This was sacrilege. They'd managed to desecrate her Friday. She wanted blood.

And she hadn't seen Peeta.

Well, no. That wasn't entirely accurate. She did catch a glimpse of him storming out of the Principal's office just as she was making her way to that exact destination, having been summoned just before second period.

A middle aged man, decked in impeccably tailored Armani business attire (a suit meant to cut an intimidating air, the illusion dashed by the the slovenly twelve o'clock stubble), stormed through the doors a second after and caught up to him, impressively limber for someone with such a notable beer gut. She'd watched, apprehension escalating, as the man rested both hands on Peeta's shoulders, apparently attempting to settle him, as the teenager's fingers buried in his hair. Then Peeta had nodded curtly, hoisted his messenger bag and paced for the exit, leaving the man to sigh heavily and turn curious, light gray eyes on her.

That'd been her introduction to Haymitch Abernathy. The school board was citing them.

Well, to be more precise, the school board was pursuing Peeta and District Twelve High on some trumped up debasement charges, calling for Mr. Dalton's and Mr. Heavensbee's head, and generally conducting a witch hunt to incriminate anyone involved in the creation of the calendar—hence how her name pulled up in the mix.

She'd spent better part of her morning listening to Peeta's uncle—a man she'd grudgingly given a wealth of respect for being the world's highest functioning alcoholic, if the large pulls he frequently took from his poorly hidden silver flask was any indication—argue heatedly before the representative from the board on his nephew's behalf. Apparently, some students—namely Cato Douglas and Marvel Holmes—had family representation on the board, who'd incited the charge after getting sent home for harassing Peeta and Finn the previous day. The couple of members bringing forth the complaint were stipulating the calendar was an unacceptable distraction to the learning environment and requesting everyone involved in its development and dissemination receive disciplinary action.

Mr. Abernathy pleaded on all their behalves, arguing their work was no more an interruption to the students than anything they could download or buy at their local convenience store and the only reason his 'client' was being targeted was his association with the school. In the end, the representative had agreed to an investigation into the allegations before coming to a decision, but they'd asked both Peeta and Finnick be suspended for the duration of the process—one week—as way of assuring no further incidents with other students occurred.

Such bull.

At least Hatmitch had managed to convince them Mr. Heavensbee and Coach Dalton had nothing to do with the calendars and they were spared, not given so much as leave.

But championships were fourteen days out and Peeta wouldn't be allowed on school premises for half that time to prepare his own squad. It sucked.

She tried to diffuse the looming dark cloud as she stepped off the bus and onto the curb before Girl-On-Fire Studios. It wasn't helping that the last she'd heard from Peeta was a few texts they'd exchanged the previous night after he'd come home from his shift. He'd asked how her homework was going and she'd teased him about how late he'd have to stay up with his before he'd wished her a good night.

She was trying not to take it personally that he'd yet to respond to the three messages she'd sent over the course of the day. He'd left so ticked, she couldn't fault him for wanting space to blow off steam. But not hearing from him, not getting a sense on his thoughts on everything that had happened at school... it was taking a decidedly unsettling emotional toll. The last thing she wanted was to come off as needy when they'd just started getting to know each other. She of all people treasured independence and solitude. But, in light of everything that was going on, some kind of contact would've been appreciated.

The spacious reception area was tastefully decorated with three lounge couches, several side tables littered with fashion magazines, and a half-moon mahogany receptions desk toward the far wall. Katniss crossed it in a few strides, eager to get out back and working. She'd just waved hello to Octavia, the full-figured co-ed with pea-colored hair, who both served as receptionist and relief makeup artist, when she stiffened at the unmistakably familiar laughter coming from one of the stages just behind the front desk. She'd heard that throaty, infectious chortle a many times.

A narrowed, steel gaze cut to the young woman with green corn rolls at the desk to find her holding the magazine she'd been perusing up to her face, hiding everything but her eyes, which gleamed with mischievous amusement. "You have a good eye, babe," the receptionist jittered with a wink.

Katniss flushed, rolling her eyes as she moved through the doorless entryway into the studio, with a measure of stealth. It was preposterous, but somehow, she felt as if she was intruding.

The industrial warehouse space was immense, but sectioned into half a dozen different staging areas, each separated by makeshift cardboard backdrops or green screens—depending on what the shoot required.

She followed the sound of Cinna's soothing voice and the intermittent chuckling to the stage at the very corner of the studio. She was grateful for the four strobe soft boxes—each as tall as she was—flanking the shooting area. The blinding white they shone hid her approach perfectly, granting her eyes the leisure to roam.

If Peeta had been spectacular in photographs, he was breathtaking in the flesh.

The setup Cinna had chosen was very simple: just the white backdrop, a white rectangle support, holding a white surfboard… and Peeta… lying on the surfboard. On his side. Elbow bent to support his propped head. Laughing.

Whatever it was that her mentor was saying to make this august boy laugh was lost on Katniss as she watched his body—clad only in tight navy blue swim shorts—react to his mirth. The woven muscles of his abdomen clenched, the swollen brawn of his pectorals roiled and twitched in the most mesmerizing way. The taut tendons of his neck strained around his bobbing Adam's apple.

He was marvelous.

After staring long enough her cheeks and neck were blazing, she cleared her throat roughly, stepping in front of the light so her silhouette could be visible.

"So, you decided to come after all."

Peeta's eyes widened as his head snapped in her direction. Instinctively, he sat up, arms coming to fold over his middle awkwardly, his gaze flitted bashfully from where she stood toward a spot off over Cinna's left. She traced his line of sight to a coat holder with a robe hanging from it.

"Not done with this set yet, Peeta," Cinna spoke with that kind, empathetic lilt she'd learned he favored during shoots. "And, remember, displaying the product is always paramount. So, keep the arms crossed if that's how you feel comfortable, but I need you to stand so I can see those shorts."

Katniss bit her lower lip to keep from snorting at the exasperated look Peeta shot the photographer as he slid off the prop, both hands coming to bury in his tousled hair. He responded to her without really focusing on her face, obviously unable to make out her features in the blinding light. "I figured I'd give this a try, seeing as I'm persona non grata in school for the foreseeable future… And Cato and Marvel's families are going to ridiculous lengths to screw with my scholarship. Then there's the fact that Dad's had to put three of us through college within a year or two of each other. Figured he can use whatever help he can get. It's the decent thing to do for, right? Besides, there are side perks to doing this here." That lopsided smirk was back, if hesitant, accented by a quirked eyebrow. "How bad could it be?"

"Um, Cinna, could you give us a moment?"

The dark-skinned man stood from the kneel he'd assumed to continue shooting while the teens were conversing. He swung the strap of the camera from around his neck and handed it to Katniss. "I have a better idea," he posed with a warm smile. "How about you finish this set and I'll go start on the editing in my study. You two can come join me once you're done."

Overwhelmed by the generosity of the gesture, Katniss found a lump in her throat impeded anything beyond a hoarse, "thank you". She waited a few moments, listening to the man's steps recede, before closing the distance to Peeta. "Are you sure about this?" she whispered, once she was a foot in front of him.

He shrugged a shoulder, a tentative smile hitching the ends of his mouth. "Cinna seems to think I can make a decent go of it. We've been working on my portfolio for better part of the day. He'd already brokered a few shoots for me he was keeping on standby in case I accepted, so I have a few paying jobs in the works. And this," he snapped the waistband of his swimwear, causing her eyes to divert inappropriately to the muscles creating a perfect 'v' there, "Is part of a new swim line a friend of his is launching this Fall. He explained I'll likely only get specialty work—swimwear or underwear modeling. I'm too short for the runway. But, specialty work is very in-demand. And since I'm going to college locally, I can do this throughout. It won't interfere with my class schedules and the pay is good."

Katniss tried to focus on his words, but found it increasingly difficult when her attention kept diverting to the valley between his pectoral muscles. Unbidden, her hand came up to touch the patch of skin as she breathed, "Didn't you have a little trail of hair here, Peeta? I could've sworn I saw something here in the other pictures…"

A soft laugh escaped him. "That was Octavia. Cinna suggested I be smooth for the professional shots. I don't have much body hair and where I do, it's too blonde to notice, but the chest hair, apparently, was noticeable. So... um, Octavia waxed it off this morning."

Katniss sucked in a breath through clenched teeth, continuing to draw lazy circles over the soft skin. "Didn't that sting like crazy?"

Peeta swallowed thickly, a hand coming to wrap around her wrist. "Um… you need to stop touching me if we're going to finish this shoot, Everdeen. This… um… this suit hides nothing and, right now, I'm thinking of octogenarian nudist enthusiasts to keep from reacting to you. Give a guy a fighting chance, will ya?"

Out of nervous habit, her bottom lip found its way between her teeth as she lowered her head, failing to submerge a flush and smirk. "Sorry. You're just, um, really nice to look at… this close… wearing this," she admitted quietly.

His hand came to cup her jaw, gently tugging upward so her eyes met his, while the pad of his thumb stroked her bottom lip, pulling—forcing it out of her mouth. "What did I tell you about doing this to yourself, sweetheart," he rumbled, face inclining so close, his breaths heated her already burning skin, "This is just cruel."

He was so close, less than an inch away. It would be nothing to dissolve the gap and taste him, acquiesce to what every fiber of her being demanded of her. But, instead, she grinned devilishly, ghosting over his lips, "Crawl back on that board, Mellark."

Then, she pulled back quickly, the motion too abrupt for the arm he outstretched to capture her. She couldn't contain the giddy squeal, backing to just in front of the strobe and bringing the camera to her eye.

"You're a sadist," Peeta huffed with a very pointed pout, easily propping onto the surfboard and starting to maneuver back into a prone position.

"Oh, no. I want you on your knees."

One brow shot up high on his forehead. "I didn't sign up for that kind of modeling, Everdeen."

She lowered the camera so he could get a good view of her pursed lips. "I didn't say hands and knees, sicko. Just knees. It makes the muscles in your thighs flex when you put all your weight on your knees."

With a quick run of a hand through his wayward curls, Peeta shifted onto his knees, hyperaware of the renewed flickering coming from the camera. The sound and the knowledge of who now held the device—who was scrutinizing him—made his pulse skyrocket. He thought it'd been uncomfortable when Cinna was taking the photographs. This was exponentially worse. He found it impossible to remove his eyes from a spot on the immaculate white floor beneath the prop. He didn't even realize when his arms came to cross over his chest.

"That doesn't hide anything, you know."

His questioning eyes shot up toward the crouching silhouette shrouded in light he knew was Katniss.

"When you cross your arms and lower your gaze like that," she elaborated in an amused voice. "On film, it only comes across as you being meek and oblivious about the power in those ridiculous arms of yours. It makes you that much more appealing. I think it's the opposite of what you're going for… just saying."

He couldn't help a corner of his lip hitching into a flattered half smile. "So, you find me appealing, do you?"

"Not blind," she answered flatly, but he could hear the underlying quake of bashfulness to her voice. "Cross your arms behind you… high and tight across your back."

He followed her directions, the smile unfaltering as she straightened to her feet, moving slowly while continuing to snap photo after photo. He followed the shadow of her form across the various strobe lights.

"Stop looking at the camera. Pretend I'm not here. Look natural."

His smile widened at her reproach, his retort coming in a breathy laugh, "Oh, yes," he could feel his unease melting away with each word she spoke, "because I get down on my knees, flexing my arms in sperm killing swim trunks routinely?"

She spurted and the flickering came to an abrupt halt while her laughter filled the high-ceiling corner. He could spend an eternity listening to that sound.

"Very funny, wiseass," she heaved after catching a breath. "Now, turn around, same position."

His eyes rounded with a painful jerk. "Excuse?"

Katniss shifted her weight to one foot, her left fist coming to rest on her hip. "You're showcasing a product. That suit has a front and a back, Peeta," she stated as if it were the most elemental concept.

He swallowed so shallowly, she could distinctly see the tendons in his neck contract and expand, his jaw clench. "This is the seventh outfit I've showcased for this line," he protested, attempting to keep the apprehension from leaking into his tenor. "And I modeled five other ones for my portfolio before that. Cinna never asked me to turn—"

"Well, he should have," she interrupted curtly, a bit of annoyance tingeing the statement. "A lot of swimwear has the logo on the back. We might have to do re-shoots on the other outfits if the designer requests them now. It would've been easier to get it done the first time around."

Hesitantly, Peeta maneuvered his body away from the lights, keeping on his knees, fighting the urge to rub his hands over his face. It'd only ruin the light makeup Octavia had applied to compensate for the intense lighting. Katniss's logic made perfect sense, but it still felt so much worse hearing that flickering from over his shoulder, removed from his controlled frame of sentience. It made the entire experience so much more invasive. He shut his eyes tight and focused on taking deep, measured breaths.

"Can you… um… Can you contract the muscles on this side, Peeta? Make them stand out. You're doing the arm crossing thing again and it's pulling everything to that side. We're… um… we're doing the back now, remember?"

He released a shaky breath, unclasping the arms that had unwittingly intertwined high on his chest. He allowed his knees to splay slightly further apart, curling his toes beneath each foot. Each hand came to rest high on his thighs, elbows bent behind him. He kept his eyes trained on the white wall until her harsh, hissed intake of breath caused his head to jerk in the direction of the sound.

"Jesus Christ, Peeta. Have you ever gotten a good look at your back? This isn't even fair. And I know this is crass, but you have an amazing butt."

He couldn't help it. She sounded so shocked and his nerves were so far beyond frayed. He started laughing. Really laughing. Uncontrollable guffaws that shook his entire body.

"You're messing up my shots, you know," Katniss attempted to chastise, but it fell flat through her poorly restrained giggling.

"Well, excuse me. It's not every day someone takes such pains to take my buttshot," he managed, trying to still his frame through his amusement. He was amazed the affect she had over him. One moment he was ready to hyperventilate and—three words from her—he was splitting his sides. He was infinitely grateful he'd have her there for this, at least at the beginning. Her presence was immeasurably cathartic.

"Okay, okay," Katniss breathed, resuming taking shots. "Now hook your thumbs into the waistband and pull it down just an inch over your hip."

Just like that, Peeta's humor stifled, his head flinched further backward for a moment as if trying to see her out of his periphery. In that brief moment, before he turned back to the white backdrop, his unspoken mortification was clear in the crease of his brows.

Still, his hand moved further up his thigh, thumbs edging into the waistband.

Just before he inched the fabric downward, a much smaller hand encased it. He felt the warmth of her skin and the tickle of her hair between his shoulder blades—obviously, she'd leaned her forehead high into his trapezium—moments before feeling an impossibly soft, moist kiss to his upper back. It sent an electrical current to every nerve in his body and he was powerless to keep his head from lolling backwards to rest on hers.

"You are so beautiful, Peeta," her heaved words ghosted over his quickly horripilating skin. "It's okay that you can't understand that concept right now, but I swear it's true. If you allow me, I want to help you understand it, though. You deserve to feel beautiful. I promise, you'll get to see every frame, get a say in everything that goes out to anyone who wants to use you like this. I just need you to trust me."

Peeta turned the hand she'd settled hers on, intertwining their fingers, and lifted it to his lips, a soft, lingering kiss ghosting over to the flushed skin.

"I do trust you."

He felt her smile against him once more, before pulling away quickly, delivering a very sharp smack to his bottom. He hissed at the sting, focusing on the pain to prevent his overstimulated synapses from delving too far into where he'd taken the blow.

Naked old people. Naked old people. Naked old people. God, she'd be the end of him.

"Okay, Mellark. Now dip that waistband and let's see if we can get this shoot done."

He snickered softly, doing as she commanded. "You're bossy when you do this, you realize."

"Meh. Takes a strong hand to corral you model types."

Unwittingly, a hand un-tucked from his solitary piece of clothing and listed through his ruined hair as he cleared his throat, trying to sound as confident as he could manage under the circumstance. "So, what are you doing after this? It is a Friday night. I know homework can wait. And don't tell me you have chaperon duties again."

"Nope," Katniss replied, halting mid shot. "After this, you're driving me home. We're ordering some Chinese, watching some bad DVR'ed TV… and getting in some more of that special 'practice' you're so good at."

Instantly, Peeta straightened, body swerving around with such force, he had to brace an arm behind him to keep his balance.

He was certain he'd sported the most idiotic, ear to ear grin, when he heard that final insidious, "click".