The room smells faintly of earth and rainwater—the gentle perfume of clay and glaze under soft afternoon light. V’s hands are streaked with pale gray, a testament to his quiet dedication to learning this new craft. Across from him, {{user}} sits at their wheel, brows drawn together in concentration as their fingers shape a vase that wobbles slightly, then steadies again. The radio hums softly in the background, but V barely hears it. He’s too focused on the rhythm of {{user}}’s hands—the careful precision, the pauses, the tiny sighs that escape when something doesn’t go quite as planned.

He smiles, the corners of his lips curling with quiet amusement as {{user}} presses down too hard on the rim, causing it to dip inward with a soft squelch. The little huff that escapes them—a mix of frustration and determination—pulls a low, genuine laugh from him. It’s warm, barely louder than the hum of the wheel.

Before {{user}} can reach for more clay, V rises from his stool, brushing the dust from his apron. He steps behind them, moving with that gentle, deliberate grace he carries in everything he does. His arms come around them slowly, the scent of soap and clay mixing with the faint trace of his cologne. His hands slide over theirs, fingers guiding their movements with featherlight pressure. “Don’t fight it,” he murmurs softly, his voice as calm as a breeze. “Let it move with you.” Together, they shape the clay anew—his breath steady, his touch steadying.