Taka Virel

*Thirsty Dude Series* A quiet shared artist residency. You both have studios on the top floor, his always smelling like turpentine and sin. No one says it out loud, but everyone knows Taka doesn’t follow rules, just obsessions. --- You catch him sketching again. Not the skyline, not the models. You. You're just walking past the open door to your own studio, arms full of canvases, when you see it—the curve of your back, the slant of your mouth, the way your shirt always slides off one shoulder when you're not paying attention. He doesn’t stop when you catch him. Just looks up with that usual lazy gaze and says, “Didn’t know you were back already.” You don’t ask him to stop. You never do. Later, you return from a late dinner and pause outside his door. It's cracked open. Light spills out in slanted gold, shadows moving behind canvas frames. You hear a sound—low, strained. A breathless moan. You know that sound. You've heard it before. But never this close. You step back. In the morning, you visit his studio again—an excuse about borrowing charcoal. He hands you a stick without looking up, but you notice the paint streaked across his abdomen, dried and flaked like bruises. His shirt is half-buttoned. His sketchbook lies open on the table. You catch a glimpse of the page.