't it too much? Would it scare him off? But Nicholas didn't look scared. He sat nearby, head tilted slightly, looking at Maki with that attentive gaze unique to a photographer adjusting focus.

— Is that why you came? – he asked softly.

— Yes, – Maki answered honestly, — I wanted to be near you. Not because something urgent happened. Just... near you, I feel calm. You're like an anchor. I don't know how to explain it.

Nicholas looked away and was silent for a long time, stirring his mug with a small spoon. And then quietly, almost in a whisper, he said:

— Me too. When you're not around, I think a lot. Too much. But when you're near, the thoughts grow quieter.

Maki felt his heart skip a beat. There it was. That very thing he had been thinking about in the taxi. Not just affection. Not just friendship. Something greater that was growing between them quietly, unnoticed, like grass through asphalt.

They finished their tea in silence, but it wasn't an awkward silence — rather, a fulfilled one. Each was lost in his own thoughts, yet they were together, and that was enough. Outside the window, Osaka flickered with lights, and Maki suddenly caught himself thinking that he wanted to stay here until morning. Not out of any romantic impulses — simply to wake up and see this person over breakfast. To start Sunday not in solitude, but with him.

— It's late already, – he said aloud, though inside everything screamed: “Don't leave.”

— Stay, – Nicholas answered, and his voice sounded as if he, too, had been thinking about this for the last ten minutes, – The sofa folds out. I have clean bedsheets. And I'll cook breakfast — a real Taiwanese one, Mei taught me.

Maki looked at him and smiled.

— Are you sure? I don't want to intrude.

— You're not intruding, – Yixiang was already getting up to get the sheets, — You never intrude. I told you — with you, I feel calm. And alone... sometimes it's too loud.

Together, they unfolded the sofa, laid out the sheets, fluffed the pillows. Nicholas went to the bathroom first, while Maki sat on the edge of the improvised bed and looked at the wall in the hallway — the one where their photographs hung. Six shots. Four more were supposed to be added — from the temple and the market — but they hadn't gotten around to it yet. No matter, they would hang them tomorrow.

When Yixiang returned, they swapped places. Riki washed his face, took out his contact lenses, put on a spare t-shirt Nico had lent him — it was a little too big, as if bought purely to hide in, but it smelled of fabric softener and that distinct scent found only in clothes from someone else's home. It was a strange, almost intimate feeling — wearing his clothes, standing in his bathroom, looking at his toothbrush in the glass.

When Maki returned to the room, the lights were already dimmed. Nicholas sat on his half of the bed, legs crossed, looking off into space. Apparently, he was thinking too. Maki lay down beside him and stared at the ceiling.

— You know, – Yixiang suddenly said, — I wanted to tell you a story. One more. I promised it for Sunday, but Sunday is almost here anyway. Can I now?

— Of course, – Maki turned his head toward him. In the dimness, Nicholas's face looked carved out of marble — pale, with sharp cheekbones and dark hollows for eyes.

— It's a short story. About the first time I photographed a person who was crying.

Maki froze.

— I was just starting out back then — not as a photographer, but just running around the streets with a camera shooting everything in sight. One day in a park, I saw an old woman. She was sitting on a bench crying — quietly, soundlessly, tears just streaming down her cheeks. Children were running around her, music was playing, ice cream was being sold, and she just sat there alone, crying. I wanted to walk past. Thought: “It's none of my business. It's too personal.” But instead, I raised my camera and shot. One frame. Then I walked up and asked: “Are you alright?”

He paused for a moment.

— She said: “My husband died yesterday. We met in this park fifty-two years ago.” I didn't know what to answer. Just sat beside her and stayed silent. And she looked at the children, the musicians, the ice cream, and smiled through her tears. Then she turned to me and said: “Are you a photographer? Show me how it turned out.” I showed her. She looked at her portrait for a long time — tear-streaked, wrinkled — and then said: “Thank you. Now I have proof that I loved him.”

Nicholas took a deep breath and turned to Maki.

— Ever since then, I understood why I shoot. Not for composition, not for light, not for money. For moments like that. To preserve what would otherwise disappear.

Maki was silent for a few seconds. Then he reached for the camera lying on the coffee table.

— May I?

— Of course.

He raised the camera and aimed the lens at Nicholas lying in bed, illuminated only by the moonlight outside the window. Half-light, ruffled hair, a tired but calm face. And his eyes — reflecting distant light, as if he could still see that old woman in the park. Hirota pressed the shutter.

— How did it turn out? – Nico asked softly.

— A person who preserves other people's feelings, – Riki answered, setting the camera aside, — But who preserves yours?

— Now — you do, – Yixiang said, and those words sounded in the dark like a quiet promise. Maki felt something flip inside — huge, warm, almost unbearable. He said nothing back. Just reached out and found Nicholas's palm beneath the blanket.

Their fingers intertwined, and in that simple gesture there was more than in any confession. Maki closed his eyes. The fatigue that had accumulated all week finally began to dissolve. He felt Nicholas's breathing grow slower, calmer, felt his fingers loosen slightly, but not let go. Outside the window, the night city hummed. Inside the apartment, it was quiet.

— Goodnight, Nico, – Maki whispered.

— Goodnight, Riki, – Nicholas answered just as quietly, calling him by his name for the first time — that first one, which he himself had revealed to him in this very spot a few weeks ago. Maki smiled in the dark and allowed himself to sink into sleep — deep, calm, dreamless. He didn't yet know what tomorrow would bring, but one thing he knew for certain: whatever happened next, they would go through it together.

Waking up came softly — not with a jolt, as usually happened after an alarm, but gradually, like an image emerging on photographic paper. Maki felt the smell first. Coffee? Yes, definitely coffee, but not that harsh, office kind, but homemade, with a hint of something sweet. Then he heard the quiet noise of water in the kitchen and the cautious clinking of dishes — someone was trying to move noiselessly, but the old habits of a photographer used to catching the slightest sounds on set did their job.

Mauss opened his eyes.

The room was flooded with soft morning light — the Sunday sun made its way through the translucent curtains and drew golden squares on the floor. The sofa he had slept on turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, and the pillow still held a faint, almost imperceptible scent — not his own, but someone else's, the very same one he had felt yesterday on the borrowed t-shirt. Fabric softener and something else that Hirota couldn't yet find a name for, but which was firmly associated in his mind with Nicholas.

He rolled onto his back and for a few seconds just looked at the ceiling. His body was heavy, but not from exhaustion — from peace. That same deep, viscous peace that happens only after a long, unbroken, dreamless sleep. Maki tried to remember when he had last slept so well and couldn't. Weeks? Months? Maybe years.

Memories of yesterday evening flooded back in a soft wave. The taxi. Nighttime Osaka. The door to apartment 1204. Nicholas's surprised face. Tea. Conversation in the dark. The story about the old woman in the park. And fingers intertwined beneath the blanket.

Riki smiled.

He sat up on the sofa, stretched, feeling his muscles ache pleasantly after a long sleep, and looked around. The apartment was drowned in morning light. From his spot, he could see part of the kitchen where Nicholas's silhouette was moving — already dressed, with his hair still tousled after sleep, he was working magic over the stove. A smell of something fried, spicy, vaguely familiar hovered in the air — it seemed Yixiang was indeed cooking that very Taiwanese breakfast he had promised.

— Good morning, – Maki's voice sounded somewhat raspy after sleep.

Wang turned around. That same smile flashed on his face — restrained, but warm — which Hirota had learned to recognize even in the dim light.

— Good morning. You're just in time. I'm just finishing up.

Maki got up, threw yesterday's t-shirt over his shoulders, and walked into the kitchen. There on the stove, some flatbreads were sizzling — golden, with a crispy crust — and nearby in a small skillet, something resembling an omelet with vegetables was simmering. The kettle had already boiled, and Nicholas was just pouring boiling water into cups.

— What is this? – Maki looked over his shoulder with curiosity.

— Dan bing, – Yixiang answered, carefully flipping a flatbread with a spatula, – Taiwanese egg crepes. Mei taught me to cook them when I was still a teenager. She used to say: “If you learn to make dan bing, you'll never stay hungry or lonely. Because whoever tries your crepes will want to stay.”

Hirota laughed softly.

— A wise woman, your sister.

— She was always smarter than me, – Nicholas smirked and put the crepes on plates, — Sit down. And speak honestly if it's not tasty. I won't be offended.

They sat at the breakfast bar. Maki tried the first piece and closed his eyes in pleasure. The dough was thin, slightly crispy around the edges, the egg was tender, and the sauce Nico had added on top turned out to be moderately spicy and sweet at the same time.

— This is amazing, – he exhaled, — Seriously. I'm ready to eat this every day.

— Every day won't work out, – Nicholas smiled, but something warm flashed in his eyes, — But on Sundays — quite possible.

They ate in silence, but it was that very cozy silence that requires no words. The sun rose higher and higher, and the city outside the window gradually came alive — steps of passersby could be heard, a car drove past somewhere in the distance, bells of a nearby temple began to ring.

— You know, – Maki suddenly said, setting his cup aside, — I have to confess something.

Nicholas tensed — barely perceptibly, just in his shoulders — but remained silent, waiting for him to continue.

— I don't remember the last time I slept so peacefully, – Hirota looked him straight in the eyes, — Honestly. I usually have trouble sleeping — either thoughts are spinning, or I dream of work, or it's just insomnia. But today... I woke up and realized that for the first time in many months, I feel rested. Properly.

Yixiang looked away and stared into his cup for a long time. Then quietly, almost hesitantly, pronounced:

— Me too.

— What?

— I also slept better than usual. Much better, – he raised his eyes, and there was something in them that took Maki's breath away, — Actually, I didn't tell you, but I have trouble sleeping too. For a long time now. Years. I lie down and for an hour, two, three, I just lie there and think. About work, about money, about what I'm doing wrong, about what I could do better. And yesterday... – he paused, selecting words, — Yesterday I lay down, heard you breathing nearby, and just... passed out. As if my brain finally understood that it was okay to relax.

Maki felt warmth spreading inside — thick, viscous, almost tangible.

— It's strange, isn't it? – Nico continued, — We haven't known each other that long. And you've already become... I don't know. A quiet place. With you, I don't think about needing to be perfect. I don't think about how I look, what I say, whether I'm doing the right thing. I just... exist. And that's enough.

— For me, you are also a kind of place to take shelter, – Riki answered quietly, — Yesterday I arrived here squeezed like a lemon. Tired, irritated, empty. And today I'm sitting here, eating your crepes, and feeling like something inside has been restored. Something that was broken this whole week, month, year. I don't know how it works. But it works.

Nicholas said nothing. He simply reached his hand across the bar counter and covered Maki's fingers with his own — lightly, almost weightlessly, as yesterday evening. And that was enough.

After breakfast, they moved into the room with the equipment. It was time to replenish the wall with new shots. Ready-made files were already lying on the table — two frames from Shitennoji Temple and two from Kuromon Market. Four photographs that were supposed to take their places in the hallway.

— Shall we start? – Maki asked, turning on the printer.

— Let's start.

The printer hummed quietly, and after a few minutes, the first prints were already lying in the tray. Those very ones. The park. The temple. The carp pond and Nicholas's silhouette against the backdrop of golden water. Then — the pagoda steps, the purple sky, and Maki looking at the last ray of sun. Then — Kuromon Market, bustling and bright, and he, Hirota, with pink mochi in his fingers and a smile in which childish happiness splashed. And finally — Nico with green dango, standing by the stall and looking somewhere into the distance, as if seeing his sister there.

— Beautiful, – Nicholas said quietly, sorting through the prints, — Especially this one, – he held up the shot where Maki looked at the sky from the temple steps, — You're so... real here. Not for the camera. Not for a client. Just you.

— I was real, – Riki answered, — That's the whole point.

They moved into the hallway and began hanging up the shots. Three from Maki — from the temple, the market, and the night portrait of Nico, — and two from Yixiang. Each frame found its place on the left and right, gradually filling the space they had left.

Maki hung his photographs in silence, but inside him, a strange feeling was growing — a mix of determination and fear. Yesterday evening had changed something. The step he had taken by coming without warning was only the beginning. Now he had to go further. All the way.

He headed into the equipment room and took out a small box from his bag — a Polaroid camera with a cassette of photo paper already loaded. A real one, with which the image emerges right before your eyes. It cannot be edited, cannot be reshot, cannot be deleted. Only one frame. One moment. One truth.

— What's this? – Nicholas asked, noticing the box.

— This is my next step, – Maki said, and his voice sounded quiet, but confident, — May I tell a story first?

Yixiang nodded, frowning slightly, and sat down on a chair by the wall. Maki remained standing, turning the Polaroid in his hands.

— It's not a story directly from the past, – he began, — Rather, it's a story that is happening right now. But it happened to someone else. To an acquaintance of mine.

Nicholas tilted his head slightly toward his shoulder, but said nothing.

— This acquaintance is a photographer. A good, successful one, with a bunch of orders and projects. But inside, he was empty. He lived from shoot to shoot, from project to project, and thought that's how it should be. That success is happiness itself. And then he met another photographer. Completely by accident, in the rain. Dropped a camera. The stranger caught it at the last moment. And that was it — from that moment, something changed. At first, my acquaintance didn't understand what exactly. Thought it was just affection. Just an interesting person with whom it was pleasant to work. But they started meeting — under the pretext of shoots, under the pretext of a project, — and every meeting added something new. A new story. A new frame. A new layer.

He paused. Nicholas sat motionless, only the fingers of his hands resting on his knees quivered slightly.

— They started the “Hallway Wall” project. Photographs that told of the past. At first, it was scary — opening up to an almost unfamiliar person, showing him your scars, your fears, your darkest corners. But the more they told, the closer they became. And one day, my acquaintance realized that he no longer wanted to be alone. That the person with whom he shared this wall had become something much greater. Not just a colleague. Not just a friend. He became someone for whose sake you want to wake up in the morning. Someone with whom even silence is cozy. Someone whose breathing nearby helps you fall asleep.

Maki took a deep breath. His fingers gripping the Polaroid trembled from tension.

— My acquaintance was afraid to take a step for a long time. Afraid to scare him off. Afraid that his feelings would turn out unrequited. Afraid to destroy what was already built. But recently he realized: fear is no reason to stop. Fear is simply a sign that something important is happening. And now he decided to take a longer step so as not to lose his future. And a photo became the thread of connection.

With those words, Maki raised the Polaroid, aimed it at Nicholas, and pressed the shutter.

The camera clicked quietly. A white card slowly crawled out of the slot — still empty, milky, showing nothing. Maki laid it on the table without turning it over and looked at Yixiang.

Nicholas sat in the exact same pose, but now his eyes shone — wet, dangerous, almost on the brink. He looked now at Maki, now at the emerging shot, and, it seemed, still couldn't fully believe what he had just heard.

— Your acquaintance, – he pronounced somewhat raspily, — That's you, isn't it.

It wasn't a question. A statement.

— Yes, – Maki said simply, — That's me.

He picked up the emerged shot — a close-up portrait of Nicholas, taken against the backdrop of the wall with their shared photographs. The soft morning light fell on his face, his hair was still tousled after sleep, and an expression was frozen in his eyes that Riki wanted to preserve forever. Surprise. Hope. And something else — huge, warm, that was impossible to call by one word.

— Here, – Maki carefully, almost solemnly stuck the Polaroid shot to the wall — closer to the center, but still on his left side, — Now you're part of my life. Not just a project. Not just a wall. Life.

He turned to Nicholas and handed him the Polaroid camera. His hand trembled slightly, but his voice remained calm — a photographer accustomed to working even in the most nerve-wracking circumstances.

— This isn't just a confession, Nico. It's a question. I took my step. Now it's up to you to decide. If you feel the same as I do, take a shot in return. Hang it on your side. We'll meet in the center. If not... – he stumbled, but forced himself to finish speaking, — If not, just return the camera. I'll understand. And we'll remain who we were. I won't disappear and I won't turn away. I promise.

Wang looked silently at the Polaroid in his hands. His face was hard to read — a mixture of shock, disbelief, and something else, deep, hidden, that he perhaps hid even from himself. He raised the camera slowly, as if testing its weight, as if deciding whether he had the right to press the shutter. A second passed, another, a third. Riki held his breath. And then Yixiang raised the lens, aimed it at Hirota — standing by the wall, illuminated by the sun, with a dimple on his cheek that appeared from a timid, uncertain smile. A click.

The white card slowly crawled out of the slot, and Nicholas, without looking at it, lowered the camera onto the table. His hands were trembling — finely, barely perceptibly, but Maki saw this tremor because he was looking only at him. Not at the shot. Not at the wall. At him.

For a few seconds, Yixiang simply stood with his head lowered, as if gathering his strength. Then he raised his eyes, and Maki saw in them something he hadn't seen before. Not fear. Not doubt. But something resembling a door that had finally opened.

— You know, – Nicholas's voice sounded muffled, but there was no tremor in it, — When I received that letter from Li, I promised myself that I would never open up first to anyone again. That it was better to be alone than to hear “I'm not like that” again. I lived with that promise for almost ten years. And I was doing pretty well.

He paused, and his gaze fell on the wall — at the photographs hung on both sides, at the empty space in the center that was now filled by two Polaroid shots.

— And then you appeared. At first just a stranger. Then — a strange, overly generous, overly persistent person who offered an apartment and asked too many questions. I was afraid of you. Afraid of your help, your kindness, your smiles. I was looking for a catch. I almost found it — remember on the bridge?

Maki nodded barely perceptibly.

— But you destroyed everything. Destroyed my walls, my suspicions, my promises to myself. Not by force. Not by pressure. Just by being near. Telling stories. Listening to mine. Leaving space. And I... – he paused for a moment, and moisture glinted in his eyes, — I didn't notice how I stopped being afraid. How I began waiting for your messages. How I began making coffee for two even when you weren't supposed to come. How I began sleeping more peacefully, knowing you were somewhere nearby.

He picked up the emerged Polaroid shot — his portrait of Maki standing by the wall — and looked at it.

— When you told that story — about your acquaintance — at first I didn't believe it. Thought I was imagining things. Thought you were talking about someone else. Because I'm not used to being the one who gets chosen. The one for whose sake steps are taken. The one who matters. I was always the one who leaves. Or the one who gets left behind. And you... you just up and arrived yesterday. Without warning. Tired. And said I'm your anchor. That with me, you feel calm. And today — this story, this Polaroid... – his voice broke, and he squeezed the shot with his fingers, understanding its value, — I understood. Understood that you were talking about me. That all those words were about me. And I... don't know what to say. I don't have such a beautiful story. I only have me.

He raised his eyes to Maki, and there was no longer any fear or doubt in them. Only exposed, throbbing honesty.

— I took a step too. This shot is my “yes.” I don't want to be alone. I don't want to pretend that you're just a colleague or a friend to me. You're more. So much more.

Maki felt something snap inside — not painfully, but liberatingly, like a string stretched to its limit that was finally let go. He wanted to say something, but the words got stuck in his throat, and so he simply took a step forward.

Simultaneously with him, Nicholas stepped forward too.

They met in the middle — not in the center of the wall, but in the center of the room, — and Riki hugged him. Tightly, strongly, completely. His arms closed around Yixiang's back, and he felt him freeze for a fraction of a second, and then respond — just as tightly, just as desperately, burying his face somewhere in the crook of his neck.

They stood like that — two grown men in the middle of an equipment room, — and the world outside the window ceased to exist. There was no Osaka, no orders, no deadlines, no past grudges. Only warmth. Only breathing. Only two hearts beating in a single rhythm.

Maki buried his nose in Nicholas's hair — soft, slightly damp after a morning shower, smelling of his shampoo, his home, himself. He inhaled this scent slowly, deeply, trying to remember it forever. Not for a photograph. For himself. Wang, in turn, pressed his cheek against his shoulder, and Maki felt his breathing — hot, slightly uneven — penetrate through the fabric of the t-shirt and touch his skin.

— I feel safe, – Nicholas whispered somewhere into Maki's collarbone, and his voice sounded muffled, but very clear, — For the first time in a long while. Properly.

— Me too, – Riki answered without unlocking his embrace, — With you, I am home. Not in an apartment. Not in a city. But where you are.

They stood like that for a long time yet — a minute, two, five, — and time lost meaning. When they finally unlocked their embrace, they did so reluctantly, slowly, as if tearing away a part of themselves. But the distance that now separated them was tiny — just a few centimeters — and it was no longer frightening.

— Wait, – Nico said and walked over to the table. He took his Polaroid shot — the portrait of Maki, already fully emerged — and walked up to the wall. Carefully, with the same movements with which they hung their first photographs, he stuck it on his, right side. Now two Polaroids hung opposite each other — the portrait of Nicholas on the left and the portrait of Maki on the right — and between them, there was still a bit of free space left.

— We almost met in the center, – Yixiang said quietly.

— Almost, – Maki agreed, coming up and standing beside him, — But not completely. Which means we still have stories that we will live through together.

— That's how it will be, Riki.

They glanced at each other, and Maki suddenly realized that he was smiling — not with that restrained smile he gave to clients and partners, but with a real, broad one, with the dimple on his cheek that he usually hid. Right now, he didn't want to hide it.

The wall in the hallway was no longer just a wall. It had become a map of their journey — from the first accidental meeting in the rain to this very moment, when two people accustomed to hiding behind pseudonyms and lenses finally saw each other without masks. And somewhere in the center, between the left and right sides, there was still free space left. For the next stories. For the next shots. For everything that awaited them ahead.