“Really, I don’t mind,” he says softly. “Let me help. Get your art stuff and tell me what you need.”
I lift my head then, and our eyes meet. There’s no malice in those blue pools. But after all, maybe I suck at reading people, otherwise I would have figured that Jason was just playing me. But Nate wouldn’t. He’s Jack’s best friend. Has been his best friend for the last three years. Jack would kill him if he hurt me, I’m sure of it.
I exhale roughly, dropping my head and catching sight of his—surprisingly sculpted—chest and torso. His abs and arms and shoulders are less bulky and more refined than Jason’s. He’s leaner and taller. And I want to slap myself in the face, but he’s kind of hotter than Jason. Like they’re not even in the same league.
“Alright,” I say, stepping away from the door towards him and his hold on my wrist loosens. “Can you go stand by the desk? Next to the big floor lamp.”
He nods, his face solemn. “Sure.”
A beat passes before he drops my wrist and turns around to go stand where I told him to. I follow and stop in front of him to turn on the lamp, apologizing for blinding him briefly.
I need to adjust the brightness and angle of it to have nice lighting and play a little with the shadows. Forcing my gaze to remain professional, I study the shape of his defined abs, wide shoulders, strong biceps and forearms, covered by slightly tanned smooth skin.
Alright. Objectively, this body’s a work of art. Sculpted in hard marble and surrounded by what looks to be a velvet layer of skin. I lift my hands, but freeze as I hesitate.
Consent.
I should definitely ask for permission before I touch him. Miss Junes is adamant on that, saying that models have to be treated carefully and respectfully. If you need to feel something to try and better understand or represent on paper, you have to ask the model before. Too many artists forget that part—either intentionally or not—and make models uncomfortable. And no, it’s not only the female models that are disrespected daily all over the world.
“Hm… Uh, can I—”
I meet his gaze, my hand hovering over the outline of his abs. His throat bobs but he nods once, his arms still against his sides. “Okay,” he breathes.
I nod back, rubbing my hand together a couple of times to make sure my fingers aren’t too cold before sliding the tips of my fingers softly along each row of abs.
I guess my handsarea little cold as goosebumps spread all over his skin.
Three rows, my fingers dipping in the small line between each of them.God, so, so soft.How does his skin feel so soft? He’s a guy. Guys don’t have soft skin, right? Does he put moisturizer on everyday? God, I’m jealous now.
I lift my hands, feeling for his pecs, shoulders, then down his arms. I can see his chest rising and falling in an irregular pattern. Okay, maybe that’s enough… He’s clearly uncomfortable, and between my eyes and hands, I think I can recreate the look and feel of him.
I clear my throat, taking a step back. “Thank you,” I say, turning around and taking a couple of steps to sit on my bed where my notepad and graphite pencil are waiting.‘Will you have hot messy sex on canvas and notepads, covered in graphite?’
Oh, hell no. Not now, brain. Not going there. This is a professional setting. He’s helping me improve my art and he’s my brother’s best friend. He’s hot, yeah. Objectively. It’s a fact. But no, my crush for him died before it really took roots and I can’t think about him like that. I might just kill Nuri for mentioning an idea like this one, even though she meant Jason and I.
“You can move your arms and stretch your legs if you need to,” I say,picking up the notepad and pencil, “but to make sure the lighting is good I’m gonna need you to keep facing that direction… Well, facing me.”
“Alright,” he nods again, and his voice feels a little raw.
Oh my god, what the hell am I doing? I shouldn’t have accepted. He’s uncomfortable, and he’s about to spend two hours standing shirtless while I watch and study him. At least, even if we’re in the middle of December and it’s cold outside, the rooms are well heated and he shouldn’t get too cold. That would be the cherry on top. Imagine wasting two hours of your life to help out your best friend’s little sister out and ending up with a cold.
I clear my head with an annoyed sigh, start a chill lo-fi playlist, and finally start sketching. The whole world disappears and it’s only us. Nate under the warm light, my sketches of him slowly taking form, and me.
I sketch him a few times, asking him to move with each sketch to draw his lines under a different light. Sometimes, my gaze can’t help but linger, studying him and his reactions, his posture, his expressions. He looks different like this. Not his usual over-confident self. Almost vulnerable, shy, like he doesn’t know what to do with his own body.
I focus back on the paper, turning a new page and starting a new sketch. Of him. Not just his chest and muscles like I’ve done the last hour or so, but him as a whole. The way his arms are straight and tense at his sides. The way he sometimes fidget a little on his legs, like maybe he’s considering bolting out of here. The way his eyes are looking at me, but sometimes dart away as his jaw locks in a way that screams how uncomfortable he is. The way his old jeans hang low on his hips, showing the slightest bit of his underwear’s elastic band, and the thin but distinct happy trail leading down to it.
Overall, he kinda looks a little miserable. But in an adorable kind of way, like a child stuck at a family gathering but who can’t wait to be allowed to go back in his room to play videogames.
“Why are you smiling?”
I lift my head with wide eyes, and notice his gaze locked on me, shining with curiosity.
“What?”
One of his eyebrows arches up slightly and the corner of his lips stretches. “You were smiling at your paper. I was just wondering why.”
I look down at my sketch and hold a little gasp. “Uh… I—I don’t reallyknow. I get a little lost drawing sometimes, I’m sorry.”
