A/N: Wow...two SA fics in two days...and here I thought I wouldn't have inspiration for one...thank you to all the reviewers of my last story!! If not for you, this story probably wouldn't exist.

Disclaimer: I do not own Ilse, Moritz or Heinrich (Heinrich was a character in the original Spring Awakening play. Found that out today.)

Ilse sat still for the artist who sat before her. As hard as she tried to suppress it, she began to tremble furiously on her stool. It was a week ago today. A week since she's seen Moritz...and a week since the last time she'd ever see him.

The artist took his eyes off the half painted canvas and glared over in Ilse's direction. "Sit still. I can't paint you if you're moving."

The artist's name was Heinrich. The same Heinrich who, the same day she had last seen Moritz, had put a gun to her breast and threatened to kill her. She honestly wasn't sure why she continued to work for him. More so, she wasn't sure why she pretended to love him.

"Sorry. I'm sorry." Ilse answered quietly before reluctantly posing again. Heinrich gave her a look of concern—something she rarely saw from the man—and quickly returned to his canvas.

No. He was no Moritz. When Ilse had seen Moritz there that day, she felt an unfamiliar feeling. Maybe fear or joy or...perhaps love. She hadn't seen Moritz in years, since they were both at most eleven years old. He had grown up, but she still recognized those features. It was hard to forget those eyes. The hair, too. He had had the same unusual haircut since he was a boy. And those socks. He always borrowed socks from his father and they were always too big. Ilse used to laugh at how, in mid-sentence, he would bend down and yank up his socks. After a few minutes, he'd peek down and see the socks back down at his ankles.

"Why don't you just buy socks that fit?" Wendla Bergmann once asked.

"Because," Moritz answered. "I feel like if I wear my father's socks, I can grow up to be like him. I can be just as strong and serious as he is. Brave, too. I don't know a more courageous man." When he finished, his cheeks were a red hue. He has embarrassed himself.

The socks never did fit. Ilse was thankful for this. Moritz is—was—a better man than his father.

Ilse felt tears burning at her eyes. If Heinrich were to notice, he'd surely make another move. Punch her, kick her, grab his switchblade...maybe even find his gun again.

As fast as she could and without making any sound, she dashed from the artist's studio. While running, she wasn't sure where she was going. Only when she stopped did she realize she knew the path all along.

She looked down and gasped. There was Moritz's grave at her feet.

She slowly bent down and grazed the new plot with her fingertips. Tears fell and moistened the ground below. Was she actually crying? She hadn't noticed.

"I was selfish, Moritz." She told him. She choked back her sobs and continued. "I saw you there that day and prayed that you would save me. From my bad choices, from Heinrich...from myself. Little did I know that it was you who needed the saving."

She closed her eyes and pounded the earth beneath her. "God, why didn't I see it? Why couldn't I have paid attention to you instead of my own pain? You needed me...and I ran."

A shiver ran through her spine. It was colder outside than she had first thought. Part of her wanted to escape the cold while another part wanted to succumb to it and join Moritz. She owed it to him.

Why did I run?

"Ilse?"

She turned to see Heinrich standing there.

"Come on. Let's go home. I don't have to paint you today. You can rest."

Ilse looked back at Moritz's grave and nodded. Moritz wouldn't have wanted her to follow him.

She pushed herself off the ground and grabbed Heinrich's hand. Her eyes never left the burial plot and she found herself pretending that Heinrich's hand was actually Moritz's. She'd walk home with him and he'd keep her safe. Though she had failed at the same task, she knew that Moritz would save her.

She wouldn't run from him this time.

She owed that to him.