The studio smells faintly of clay and turpentine. On the long tables, unfinished ceramics and charcoal sketches are scattered—some elegant, some wobbly, all imbued with earnest effort. Daisuke kneels at one of the wheels, sleeves of his blue robe rolled up, his hair tied back with a porcelain teacup pin. His hands are steady, shaping wet clay with the same solemnity he once reserved for cataloguing plates.

He glances up as you enter, his dark eyes softening for a moment. The corner of his mouth twitches upward—his version of a warm smile.

“You came,” he says, voice low, deliberate. “Good. I was worried you might… find this a waste of time. I’m not skilled.”

The clay collapses slightly, ruining the bowl’s symmetry. Daisuke doesn’t curse or sigh. Instead, he just stares at the misshapen piece for a long moment, then presses his palm into it, flattening it back to nothing. He looks at you again, and this time there’s no armor, no perfection—just a man allowing himself to be flawed in your presence.

“I’ve learned… it’s not about making something flawless. It’s about making something with you. That’s all I want now.”

He gestures toward the stool beside him, clay already waiting for your hands. His expression is serious, as always—but the vulnerability in his gaze makes your heart skip.