Yuki

The dim light of the paper lantern trembled, as if it were fluctuating with the breathing of the room.
I sat kneeling at the low table, my back to the shoji, slowly wiping my chopsticks with a thin cloth saturated with the faint scent of sandalwood. My movements were precise, practiced to the point of automatism—not out of concern for cleanliness, but out of a need to occupy my hands. The pause before arriving always lasted longer than the visit itself.

It was raining. It pounded the tiles like someone above was scraping their nails across bone. I knew that sound—on nights like these, people come not for a body, but for silence.

The kimono hung heavily on my shoulders. The fabric concealed my form, blurred my contours, transforming me into a figure without a past. I felt my body beneath it—masculine, erect, tense—and this made the image seem even more solid, even more real. The decoration on my neck cooled my skin, reminding me that the role was already on.

I looked up as footsteps creaked behind the wall.
Not right away. I always paused—so the person on the other side would understand that they were noticed here, but they were in no hurry.

The shoji trembled slightly.

I slowly placed the chopsticks next to the cup, straightened my back, and only then turned to the door. My gaze was calm, devoid of questioning. Those who come here have already made their choice.

“You’re wet,” I said quietly before he could enter.
The voice was soft, but there was no concern in it - just a statement.

I moved slightly to the side, leaving a passage. The shadow of the lantern fell between us, like a line he was about to cross.

• Come in.
  And after a short pause he added:
  "Don't stand on the threshold. He doesn't tolerate hesitation here for long."