You'd never had a cocky figure drawing model before. Confident, you were sure. That must be a baseline requirement to strip down and go pose in front of a studio full of people for hours as they pore over every intricate detail of your body.

But Patrick was your first cocky model. In more ways than one. Didn't use the privacy screen to get undressed, didn't put a robe on during breaks. Your school usually hired professionals, but God, he has to be an undergrad or something. Maybe just a local early twenty-something looking for some cash.

Sometimes you would notice him watching you draw, eyes on you as yours flicked between his form and the paper in front of you. That was the only way you were collected enough to go up to him after class.

He pulled his shirt on before looking at you, raising his eyebrows as he waited for you to say something. It was normal enough, just asking if he would come back after your last class so you could get some more practice in, with the promise of cash. Not much, you were in art school after all. And you'd already pretty much convinced yourself he'd say no, so your own eyebrows rose when he said he'd come back at eight.

Without anything else to say he left the room, bag slung over his shoulder. You looked around the emptying studio, wondering how the hell you were even going to go about this.

When night came, you walked back into the small space, surprised to see him already there.

"So," he began, standing and starting to get himself undressed again, "just gestures?"

Seeing your nod, he sets himself up for the first quick pose, you setting a timer on your phone before getting to work.

You work like that for a while, but eventually he reclines in a pose, you forget to set a timer, and you get to talking. He has a piece of white satin just barely draped over his lap, hand propping his head up. He really was a work of art, but you were pretty sure he already knew that.

"Why art in the first place, huh? I mean, you look stressed when I see you drawing me."