Chapter Two

Just as promised, Peeta sent me some address of a studio he knows. It's called "Odair's" and it would take me around forty minutes to get there by train. What a joke! I told this guy I don't have any money to spend and a one way ticket would cost me ten bucks! I don't earn much at Crane's and spending sixty bucks on train tickets is so... unreasonable!

But okay, don't look a gift horse in the mouth.

My shift at Crane's starts at four in the afternoon, and I get a free afternoon on exam days so, luckily, I can work way longer to earn some money for my tickets (It still sucks as hell!).

Work is even worse than usual today. Clove, the other waitress, is just a bitch and keeps on ranting about me, because I refuse to clothe myself like a slut (like her, get it?). The tips go into a shared pot and she claims that I'm holding the others back. I don't care. I'm not a coozie and I have dignity. People like Clove and Peeta may be alright to sell their bodies, I however, am not.

I never tell her so, since I hate to talk to her. I just try to keep myself out of her sight.

Oh yeah, and I manage to get a guilty feeling throughout the evening because I've just thrown Peeta into the same pot as Clove. I'm really sorry, Peeta. I know you are a good guy. Not like her.

The guilt does not vanish, though. Maybe I should bring him something tomorrow?

Tomorrow.

Ohhh, tomorrow will be so awkward. And this feeling gets worse when I remember what I'd told him before. I won't leave you hanging? Is it alright to say something like this to a nude model? I hope so. Or am I eccentric that I find it strange and suggestive? Am I thinking about it too hard?

Don't think about hanging and hard, Katniss! You're like a teenager.

I shake my head to hopefully block out those thoughts. My break's over, anyway.

I groan inwardly, the later the evening the worse it gets; more than four old guys grab my butt and the only thing I can do is clenching my teeth and walk away as fast as I can. Tips, after all.

Mother of hell, I should kick their asses to keep and protect my pride. The feeling of not being able to do anything against it nearly kills me. Today is particularly bad, so I focus all my thoughts on the only thing in this world for what's worth fighting for: Prim. It works, thankfully.

She should have a better life. (Not mine, not the ass-grabbing one.)

I get home around one in the morning and I feel horrible. Actually, I think I'm going to get sick. I can only hope that it passes. I can't possibly stand Peeta up, after all he's worked out for me.

Fortunately, when I wake up the next morning, I seem to be fine again. My throat is sore, but that's normal. Crane's one of the last bars the people still are allowed to smoke in, and the smoke affects my voice and throat greatly, especially when it gets colder. I merely rinse and call it good; at least I'm feeling well, albeit nervous. Very nervous. Why am I nervous, might one ask?

In less than two hours I'll be meeting this guy who's going to strip in front of me and I will have to paint everything. I mean everything. It's not helping that he looks like a fucking Adonis look-alike. I hope he doesn't look at me during because I'll surely be staring like a curious virgin.

Oh, I'll so be checking him out.

But I'll try not to.

I catch my train on time, but only after preparing Prim a good breakfast and something for lunch. I probably won't be home on time after my session with Peeta. I think "Odair's" not very close to the train station Zug, where I need to get out. He promised to get me at the station by car, because the way was quite long and a little bit complicated for people who didn't know the town. I told him that he didn't need to do that – I can take care of myself and I'm sure I'd be fine by taking the bus, but yeah, here he is. He apparently drives a black Seat Leon, a kind of car that somehow fits him well. He stops on the closest car park without cutting the engine.

"You need a ride?" Peeta grins and waves me over through an open window. He doesn't appear to be full of himself, like many others would in this situation; instead he's smiling genuinely and talks to me in a very friendly manner. His clothes (he won't be wearing them very long, though) suggest that he's got a pretty cool style, that makes him look better actually; enticing even.

And confident, oh so confident.

"Ummm… yeah. Thanks for picking me up. I'm not late, am I?" I ask nervously when I get to the car. He had leaned over and opened the door for me from the inside, and pushed it out.

"You're very welcome," he says, straightening again as I sit. "And no, you're perfectly on time. Besides, you were here before me, remember?" Peeta chuckles, running his fingers through his hair and mussing the golden locks. Careless – so much more than when we last met, at least.

I flush hard because he's totally right (stupid girl, use your brain!) and even more so because he's a real eye-catcher. Could this guy become even more appealing? Stop stroking that hair of yours!

"Yes. Yes, you're right!" I laugh, flustered as close the door. It takes me more than three times to buckle my seatbelt, realizing that my hands shake furiously. I feel Peeta's eyes on me, but he doesn't say anything. He steers out of the parking lot and soon he speeds through the town.

We don't talk much for he seems to be occupied with the heavy traffic.

I don't feel like talking anyway.

The weather's not that good today. It's cloudy and the breeze had been cold in the morning. But now the sky starts to clear up a little and the later morning light finally comes through. Soft rays of sunshine fall through the windshield onto his hands on the steering wheel; where his glistening silver ring draws in my attention. Relief spreads through me at the sight of it.

I'm seriously happy that he's taken. I'd be unable to concentrate on anything, especially painting, if he wasn't. My eyes shift away from the ring that protects him as it protects me from any approach. That's the thing with rings. It reminds me of that one Scrubs episode where J.D. realizes that all the women wearing wedding rings are completely invisible to him.

If only. I do notice Peeta.

There's no way he would be invisible to me and the ring does not make him ugly. The ring on his finger changes everything though, because I know he's off limits. I just know better somehow to keep clear. I can't be attracted to him, so I will myself to keep my head straight and clear.

"Welcome, welcome," Peeta says as he leads me into the studio, embellishing the entrance while still remaining subdue. "It's my friend's personal studio. He's letting us use it for the time being."

I slide my bag off my shoulder and get rid of my shoes before entering. The studio's quite small, but the windows are big and provides the room with bright, warm light. The best thing is the location, though. We're on the fifth floor which is high enough to tower over the other adjoining buildings. Peeta could walk around here however he wanted, naked or not. No one (except for me, of course!) would be able to watch him here. "It's great," I tell him, honestly.

He'd prepared everything; easel, canvas, brushes and even some paints. Not that I haven't brought some with me, too. He probably just likes it to be prepared? When he sees that I got everything I need, he puts everything but the easel away. "Will you be okay like this?" he asks.

I nod with a shy smile. "Yeah. Thanks."

"Good," he replies and turns around. After only two steps, he remembers to ask me another question. He turns back. "Oh yeah, before we start, would you mind giving me your phone?"

I blink at him, as I set my bag on the floor. "You want my phone? Why?"

"Well, it happens that people secretly take photos of their models and I'd like to prevent that."

"But I would never do something like that!" I retort with a frown.

"I'm not accusing you. It's just for my own safety. I'm sure you understand."

Grudgingly, I nod. If I were a model I would be asking for it, too.

(But honestly, I don't like to let go of my belongings. I just have too few.)

I take my bag again and after some searching, I get my phone out. My old – very old – Nokia. I show it to him and feel my cheeks flush. It's battered and looks like it's been ran over by a car several times. "It can't take pictures with this," I admit, mumbling really, and turn it in my hands to show him its backside. No camera. It's an old, crappy Nokia 3410. "So, there's no worry."

"Oh, it's a quite old model you got there," he remarks but he seems to be ?! Is he joking? He's not. "I had the same one, around... wait, ten years ago? God, I feel old." He flashes me a bright smile. "It's classy, almost iconic. I like that one."

He's definitely joking, now.

I decide to play it off.

"Y-yeah right? I kind of lost my other one so I'm using it again. Back to the roots." He laughs and tells me that I could keep it with me, since there's no chance anyone could take a photo with it.

And I'm seriously glad about that.

"Okay, now that all questions have been dealt with," he meets my glance to check if I got some questions up my sleeve, and I shrug to tell him I have none, so he continues, "we can start now."

"Yeah," I mumble and we both grow silent. "Okay."

I know that he's now trying to distance himself by his facial expression. I'm no stranger to him anymore so it might be difficult for him, too. Stripping, I mean. After all, he said he never even talks to the artists. Let alone knows their names. I want to apologize for that, but don't know how.

He moves out of the room and I'm pretty sure that he's getting his bathrobe.

This is it.

What if he doesn't wear his bathrobe? Will he be coming out of there naked?

I try to concentrate on my paints, preparing my color palette and filling water (to clean the brushes) into my glass. Can I really do this? Really, really? I mean, we covered the 'I'm not the best painter' bit. I look around; there's a mattress leaning on the wall. Will he be laying on it? Will he be standing? I also discover a replica of a Greek amphora in a corner and I wonder if I'm supposed to paint the surroundings, too. I'm not really keen on painting it, plus him. It won't be the same, will it? To the other's paintings from class? Everything seems to double in complexity.

I nervously gulp down some water from my just filled glass and move my set up in front of the window, so I have the light at my back. "Don't you want anything else to drink?" Peeta asks amusedly. I almost choke in surprise. "Aren't artists supposed to put their brushes in there?"

Peeta had emerged from the other room and now he stands in front me, standing in nothing but his bathrobe… I immediately push the glass away. "S-sorry!" I try to say, but I yelp more like.

I'm sure I looked like someone who'd drink out of a horse's feeder! Oh, I feel so sappy right now. My cheeks are flaming and my hands shake even worse than before. There he stands, though still wearing clothes, I'm already freaking out. First about his nakedness, then the actuality of this entire situation – is it for nothing? How will I smuggle it in? What if I blotch the entire thing? Then I'd just be painting him in the nude for nothing. He, however, seems to be really calm as he holds out his hand and makes a "wait a sec" gesture and walks out of the room again.

Obviously he has faith in me to get this done.

So why am I freaking out so much? Why won't my hands damn well work properly?

I think about it and it hits me. It's because I'm alone. We're alone. There might be no problem at all painting him in class, being one girl out of many, plus the males of the class. It wouldn't be so bad if everyone was looking at him and not just me. Alone though? Might as well be in the process of... no, no, no. Clear head, remember? Ring, remember? I just feel lightheaded.

Fuck my life – no, fuck Crane.

Fuck the fact that I had to oversleep yesterday..

Peeta appears in front of me as I yank myself out of my thoughts.

He hands me a cup, filled with ice cold sparkling water and smiles brightly. "Here. Sorry, I seem to be forgetting all my manners lately. Do you need anything else before we start?"

Some tissues perhaps? To shove them into my nose so you won't find out if my nose starts to bleed when I'm looking at your glorious, naked body? "No, thank you. I'm fine," I reply hoarsely, taking a small sip of the beverage and trying hard not to choke again.

Peeta, however, simply nods; he walks back to the middle of the room and I know he's going to start now. The show begins. He positions himself sideways to me as if he's trying to hide himself a little before getting down to the nitty gritty pieces – of 'his business'. Meanwhile, I gulp again and try to occupy myself with mixing some skin colored paint; which isn't actually that easy, thanks. I glance at him as inconspicuous as possible as he slowly starts to untie his belt.

Teasingly slow.

His eyes get this strange faraway look all of a sudden and his facial expression goes blank as the soft cotton robe slides over his body; down his broad chest, his narrow hips, his athletic legs…

I can't look. I really can't. I want to, though.

He bends to get the fabric, tosses it over the nearest chair and gets soundlessly into position (I guess the very same he had during the previous test within the classroom), facing the window.

I know he's ready. I know he wants me to start. But I can't bring myself to look at him. What if I stare? If he thinks I'm a creep? What if he wants to see what I'm painting afterward?

What if he doesn't like it?

Several minutes pass and I haven't looked at him even once.

This fact does not escape him however and he starts to get a little anxious.

Peeta clears his throat. "I'm ready," he says.

Of course I know you are! He's looking at me, but I don't return his gaze. He might be okay with all this. I am not. If he didn't think it before, he must now think I'm a wallflower or something.

His voice gets me out of my rigor, though. "I'm ready too," I answer timidly and wince at the sound of my voice. I'm such a bad liar. I'm pretty sure he knows that I'm not okay at all.

"Alright, then you should start painting? The time... we don't have much."

"Y-yes, sorry!" I exclaim but refuse to raise my head. Another minute passes after this despite my apology, with me still busy mixing paint. Peeta sighs, but does not get out of his position.

"Katniss, please. Look at me," he says. "It's my job. You can look."

You need to look.

I bite my lower lip. I'm embarrassing myself here, I think. I really need to get over it already.

"Sorry," I mumble again and, this time, slowly raise my head. My eyes don't go to his body, but concentrate on the wall behind him, before going back to his face and locking mine to his. They're still distant; as if another person was standing there. Like there's a wall in between us and it's not Peeta at all. Before me stands a stranger which makes me feel slightly better.

But only slightly.

Still, his eyes on me make me nervous. He might be wondering what's going on in my head right now. He must be thinking that I'm a prude. He must be regretting that he invited me here today.

One thing I do know is: I can't paint while having him watching me.

Does it sound strange? I am supposed to be watching him. He's supposed to be the exposed one.

Why do I feel like it's exactly the other way around?

I need to change that. I shift my easel to another position and Peeta lifts his eyebrow as if he wanted to ask what I'm doing, but he keeps quiet. "I think it will look better from over here," I lie; feeling that I need to explain what I'm doing so he won't think I'm a jerk. "Just stay like that and look out of the window." There, now he won't be looking at me at all.

"Okay," he replies, carefully, as he accepts my proposition. I see him shift a little, and I can tell he's changing his supporting leg for whatever reason. His head turns back to the window and this strange wall between us is up again. I'm relieved. He can't watch me anymore. I feel freer.

I take him in for the first time. All of him. And wow, I mean it's not the first time for me, seeing a man, but this is something different. He is something different from my usually entourage.

This is when I, all of a sudden, get a very strange feeling in my stomach that makes my breath hitch. His well-built – did I say that already? His sculpted muscles are relaxed and his smooth skin seems to be glowing in the morning sun. The light gets caught in his golden, unruly hair and is being reflected by his disbelievingly blue eyes. He is standing here like he owned the whole place; his presence overwhelms me and draws everything close to him into meaninglessness.

How the fuck do I replicate that?

I can't say how long I gawk at him since I lose track of time. I don't want to stare (probably drool) at his best piece, because I'm sure he'd feel disgusted if he caught me; so I concentrate on other things, like the stubble on his strong jaw and his almost hairless (I wonder if it's just a really, really clean-shaved) chest. His abdomen is muscular and he's got a delicious outline of where you might find a six-pack, but it's not too much like the ones of a bodybuilder.

Unfortunately there's no way for me to look at his (I'm pretty sure it is) firm derriere, so I need to use my imagination. And, even more unfortunately, my imagination works good for me.

My stomach flutters, my throat has gone dry, and I know that I'm close to a really dangerous territory already; I'm happy that he's wearing that ring on his finger but… it's getting harder and harder to ignore him. To not feel some kind of fascination and affection for him, at all.

He's breathtaking. Every single inch of him.

He is the embodiment of beauty.

He is art.

And for now, I am his artist.

"I need a break," he sighs and bends down to get his bathrobe.

It takes him two seconds and he's clothed again. I look at him irritatedly.

"It's been only twenty minutes?" I remark and I'd like to slap myself. Fuck my rude mouth!

Wait, that's a kind of dubious thing to think Katniss.

I'm happy that Peeta doesn't seem to mind my question.

"Posing is harder than you think. I can't stand in this position longer than that because my joints start to hurt. I'd change my supporting leg, but I know it wouldn't help you. You only need to see one position so… how about you work on the background? I'll go and shake my limbs a little."

"Fine," I reply when he leaves the room and I'm glad that my brain seems to work properly again. When he stands there it looks so easy and relaxed, but he'll actually need more than five breaks for today's session, truth be told. It must be really exhausting to do, I bet.

Painting until now was horrible, by the way. I didn't dare to look at him more than that one gawking. I sketched him, yes, but only a raw scribble, nothing more. Where his manhood's supposed to be for example, I just left a blank space. I hope I'll get braver with more time.

I can only hope.

Two minutes later Peeta returns with two steaming cups of coffee in his hands and places one on the little table next to me. "I thought you might like some coffee, too," he explains, sipping his own. "I remember you were sitting in front of the coffee dispenser, so…"

"Thank you," I say and I'm sure my voice's too loud with just that one phrase, but I can't help myself, I'm just too surprised. He's either perceptive or a rather fine people-person. Both?

"You're welcome. Would you like to have some sugar or milk?"

"No, I'm fine, thank you. You shouldn't have…"

"It's cool." He sets down his own, turns around, and walks back to the middle of the room.

"Let's continue, okay?"

I nod as he gets back to his position and gets rid of the robe again. I expected this whole thing to get easier with time, but I still feel far too nervous to paint like I'm expected to paint him.

Another twenty minutes pass, when my phone rings.

Now, of all times! Shit.

Nobody calls me usually. Not out of nowhere. Most of the time there's some emergency I need to deal with. Thus, I can't ignore that horrible ringtone and I don't think about it at all when I find it in my bag and answer the call. Then it occurs to me that I'm being incredibly rude by doing so.

I can't accept calls while Peeta's standing naked in front of me, can I? I contemplate hanging up again when I hear his voice through the receiver: "Kitty? You there?" Cato... great.

"Don't call me that," I answer with a huff, remembering how he used to call the both of us 'Kitty-Cat'. Definitely not something I wanted to remember, thanks. "Why are you calling?"

He chuckles on the other end. He likes it when I'm harsh and he told me this every time when we were in bed together. Not at first, of course. My harshness (and his telling me so) started when I began to understand what kind of guy he was. Not the sweet loving kind, but a kind much more brutal and certainly darker. I began to hate every second with him and leaving him probably was the best decision I've ever had in my entire life. So, that leaves to say, why is he calling me?

"Mhhh… I like when you talk to me like that," he says.

Yuck.

"I know. See, I got no time for this, I'm kinda..." I glance at Peeta, who's frowning, "...occupied."

I shoot him an apologetic smile and shrug.

"Oh, I understand. You're fucking right now," he states, his voice growing serious. Alarmed.

"Hell no!" I yell into the phone, dead-embarrassed and I put my face into my left hand. This is so him. I'm sure he's getting jealous, too. Well it's not my fault that he got dumped – well...

Unfortunately he knows me well enough, so he knows how to play his cards.

This damn prick had gotten my attention again. "Stop it. Right now!"

"Okay. Your wish is my command, Kitty. I don't believe you, though. Your voice sounds strange. Higher. I can tell something's up with you." There's a naked and – I'll be damned – very hot man in front of me and I can look at him as long as I want. There's nothing up with me, is there?

"It's none of your business, alright? I need to go now."

"Hang on a sec, Kitty, wait. As much as I like to hear your voice, I actually called with a good reason. I wanted to ask you if you've thought about my offer concerning SOCCO yet?"

No, I haven't. Because I'm hopefully not dropping out! "Yes, I have," I lie smoothly. "Ummmm.. I'll call you later okay? We can talk about the job then. I really need to hang up now. Okay?"

"You'll call? You never call, babe."

He's right. I don't. "I'll call, okay? I promise… Bye, Cato."

I don't wait for his reply and hang up as fast as I can.

And yeah, you're right. I definitely will not call you.

I throw my phone back into my bag, frowning. I would have been better off if I had given my phone to Peeta to begin with. "Sorry," I mumble. "I shouldn't have answered that. It was rude."

I look up and when my eyes meet his I realize two things.

He's wearing his bathrobe again and he's pissed.

Really pissed.

I stare at him, my eyes wide in surprise. I fucked up. I probably just did the rudest thing you could possibly do to a model. "Peeta?" I ask, not sure about how to approach him; I don't know him, or his temper, which is frightening. "I'm sorry, really. It's just a friend calling me and asking something. I was stupid for accepting the phone and I'm really sorry. It won't happen again and-"

"Job? What job?" he interrupts me and I realize that he's listened to the whole conversation; which still doesn't explain why he's upset. Clearly upset. "Where are you working right now?"

Oh god.

If I told him that I work in that shithole of Crane's, he'll definitely be disappointed in me.

"Just.. just some bar in the neighborhood." Smooth.

He looks even more dismayed than before, so I try to make the best of a bad job. "But... but we were talking about another job. I mentioned it before at school, remember? At SOCCO's."

He doesn't even need a millisecond to think of an answer.

"You can't possibly work there," he says.

"I- I know. I won't. I'm not planning on calling back anyway," I say, nervously, still bewildered by the brunt of his anger. "Cato, this um... friend just doesn't know how to give up. That's all."

Peeta seems to think about what I just said and I try to figure out why I'd upset him this much. Clearly, it's not because I took a phone call in particular but more what I was talking about.

Peeta decides to break the silence. "Yesterday you told me you would go to SOCCO if you couldn't take your missed exam. If you failed this semester, I mean. And you're still going to accept the offer if you fail now," he observes. I bite the inside of my cheeks, nodding.

"It's not like I want to," I admit. "It's my last choice, really. But I've got other things to worry about and shouldn't be picky about the jobs. And apparently, they pay you good money."

I realize that I shouldn't have said that; his indignant expression speaks volumes. But honestly, I'd do it for Prim. I'm already working at a shithole named Crane's and if the worst comes to the worst, I would even go back to Cato for her. Not in a relationship of course but...

"Oh no! That's not an option!" he says, fiercely, and clenches his fists that makes his sexy muscles and veins stand out even more. Unfortunately I can't appreciate how hot he looks when he's angered; I'm too much taken aback by his burst of emotion mostly because I didn't see it coming. Plus, he's a good guy helping a damsel in distress (literally me) so I can't fight back like I usually would do. "You can't do that. It's the worst! You don't know how they're earning their money," he continues to say.

Oh. And he knows this... how? He wants to be the big guy? "Then tell me." I roughly push my brushes aside and they chatter onto the floor. "Tell me about it and I'll judge," I challenge.

He sighs irritated and ruffles his golden hair. "No one can know about this, alright?" he asks and his expression gets even more serious than before. "You can't tell anyone about this."

"I promise." The words are out of my mouth before I can think about it. I promised Cato I'd call him – Peeta heard that – and then I assured him moments later that I wouldn't do that one thing a few seconds after. I'm not sure if he believes that my promises are actually trustworthy.

The look in his eyes tells me that he is thinking the same thing.

"I promise, really now," I say.

"Okay," he relents after a moment. "You could get into serious trouble if you spread word. SOCCO's actually not that trustworthy and reliable as you think. They pretend to be nice and help you, give you loans and a good salary, but it's actually really a dangerous business. After they give you the money you need, time passes, and they start to blackmail you, bleed you out."

Uhh-huuh?

He's not being serious, is he? SOCCO does not have the best reputation, that's for granted, but what he's saying sounds like some bad mafia movie or something. I roll my eyes at him.

So much for not being rude, Katniss. "I've never heard of this, and I have to admit that your story sounds a little bit farfetched, don't you think? Why would you know all that? Rumor, gossip?"

"My friend got involved with them a year ago and he's trying to get out ever since, but they get back at him all the time. They also threatened to kill him once when he couldn't pay back his loan. It's also necessary for him to find new people to work for SOCCO, or he'll get punished."

Seriously?

And what about Cato? Does he work for them, too? Is he struggling? Trying to get out?

Is he forced to bring me in there, too?

I feel slightly sick as the possibilities flood through me. I might have treated him in the wrong way all along. Then again, should I trust strangers? A stranger, who I've seen naked, that is.

I stay silent while thousands of thoughts are running through my head. If what Peeta's telling me is true, there would be no way for me to join SOCCO. I need money to ensure Prim a better life, not make it more dangerous. And, by all means, I'd never expose her to any kind of danger.

"Do you have any… proof?" I ask him, trying to be intimidating.

He shakes his head. "I don't. But I also don't have any reason to lie to you, do I?"

No. I mean, I can tell he's a good person.

"Thank you for telling me this. I'll call my friend and tell him I found something elsewhere."

After this exchange, Peeta seems to be relieved, but even when he undresses himself again to continue our work I can tell that he never finds his relaxed pose again. He is tense, lacking in concentration and moving quite a lot. Unlike before, where he'd been the perfect model.

I wasn't very good, either. Our talk about SOCCO makes me feel sick and unsure about my contact with Cato. I don't even know if he needs my help. I remember him coming home with bruises all over his body and I figured that he'd been fighting on the streets, idiot that he is. He got aggressive and loud, and everything that I didn't want to have in boyfriend, so I left him.

I wonder why I'd never talked to him about all of this, about his job, trouble, stress...

Guilt washes over me.

The two hours are almost over before I know it and my painting looks awful.

Why?

I got the best – yes the best – model I've ever seen (okay, the first model but still…) and I just go screw it up? He looks beautiful and august in real life, but it's a different story for my painting.

Even a stick figure would be looking better.

I'm so embarrassed. I'd like to actually just crawl under a rock (and die. Why not?).

While I try to save something, anything, Peeta gets dressed.

"How's it going?" he asks, clearly trying to be good-humored again, but his expression falls a little when he sees mine. Do I look angry and angsty, or just distressed? "So bad, huh?"

I shake my head, angry. Why can't I do it?

Peeta did his best, I know that. He even gave up one of his periodic breaks; just to give me more time so I'm sure he must be hurting somehow right now. I'm sure he's disappointed in my work.

At least (and I'm happy about that) he's just a model.

He might not be able to tell how bad I am right now.

He manages to surprise me again, though. "I'm sorry," he says and his eyes look kind of sad. "I wasn't really good in the end. I'll make it up to you, somehow."

"What? No, no, no, it's not your fault at all!" I tell him sincerely. I can't believe that he's blaming himself for my lousy performance today. I discover again that he really is a selfless person. "It's just not my day. Tomorrow will be better, I'm sure," I say, trying to soothe him and also myself. After a slight hesitation, I add:"I'd be happy if you didn't look at it yet, though. Is that alright?"

"Okay, I promise," he says, raising his eyebrow.

I hope he's better with keeping promises than I am.