The Lens and the Ribbon

a phantom warmth on Nataria’s tongue long after the last crumb was gone.

It was a dangerous, delicious feeling.

She sat at the table, the empty plate before her a silent testament to something she couldn’t name, listening to the others talk with a faint buzzing in her ears.

Stop smiling, she ordered herself, pressing her lips together.

But the corners refused to obey, twitching upward whenever her eyes drifted to the smudge of flour on Senri’s wrist.

He’d made them.

He’d bowed.

He’d apologized for a sin that wasn’t even his, simply because he’d seen her cry.

The world, which had felt so bleak and cold for so long, seemed suddenly, softly out of focus.

When the meal ended, she stood quickly, gathering plates. “I’ll clean,” she said.

“Oh, let me help…” Sachiko began, but Nataria shook her head.

“Please. I’d like to.”

It wasn’t just politeness.

It was a need for motion, for a simple, concrete task to anchor the strange buoyancy in her chest.

She retreated into the stainless-steel sanctuary of the kitchen.

The water was hot, the soap sudsy and clean.

She washed each dish meticulously, wiped every flour-dusted surface until it shone, her movements rhythmic, meditative.

As she hung the towel to dry, she surveyed the spotless room.

A ridiculous, profound pride bloomed within her. It was just dishes.

But it was order.

It was done.

And for the first time in what felt like years, a tiny, stubborn shoot of hope pushed through the frozen ground inside her.

Maybe not everything had to be hard. Maybe some things could just be… sweet.

The others had dispersed to their own pursuits.

Senri waited for her in the living room, bathed in the late morning sun.

He looked up as she entered, and that simple glance, his honey-gold eyes direct, sent a jolt through her system. The hopeful feeling tightened, became something more acute.

“We should figure this out,” she said, gesturing vaguely between them. “The photoshoot.”

“Right.”

He ran a hand through his hair.

“I’ve got a training session later. So we’re on the clock.”

Three days.

Then the challenge.

Then the weekend of judgment.

The thought was a cold trickle down her spine, usually enough to paralyze her.

But right now, with the sun warming the room and him watching her, the fear felt distant, manageable.

It was a problem for later. The problem now was him.

“The concept is balance,” she began, crossing to the large glass coffee table. “Light and shadow.”

She placed a small, geometric crystal vase from a side table in the center of the glass.

It caught the light, fracturing it.

“There. Pretend that is the camera lens. You’ll be the light. The focal point.”

Senri moved to stand where she indicated, but his posture was his usual easy slouch.

He shoved his hands in his pockets and offered the vase a casual grin.

“No,”

Nataria said, frustration cutting through her nerves.

“You need to be… brighter. More intentional. You’re not just Senri Amano right now. You’re Light.”

She mimed a frame with her hands.

“Think of reaching for something. Chin up. Shoulders back, but not stiff. It’s a… a yearning.”

He tried. He really did.

But his ‘yearning’ looked like he was trying to spot a bird in a tree.

His ‘intentional’ looked mildly constipated.

Nataria’s artistic vision, so clear in her head, was crumbling at the execution. Without thinking, she closed the distance between them.

“Here,”

she said, her voice hushed.

She reached out.

Her fingertips brushed his shoulder, and a spark of pure static shot up her arm.

She ignored it, applying gentle pressure to turn him.

“Angle your body slightly. Three-quarters to the… to the vase.”

Her hand slid from his shoulder to the center of his back, feeling the firm warmth of him through his shirt.

“Arch here, just a little. It creates a line.”

She was touching him.

She was so close.

The clean, soap-and-sun scent of him filled her senses, overwhelming the lemon of the cleaning products still on her skin.

Her thoughts scrambled, fleeing into nonsense.

His scapula is defined.

His hair is messy but soft-looking.

Why is he so warm?

I’m too close.

I can’t breathe.

She stepped around to his front, avoiding his gaze, and gently nudged his chin up with two fingers.

The contact against his skin was electric.

“Turn your head… look past the lens. At something only you can see.”

Finally, she dared to look up.

His golden eyes were already on her. Dancing with silent, unabashed amusement and something else.

A warm, focused curiosity that was entirely on her.

A small, lopsided smile played on his lips.

He’d been watching her fluster the whole time.

Nataria’s heart stumbled, a clumsy tripping beat against her ribs.

Heat flooded her cheeks.

She snatched her hands back as if burned, taking two hurried steps back to create a safe, sane distance.

“L-Like that,” she stammered, turning to the vase-camera to avoid his gaze.

“That’s the idea.”

She heard him shift behind her, his normal, relaxed posture returning.

“Okay, I think I get it,”

he said, his voice easy.

“I’m the light. What are you doing?”

Nataria took a steadying breath, forcing her professional facade back into place.

“I’ll be behind you. To your left, in the shadows. A silhouette, mostly. My role is to frame you, to deepen the contrast. To make your light… brighter by comparison.”

“Why?”

He asked genuinely.

“It’s about balance,” she explained, turning back.

He was leaning against the sofa now, arms crossed, still watching her.

“Chemistry needs balance and contrast. Pure light is blinding. Pure shadow is empty. But together…”

She trailed off, gesturing with her hands, trying to sculpt the idea in the air.

“Together, it’s interesting,” he finished for her, nodding slowly.

Then his eyes swept over her, from her violet hair down to her black ballet flats.

“Do you just… like black?”

The question was innocently blunt. Nataria looked down at her long-sleeved black dress, the uniform of her exile.

“These were prepared for me,” she said quietly.

“By a stylist for the show. The wardrobe. It’s… mostly this.”

“Huh,” he said.

He pushed off the sofa and took a single step toward her.

His gaze was fixed on the splash of color in her hair.

“Except this.”

His hand came up.

Time slowed, thickened like honey. Nataria froze, every muscle locking. She watched, mesmerized and terrified, as his fingers gently, so gently, brushed the pink silk of her ribbon barrette.

It was the briefest contact, a whisper against her hair, but it felt like a brand.

He seemed to realize the intimacy of the gesture a second later. His hand dropped, and his easy confidence flickered.

“Sorry. Was that weird?”

Nataria’s voice was trapped somewhere beneath her pounding heart.

She managed a tiny shake of her head.

“It’s fine.”

The words were airless.

“We should… focus on the shoot.”

He nodded, a relieved exhale leaving him.

“Right. Yeah.”

But the ghost of his touch on the ribbon stayed with her, a tiny, persistent point of heat for the rest of their planning session, and long after.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

The day of the photoshoot arrived with a thin, brittle layer of anxiety.

The first episodes of the show had aired.

The internet was a roaring beast that Nataria dared only glance at.

#OffStage trended daily.

A fierce, friendly rivalry had exploded between Senri’s and Shou’s fanbases, each trying to out-support the other. Nataria was profoundly grateful for it; their noise was a shield.

Momo’s cheerful, cryptic daily blogs had made her a fan favorite, a relatable anchor in the show’s dramatic sea.

Nataria’s own social media was a quiet, untouched grave.

A few hateful comments, a handful of bewildered supporters lost in the algorithm.

The silence there was both a relief and a confirmation.

°❀°❀°❀°❀

"Alright, everyone! Gather up!"

Aoyama, the producer assistant, was waving them toward what had been designated as the photoshoot space, a massive room transformed into a professional studio.

Different backdrop options, lighting rigs, equipment that looked expensive and complicated.

Nataria followed with the others.

It was going to work perfectly, she told herself.

"So today's the day for the challenge; the couples' photoshoot,"

Aoyama explained with barely suppressed excitement.

"We've brought in someone very special for this. He's one of the most sought-after fashion photographers in Japan, known for shooting campaigns for every major brand you can think of. Please welcome Takumi Yoshida-sensei!"

Nataria's eyes widened.

Him?

A man swept into the room like he owned not just the space but the entire concept of photography itself.

Late thirties, dressed entirely in red, red turtleneck, red slacks, red-rimmed glasses.

His hair was long and styled with care. Everything about him screamed artistic genius who knows it and will make it everyone else's problem.

"I am Takumi Yoshida," he announced, as if they might have somehow missed the introduction.

His gaze swept over the group and immediately, visibly, lit up when it landed on the girls.

"Ah! MAGNIFICENT! Better than the pictures in your files!"

He actually pressed a hand to his chest.

"Such beauty! Such grace!"

He moved toward them with an intensity that made everyone take an involuntary step back.

"Tamaki-san, those eyes! Miyata-san, that smile! And Hidomu-san…"

He stopped directly in front of her and just stared for a long moment.

Nataria felt her mask slide into place automatically. Neutral. Ready for whatever came next.

"Perfection," Yoshida breathed.

"Absolute perfection, just like I remembered."

Then his eyes shifted to the boys standing beside their respective partners.

His expression curdled like milk left in the sun.

"And... men."

He said it the way someone might say cockroaches.

"Of course. There are always men."

He looked at Senri, Hibiki, and Shou with open disgust, his lip actually curling.

"Why must beauty always be contaminated by masculine energy?"

Senri blinked. "Wha…"

"Please don't speak. You'll ruin the aesthetic I'm trying to maintain."

Yoshida had already turned back to the girls, his entire demeanor transforming.

"Now! My lovely muses! Let me set up the most beautiful shots for you…"

Beside Senri, Hibiki made a sound like a dying animal.

Nataria felt her lips twitch. She couldn't help it.

She knew exactly what was coming, and watching Hibiki suffer through it again was going to be deeply, privately entertaining.

I'm a terrible person, she thought, but the amusement didn't fade.

Senri glanced at Hibiki. "What was that?"

"Nothing." Hibiki's voice was resigned.

"You'll find out soon enough."

Nataria drifted closer.

"Hibiki and I worked with Yoshida-sensei before,"

she said, her voice light with shared memory.

"On a drama promotional shoot."

Hibiki gave her a look of mock betrayal.

"Don't remind me."

"He couldn't do anything right, apparently,"

Nataria continued, enjoying the familiar rhythm of their banter.

"The entire session."

It was an old joke between them, a relic of long rehearsals and shared exasperation.

Sachiko's eyes narrowed toward the door where Yoshida had disappeared to set up equipment.

"Wait. Weren't you a teen model, Shimizu-san?"

"Briefly."

Hibiki sighed dramatically, playing it up for their small audience.

"Maybe he was just having a bad day last time,"

Shou offered, looking thoroughly entertained.

"Just wait,"

Hibiki said darkly.

"You'll be having a bad day today too."

Nataria caught Senri watching her oddly, and she realized with a start that her mask had slipped.

She was smiling, joking with Hibiki like they used to do all the time.

Stop it, she told herself. Get it together.

But the easy camaraderie, the familiar dynamic, made it hard to care.

"What did he do?"

Senri asked her, his voice warm with curiosity.

"Nothing,"

Nataria said, and her amusement was obvious now.

"Yoshida-sensei just hated Hibiki's eyebrows."

Everyone immediately turned to stare at Hibiki's face.

His eyebrows were dark, very straight, distinctly masculine. Under the sudden scrutiny, they twitched slightly.

"They look normal to me," Senri said, genuinely confused.

"They're perfect," Sachiko declared with surprising vehemence.

The words hung in the air.

Nataria watched Senri grin at Sachiko's fierce declaration. Watched Hibiki look genuinely startled, like he'd only just realized Sachiko had strong opinions about his face.

Then he seemed to catch movement in his peripheral vision and turned to find Nataria barely hiding her smile.

Their eyes met.

For just a second, it was like before. Like those late nights running lines together, sharing dry observations about their terrible director, existing in that easy space of mutual understanding.

Hibiki's expression said I see you laughing at me, and Nataria's slight smile said absolutely I am.

"TAMAKI-SAN! SHIMIZU-SAN!" Yoshida's voice rang out from the shooting area. "You're first! Come, come!"