"Hands on," Levi instructed. "Cup it. Don't be gentle, it won't break." I pressed my palms against the spinning clay, and it promptly collapsed into a sad, lopsided mess.
"Okay." I could hear the laugh he was suppressing. "Maybe a little gentler than that." The second attempt went marginally better. The third actually stayed upright for almost ten seconds before keeling over. By the fourth, I was laughing too hard to be frustrated, clay splattered up my arms and somehow—somehow, dotting my cheek.
"This is impossible," I gasped, watching yet another creation meet its demise. The remains sat on the wheel like a melted candle, tragic and vaguely accusatory. "How do people do this?"
"Practice. Lots and lots of practice." Levi reached over and wiped a smear of clay from my nose, his touch gentle, his eyes bright with barely contained mirth. His thumb lingered for just a moment against my skin, warm and rough. "Also talent, which I'm starting to think might be optional for you."
"Rude." I flicked water at him, grinning despite myself. Droplets caught in his hair, on his henley, across one cheekbone. "I'd like to see you do better."
"Watch and learn, sweetheart." The endearment sent a flutter through my chest that I firmly ignored. Or tried to ignore. Failed to ignore entirely. I watched as he threw a bowl in about three minutes flat. His hands moved with confident grace, cupping and pressing and coaxing, the clay responding to his touch like it had been waiting its whole existence for exactly this moment. The form that emerged was elegant in its simplicity, clean lines, even walls, a gentle curve at the lip that caught the light.
My jaw dropped. "That's not fair. You've been doing this for years."
"Months, actually. Marcus taught me last winter when I was going stir-crazy." He set the bowl aside on a drying rack, where itsat looking smug and perfect. "The pack thought I was losing it, taking up pottery in January, but it helped. Gave me something to focus on besides—" He cut himself off, something flickering across his face too fast to read. "Anyway. You're right, I have an advantage. Want me to help you with the next one?"
"Please. My ego can only take so much destruction." I told him with a light laugh.
He moved his stool behind mine, close enough that I could feel the heat of his body through my sweater. "Put your hands on the clay. I'm going to guide you, okay?"
I nodded, not trusting my voice. His arms came around me, his chest pressing against my back, solid and warm. His hands covered mine, larger, rougher, slick with water and clay residue. The scent of him surrounded me, cinnamon and woodsmoke and something underneath that was justhim, and I had to remind myself to breathe.
"Start the wheel," he murmured, his breath warm against my ear. "Slow at first." I pressed the pedal, and the clay began to spin. My hands trembled slightly beneath his, but he held them steady.
"Feel how it's wobbling?" His voice was low, intimate, meant only for me despite the empty studio. "That means it's off-center. We need to push here—" He applied pressure through my hands, firm but controlled. "—to bring it back into alignment." The clay smoothed beneath our combined touch, the wobble evening out until it spun true and steady.
"Good," Levi said, and something about the praise made warmth bloom low in my stomach. "Now we cup our hands around it, like this. Pull up gently. Let the wheel do the work." I let him guide me, my body moving with his, my hands following where his led. The clay rose between our palms, taking shape almost despite my clumsy efforts. A cylinder first, then widening at the top, then curving inward at the lip.
A bowl. I was making a bowl. It was lopsided. The walls were uneven, thicker on one side than the other. There was a definite wobble to it, a slight lean to the left that gave it a drunken, listing quality.
It was the most beautiful thing I'd ever made.
"I did that," I whispered, staring at it. The wheel had stopped, and the bowl sat there in the fading golden light, imperfect and wonderful andmine.
"You did." He laughed softly, making my smile grow.
"It's hideous." I laughed looking at what I made with the tilt of my head.
"It's beautiful."I turned to look at him, and the laughter died in my throat. His face was inches from mine. Close enough to count the flecks of green in his blue eyes, like summer grass beneath a summer sky. Close enough to see the slight chap on his lower lip, the faint scar near his left eyebrow, the individual lashes that framed his gaze. Close enough to feel his breath warm against my lips, coming slightly faster than normal.
His hands were still covering mine, clay-slick and gentle. The studio had gone quiet around us, even the music seeming to fade into irrelevance. There was only this, his body warm against my back, his eyes searching my face, the question hanging between us like morning fog.
"Levi," I said quietly. My voice came out rough, barely more than a whisper.
"Yeah?" He whispered back to me .
"Thank you. For tonight. For—" I gestured with my chin at the mess around us, not wanting to move my hands from under his. Clay spatters on the walls. Water dripping from the wheel. My absolute disasters drying on the side table like monuments to failure. "For giving me permission to fail. I don't... I don't usually let myself do that."
"Everyone should fail sometimes. It's how you learn." He told me shortly.
"Is that why you brought me here? To teach me to fail?" I asked, raising an eyebrow at this.
"I brought you here because I wanted to see you laugh." He released one of my hands to reach up, tucking a strand of clay-streaked hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered against my cheek, featherlight, tracing a path that left fire in its wake. "And maybe because I was hoping..."
"Hoping what?" The question hung between us, charged with possibility. My heart was hammering so hard I was certain he could hear it, could feel it through the places where our bodies touched. Every instinct I'd developed over thirty years of self-protection was screaming at me to pull back, to make a joke, to break the tension before it broke me.
I didn't move.
"Hoping I could do this," he murmured, and kissed me. It was soft at first. Questioning. His lips brushed mine like a whisper, like a request, giving me every opportunity to pull away, to change my mind, to protect myself the way I always did.
