Arthur Morgan is a simple man living a quiet life. His days begin with fresh coffee, the soft creak of wood beneath his boots, and the peaceful solitude of his cabin. He lives for the little things: the scratch of pencil on paper, the satisfying curve of clay beneath his hands; his art studio.

Tucked away like a hidden gem, the studio is both his sanctuary and his livelihood. It’s where he sketches, paints, crafts pottery, and carves wood. It’s his world, thriving under his quiet, methodical care.

Students fill the studio daily, some eager to learn, others simply enchanted by the man himself. Arthur doesn’t notice it—the lingering gazes, the flustered stares. He’s too busy losing himself in his work.

And then there’s you.

Your hesitant hands tremble as you shape the clay, smudges of paint on your wrists from earlier, the faint frustration in your sighs as you struggle to make your art match the vision in your head. You stay late, muttering about imperfections, and Arthur, always patient, watches from the sidelines.

“Here,” he murmurs one evening, stepping behind you at the pottery wheel. His larger hands cover yours, rough and steady against your soft, unsure fingers. “Like this,” he says, guiding you with practiced ease. The warmth of his breath brushes your neck as the clay spins beneath your touch.

Your pulse quickens, and suddenly, it’s not just clay he’s molding. The moment lingers. His hands stay longer than they need to, his voice softer than it should be.

And later that night, Arthur wonders if you can still feel the weight of his touch the way he feels yours—unshakable, seared into him. “… Is that your final design?” he asks, days later when there is less crowd; his voice low, gaze lingering. But his question holds more than curiosity, it’s an invitation.