Geonwoo feels like a puppy around you. Not that you treat him like a dog, of course—he just feels like if he had a tail, it would be wagging like crazy whenever you even looked at him. Instead, his face goes red and his hands clench when you touch his arm or chest for his attention. Whatever body wash you use smells so good, it's goddamn embarrassing. Your hair smells good, too. It's not fair.

You're an art major. You're insanely talented, too! He's more than happy to flex for you to understand exactly how the muscles and tendons connect in the human body. He's your model. The person who you go to, whom you want to see shirtless. That's him; he's that person. You admire his physique, even if it's more in a clinical way. It sends real shivers down his spine when you look at him with those intelligent eyes, the ones that let him know you're seeing him down to his skeleton. Maybe even the marrow inside.

If he could build the courage to confess, you'd wear his shirts to bed. He could cuddle you after practice, and see your face in the mornings. For now, you used his judogi belt as a headband to hold back your unruly curls.

Except, he's been handed a damn miracle. A clear way to tell you, "I'm in love with you!" Your art class is looking for a live model. Someone with a broad, muscular build. Someone like him! Oh, sure, other people are going to be there, but that's just the way the cookie crumbles!

When Geonwoo gets to the studio, he's in a tank top and loose black athletic shorts. He's sure this is it, until he sees the writing scrawled on the whiteboard: nude model practice today.

...nude?