Chapter 01 MILOS
“Why do I need to do this again?“
I ask, shoving my cold fingers deeper into the pockets of my leather jacket as I trail after my sister across the wharf. “It’s cold. I’m hungry, and I was just in a flow for that commission piece for the new club in the Red Light District. I kinda need to finish it.”
“Oh please,“
Nika replies, giving my arm a firm tug to make me move faster over the cobblestones dusted with a fine layer of snow which crunches softly under our feet. “Don’t pretend you’re some starving creative when we both know you’re currently Amsterdam’s most wanted and most emotionally unavailable neon boy.”
I roll my eyes at her and flinch as fresh snow slaps cold against my face, suddenly coming down harder. At least her hands have a horrible pair of faux-leather gloves trimmed with pink leopard-print fur on them. Since she’s the one who signed me up for this and remembered the actual date and time I needed to be there, my big sister at least had the decency to dress for the outside world, which somehow turned into a winter wonderland in the few hours I was lost in my work.
I’d barely grabbed my jacket and pulled the hood of my sweater over my mess of hair before she dragged me out of my studio. My very warm studio-slash-apartment, still holding the heat from bent glass and humming transformers.
“Shut up. I don’t need to get back to work,“
I mutter. “But it’s mid-December. It’s snowing like crazy. We’re right next to the water and I’m freezing my fucking ass off. Don’t you think they canceled the whole thing because of the snow and you just made me leave the warmth for nothing?”
“First of all,“
she says, holding up a leopard-printed finger, “you live next to the water so you’re used to it. Stop complaining. Besides, the ferries are still operating from central station to the NDSM wharf. See?”
She waves at the little boats for pedestrians dotting the River IJ that cuts the north side of Amsterdam off from the rest of the city before pointing two fingers in my face.
“Second, snow in Amsterdam is basically a limited-edition event. You don’t cancel art because it’s aesthetically inconvenient. You’re an artist yourself. Appreciate this.“
She smiles and lifts her face toward the sky like she personally ordered the weather, a stray snowflake catching on her long lashes. “I think she’ll appreciate it as well. It’s still light out and it’s beautiful. She’d be an idiot not to shoot in this. It’s a gift.”
I consider, briefly, to flick her right on her small, straight nose. Even though she looks all cute and innocent with her big hazel eyes and bow-shaped lips, I know she’s a conniving harpy underneath all that disciplinary ballet posture and the stupid fur hat that matches her gloves.
“A gift my ass. My very cold ass,“
I mutter when we veer off the water’s edge and the big industrial building looms up ahead. It’s all raw concrete and steel, its sides swallowed by graffiti and oversized murals. Rusted beams, welded sculptures, old shipping containers turned into studios and cute little diners.
NDSM in all its chaotic glory.
I love it usually—this side of the river, and these former ports-turned artist quarters, where everything is a little rough and unapologetically alive—but the dread settles low in my stomach anyway, heavy and familiar, as we get closer. About what I’m going to do. About being seen. About putting myself out there. About lining myself up for failure. Again.
“Can’t we just grab lunch somewhere and cancel this stupid thing?”
“And leave your date hanging?“
Nika shoots back without slowing down. “I know you get lost into your own world most of the time, but I know you’re not that inconsiderate.”
She’s right. I’m not. And I did consent to it myself, to this sort-of date, even if my pushy sister practically held the pen while I signed up. I sigh as she darts in front of me on her silver glittered Uggs, arms wide, snow falling around her, like she’s presenting the entire wharf for my personal inspection.
“And we’re doing this for you, not me,“
she adds. “Be glad I’m coming with you. You need to leave that damn building at some point. There’s more to life than neon tubes and transformers.”
“With ‘more to life,’“
I start, deadpan as we close in on the big double doors, “you mean standing in front of a camera while having a blind date and being the center of attention?”
Nika doesn’t even look at me this time. She just reaches for the heavy metal door and smirks.
“Funny,“
she says. “That’s exactly what you achieve every time you switch the lights on from one of your little projects. Your work and by extension, you, become the center of attention.”
Then she pushes, effectively shutting me up.
The door groans as it swings open, warm air spilling out to meet us, thick with the smell of coffee, damp clothes, and something electrical humming just under the surface. Heat sinks into my hands, my face, my chest, so suddenly it almost makes me dizzy. The cold peels off me in layers as we step inside, snow melting instantly off my boots onto the concrete floor.
I exhale without meaning to. Whatever this turns out to be—a fluke, like all the times I tried to date before, or a rare success—at least it’s warm in here.
Another plus: there’s the most amazing coffee corner tucked inside, selling dangerously strong espresso and carrot cake I’d kill for. Since I desperately need something warm in my hands, I send my sister ahead to fetch me something to eat and drink.
She shrugs off her metallic blue puffer jacket and shoves it into my chest, revealing a matching jogger-and-sweater set in a horrible flower pattern that completely drowns her petite frame, like she got dressed in the dark and committed to it out of spite even though it’s not the most flattering combination.
“Try not to disappear on me while I’m gone,“
she says before doing a pirouette and practically floating away in a blur of flowers and glitter. Yes, an actual pirouette on top of her Uggs. She’s a ballet dancer, after all.
Really. My fashion sense isn’t exactly superior, but still.
I watch her bounce off between the pop-up stores, artsy studios, and makeshift buildings that define this place—some temporary, all creative, most unapologetically unfinished—before drifting to the right, toward the space I’m pretty sure was rented for the shoot.
Yes. A fucking shoot.
Nika made me sign up for a Stranger Session since, apparently, you’re a lonely, broody idiot who needs to get out more. And laid. Have I said laid?
She’s right. Maybe. About the lonely part, at least. I probably need to get out more. I just don’t really get why she thinks I need something like this. This’ll never work. Not for me, at least. Messing around on Grindr would probably get me results faster than hoping it clicks with some rando—which it never really did before. Not fully.
At least I get to pick the guy myself, right? And I know what I’ll get out of it in the end, instead of… well, this.
The concept’s simple enough: two strangers paired up and photographed together without context or backstory. No performance, no posing—just proximity, light, and whatever happens in the moment.
Probably hoping that something happens in the moment that’s worth taking pictures of.
I called the photographer beforehand. She seemed nice enough. Professional. Calm. And I appreciate art in all its forms. I just prefer being behind it. Holding the tools. Staying safe on my side of the glass and the glow.
Not standing in the middle of it.
Not being the subject of someone else’s idea.
But shit—it’s not like anything else in my twenty-six years has ever worked out spectacularly. At least dating-wise. Sure, I’ve had relationships, if they could even be called that. I've dated. Sort of. The real problem is that I disappear. In my head. In my work. In whatever I’m building at the time. I forget simple things, like eating or calling someone back right away. And people just… don’t like that.
Nika says I just haven’t found one of my people yet. The people that get me, like how she gets me. And maybe she’s right. Even though I’m a romantic at heart, I kind of quit dating altogether and rely on that magical app whenever I really need to get my rocks off. No expectations. No hassle.
No complaints when I spend all night in my studio because inspiration hits and I’m too tired the next day to meet up.
But yeah. Maybe I just need to see this as a reboot. A way to get back out there, get out of my lonely apartment and see what happens. It’s a start, at least.
When I reach the building within this building—a stack of shipping containers turned into rentable art studios—a glass door swings open. A woman steps out as she spots me approaching, and I recognize her immediately from our video call.
The photographer. Sadie.
She smiles wide, her long caramel-colored hair pulled into a loose braid that slips over one shoulder as she closes the distance and pulls me into a quick hug. I return it with a soft chuckle; her enthusiasm is contagious.
“Milos! I’m so happy to finally meet you,“
she says as she lets me go. She actually pronounces my name correctly; Mee-loss. “I’m impressed you found your way here through this snowstorm.”
“I live close by,“
I shrug. “Hard to get lost when you can see the place from your window.”
“Oh, really?“
Sadie grins. “I’m low-key jealous. This part of the city is absolutely incredible. I’ve been to a lot of places, but this—“
she gestures vaguely around us, “—this whole artist corner feels special. And with the snow? It’s even better.”
She tips her head back, her brown eyes following the roof lights overhead. They’re long panes of glass set into steel, now blurred white as snow piles on top, muting the daylight until the whole space feels hushed and dim. Then her gaze drops back to me, her smile softening into a small, thoughtful frown.
I recognize that look.
It’s the same way I look at my work.
“Gosh,“
Sadie says suddenly, eyes lighting up as she really looks at me. “Those cheekbones. And that eye color—would you mind if I took a few solo portraits after the shoot? You have an exquisite bone structure. Have you ever modeled before?”
I scoff and rub the back of my neck. “Uh, sure? And no. I’m pretty sure I’m too short to be a model.“
I mean, I’m a solid 5’10, thank you very much, which is perfectly normal—or it would be anywhere else. But here, in the Netherlands? The country of giants? Yeah. I feel like a compact edition most of the time.
She waves the comment away like it’s irrelevant and grabs my leather-clad arm, already steering me toward the container. “You don’t have to be tall for portraits. That’s a runway thing. Faces are different.“
She glances over her shoulder. “I’ll need you to head through to the back right away.”
Her voice drops as we move through the main space cluttered with light stands, cables, reflectors, and half-assembled backdrops. A couple of assistants hover near the edges. One of them stands partially hidden behind a tall stack of crates, adjusting something out of sight, and I only catch his hands. Heavily inked like mine. Dark letters crawl over his knuckles as he tightens a clamp, sleeves pushed up just enough to expose more art.
“The other participant hasn’t shown up yet,“
Sadie continues quietly and I snap my attention back to her. “I’m hoping they still will—I haven’t heard from him—but you can’t see each other beforehand.“
She flashes a quick smile. “Ruins the magic.”
I shrug out of my jacket as she ushers me inside a small dressing room where I hang it and Nika’s coat over the back of a chair. My hoodie, black jeans, and biker boots pass Sadie’s inspection without comment. I hadn’t really thought about what to wear and figured it was best to just be myself.
Whatever being myself means, anyway. This is just comfortable and I like it.
But when I pull the hoodie off to reveal my simple dark-gray t-shirt, her gaze catches on my arms.
“Oh,“
she breathes. “That’s beautiful.”
Both my arms have ink. My left has my arm’s bone structure in fine lines, broken up with white accents and overgrown with flowers so brightly colored they almost glow. A friend of mine went wild with the palette when I asked her to make it as neon as she possibly could. My right arm is darker, more restrained: geometric lines layered with constellations and fractured light shapes, precise and deliberate, like a blueprint that never quite explains itself.
Sadie doesn’t touch them. She just looks.
And somehow, that feels more intimate.
I keep still, and when the door opens, my annoying sister pops her head in with a big smile and the much-needed coffee and snacks. Sadie quickly makes introductions before her phone rings. She frowns at the screen, apologizes, and excuses herself almost immediately.
“Stay right here, okay? Make yourself comfortable. There’s a blindfold right there on the table. When I come back, we’ll get started.”
We already went over the specifics on the phone, so I just nod before she slips out. The second the door closes, I take a seat in the lone chair and greedily inhale half the coffee in one scorching gulp, the caffeine a welcome kick to my frozen system.
“So,“
Nika asks after demolishing half her poppy seed muffin and immediately picking the rest apart—something she always does. “You nervous? You got this, you know. Sometimes you have to get out of your comfy bubble and take a little leap, Milos. It’s good for you.”
Take a little leap, Milos… I smile at her, knowing she’s right. “Yes? A bit? But I shouldn’t be. Nervous, I mean… it’s just standing next to some stranger, right? Not exactly life-changing.”
“It could be? Maybe he’s really handsome and you’ll be doing the horizontal tango in no time,“
she says cheerfully. “Those sheets of yours could use the exercise.”
I glare at her and lob a balled-up napkin her way. She swats it aside, cackling from where she sits cross-legged on the table. “Don’t be gross. You’re my sister.”
“And your closest friend.”
True. She’s all I have. I’d follow her anywhere. Back in Prague, I was just establishing myself as an artist, while she was dancing with the National Theatre Ballet. She’s good, disciplined, but was never quite landing a principal role. Then the offer came from The National Ballet in Amsterdam five years ago, and I went after her without thinking. Left our friends behind. Left whatever family we had left, too, after we got away from our parents and their particular brand of criminal chaos.
So yes, for all intents and purposes, she’s not just my only family. She’s my best friend.
Still…
“It’s weird to talk about sex with your relatives.”
“Weird why?“
she asks innocently. “I’m perfectly happy to tell you I spent the night with that banker who sent me flowers on opening night last week. He was very pleased with how flexible a professional ballerina can be.”
“Oh Christ,“
I groan. “Please stop.”
She grins, unrepentant. “I’m just saying, stretching has benefits…”
I glare at her as I reach for the blindfold. Not having to see her smug expression might help to tune her out, tune this weird nervous anticipation out as well.
“…when you find yourself in bed with a tall, rogue guy with muscles for miles,“
she finishes smugly, then winks at me. “Maybe you’ll get lucky today as well.”
Yeah. Knowing my track record when it comes to dating, that’ll never happen.