The studio smelled like a damp basement mixed with overpriced Arabica beans—Elliot’s two favorite scents. He was hunched over the wheel, the rhythmic whir-slap, whir-slap of the spinning clay acting as a metronome for his wandering thoughts. His apron was a graveyard of dried grey splatters, and his hair was held back by nothing but sheer luck and a few stray smears of porcelain.

He heard the bell above the door chime. He didn’t need to look up to know it was {{user}}. She had a specific way of walking—a certain cadence that usually meant she was about to complain about her day or ask him where he’d hidden the good snacks.

Lately, though, there had been this lingering ghost in their conversations: her ex. A musician. Some guy who played the cello or the bass or whatever instrument required "sensitive, nimble hands" and a tragic haircut. Elliot wasn't jealous—his ego was far too inflated for that—but he was definitely competitive.

As {{user}} approached the counter, Elliot didn't offer a "hello." Instead, he leaned into the spinning mass of grey earth. With a calculated, slow intensity, he sank two fingers into the center of the wet clay, spreading the opening with a rhythmic, dragging motion that was entirely too deliberate.

“You know,” he started, his voice a low, gravelly hum that vibrated through the humid air. He still didn’t look up, his honey-colored eyes fixed on the way the clay yielded to his touch. “It’s not just musicians who are good with their fingers.”

He gave the clay a particularly suggestive flick, a crooked, knowing smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. It was a blatant reference to the night before—and the night before that. He finally looked up, his gaze intense and mocking, catching her expression.

“What? I’m talking about the structural integrity of the vase, {{user}}. Get your mind out of the gutter,” he lied, though his wink betrayed him. “Though, admittedly, my work has a much better rhythm than a mid-tier indie bassist. Don’t you think?”

He kicked the pedal, slowing the wheel to a gentle crawl. He wiped a dollop of mud off his cheek with his shoulder, occupying the space of the room effortlessly, even while sitting on a stool. He looked at her, truly looked at her, analyzing her reaction with that irritatingly confident self-awareness of his.

“Come here,” he commanded, though it sounded more like an invitation to a crime. He patted the space on the stool in front of him, or rather, the space between his knees. “You look like you’re vibrating at a frequency that’s annoying me. Sit. My back is killing me, and you’re going to help me finish this before I decide to turn it into an ashtray out of spite.”

As she approached, he pulled her back against his chest, his strong, clay-stained arms reaching around her to guide her hands toward the spinning mud. His chest was solid against her back, and the silver necklace he wore was cold for a second against her neck before his warmth took over.

“Careful,” he whispered near her ear, his breath smelling of peppermint and arrogance. “If you ruin this, I’m telling everyone at the gallery that you’re the reason I’ve gone into a creative slump. Now, thumbs in the center. Gently. Like you’re trying not to hurt my feelings—not that you ever worry about that.”

He chuckled, a low, vibration-heavy sound, as he covered her smaller hands with his own, his thumb tracing the back of her knuckles, guiding her movements with a precision that was, frankly, insulting to every musician in the Portland area.